You Have Ten Fingers

 

Twenty years ago while I was in Haiti, walking along a dusty road to Hinche, I came across two boys next to a bicycle. I asked them in broken French what was wrong, and they pointed to the snapped chain. Taking a closer look, I told them with an air of confidence, pas bien--no good. They would need a chain tool to repair it. I fiddled with it for about ten minutes while they patiently watched, eventually throwing up my hands in exacerbation. One of the boys stepped in, placed the link on a stone, took another stone in his hand, slammed it down on top of the link to set the pin, set it on the chainwheel, and rode off. Pas mal. I always remembered that humbling encounter of third-world ingenuity. 

In China, where Christians are regularly jailed for worshiping under a Communist regime, not having access to Bibles does not stop them from imbibing the Word of God. When they have no access to the physical bound text, they have small scraps of paper with scripture verses written on them and commit them to memory before they are confiscated, because "they can't take what's hidden in your heart." 

I turn 41 next week, and middle-aged malaise has set in. I'm heavier, and groan-ier. I used to eat whole cheesecakes without gaining a pound and biked across the United States in my twenties, averaging eighty miles a day. Now I'm proud of myself when I go to the Y once a week and swim more than 30 laps. I felt good when I went though, because for once I pushed through the myriad of excuses I come up with on a regular basis and just. did. it. Though the motivation may have been disgust with myself and a desire to change, the satisfaction of doing something physical lasted throughout the day. It even lasted into today, when I went for a (albeit, short) bike ride and even pushed it into the big ring for a bit near the end.

Even if I didn't have a pool to go to, or a bike to ride, I could just as easily do push-ups and sit-ups in my bedroom with no equipment needed. Often it's not the equipment we lack, or the tools we don't own, but the drive that's missing. And it seems to scale in direct proportion to what we have, and not what we don't.

When I undertook a brief trial in 'mini-retirement' in my late twenties (essentially being in between jobs for a couple months), I thought I would take the time to write a book. I had a whole writing studio set up--and hardly wrote a thing. 

Even now, working largely remote for the past year, I realized how much I don't need from my office--file cabinet and papers. Essentially, I can do all my work with a laptop and a kitchen table. Even the mouse I use is ancillary. 

When we consecrated our family to the Immaculate Heart a few years ago on the 100th Anniversary of Our Lady of Fatima, my wife and I and I committed to praying the rosary every day. And for the most part, we have kept that promise. Every now and then I will neglect it--either from tiredness or forgetfulness--but it's not often. When I do let my guard down, chinks in the armor often develop slowly and perniciously. 

The rosary is a spiritual tool, a weapon--but it's not just fancy crystal or amber or even humble wood beads strung together. The physical "scripture on a string" can aid us in meditation, but it is not ipso facto necessary. If we leave it at home or neglect to carry it with us, there's nothing--except our inner excuses--keeping us from using what we do have--our ten fingers--to pray.