I recalled a story which I've so often told: a true story which is more accurately a pair of stories, but with a single point. The first story tells about a plane flying through the upper atmospheres, and all is well until suddenly one engine after another die. The pilot gets on the radio with the tower and as the situation is discussed, the pilot decides he must make an emergency landing on a local runway. The plan comes down and strikes the runway with such force that the landing gear is crushed beneath it and the plane slides in a heap of metal and flame. Emergency vehicles and personal are immediately on the scene, having anticipated it, and began pulling people from the burning aircraft. The pilot is on the forefront of the action, pulling one person after another from the plane and handing them to emergency personnel until finally the personnel won't allow him to return into the flaming inferno for he himself is on fire. The pilot is heartbroken, for there were still some left in the wreckage which he could not save. The question raised thereafter is this: if you had a loved one on that plane and you met the pilot, would you not want to eagerly take his hand, shake it and thank him for his heroism? The second story, meanwhile, tells of another plane in a similar circumstance - flying freely through the air, then one engine, two, three and four all die, the pilot then comes over the sound system, "Folks, ditching is eminent; ditching is eminent." Suddenly, an engine comes to life and the pilot is able to limp the plane safely to a runway. Finally the question is posed: whom do you thank then?
I have heard this story and I have spoken it on numerous occasion, yet I admit now that it is quite possible if not entirely likely that I speak a story which I myself do not fully understand. I, as one might put it, am a recovering realist - that is, one who always makes sense of things by use of typical reason; not an optimist which, classically, considers the glass half-full; nor the pessimist who doesn't particularly even like the glass; nay, the realist which confirms that the glass is indeed leveled at fifty percent. I say recovering because, quite frankly, traditional realism is not quite so real as much as it is dry - the ultimate realist is one who admits to his lover not that he loves her, but that he's having a chemical reaction. The point being: stark realism has a tendency to ultimately leave one with little more than illegitimate security that they're not being "taken in" by any such nonsense. But really, is the lover truly only having a chemical reaction; is love a word merely used for the optimist of heart? No, that's absurd, and if one's honest, they know it.
There are moments in life in which something simply fantastic happens and we remark, "That worked out", "That was close" or some other phrase which admits something unexpected and, often, unlikely just happened. At times I pray for something to happen, and when it does I thank God for His kindness to me, but honestly, I rarely pray so specifically that I notice it happen; the best of my gratitude is often the product of retrospective thought. But otherwise I tend to justify my situation into circumstance and chance, appreciating nothing but luck - who doesn't care in the slightest. I fear if I were in the second plane whose engine miraculously started, I would have spent the length of my time considering the physics behind what had just happened, and what it would take for a turbine engine to start back up again - "Perhaps the turbine got jammed," I'd wonder, "so no air could get in and the combustion choked, then as the plane began to fall the turbine got unstuck and, still hot, was able to ignite when oxygen reached the fuel line." Makes perfect sense, but true or not, I've effectively managed to suffocate a remarkable situation of all magnificence; I've sacrificed magnificence on the calculated alter of realism, and am not the better person for it, indeed I've lost all means for gratitude.
So what is the problem? Is there something wrong with realism, and some necessity for thankfulness? Oh indeed, for the realist is reduced to chemical reactions and calculated circumstance, substituting such out love and wonder. Please understand I am dealing with realism to extremity, but only for the sake of admitting just how much we so often reason the glory out of circumstance.
One time I was in New Orleans fixing and gutting homes for folks after the disaster of Hurricane Katrina. There was one fellow on the trip which, if you get the chance, you should like to meet and know - his name is Alejandro Rodriguez, or Alex as we called him. The man was the most thankful chap you ever met, daily thankful for the very air he breathed. During our stay in New Orleans we were informed of a dreadfully large spider called the Brown Recluse, which is terribly large and poisonous. At one point in the trip everyone was gutting homes, and Alex was doing just that; a hammer in hand and on top of a ladder, he was slamming away at one of the rotten ceilings. Suddenly the ceiling he was striking gave way and opened in front of him, and right there in front of him were three of the disgustingly huge spiders, Alex was rightfully startled by this and began to lean himself back away from the creatures - this, unfortunately, put him off balance and sent him falling backwards off the ladder, but, remarkably, as he fell he managed to yell out four words with all his desperation, "I love you Jesus!" This is one of those few stories that I have a difficult time telling, because I myself have a difficult time believing that such a person as Alex actually exists.
What is it in us realists which so often causes us to scoff at Alex? For Alex yet has a joy which your average realist will admit he has not. For realism is indeed a two edged sword, wherein gratitude is a joy to be shared; realism cuts, a thankful heart appreciates and adds value unto - for the lover informing another of a chemical reaction yet cleaves the moment, while the admittance of love imbues the relationship with something mystical that, while the average realist is suspicious of, he does not deny the desire for. Mysticism, in such as love, is not dismissible on any other account than it is often not predictable or calculative. I fear however, that to truly understand love it is first required that one understands gratitude or, at least, is capable of being truly thankful. How can I love Jesus for dying on the cross for me, if I'm too busy calculating the circumstance? How could I love a wife, if I wasn't thankful to her for who she was? But what is the point of being thankful to her for such things? She simply is who she is, so why be thankful of it as though it were a favor to me? Such thinking is so dry and yields a crop equally as dry and will only prove to dry my mouth upon consumption; it should by my own dryness which dehydrates and kills me. Indeed, why not be thankful to God for everything down to the peculiar circumstances of life? Would not a gratitude of life to God only give me a greater love for life and God? Is that not what we're really looking for? I should much like to be alive and joyful than dead and cunning.
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