Total Presence

The tears came at 6:23 in the morning.

Anna, my schoolmate for three years, was crying on her bed. Phone in hand. Call that wouldn't come. "It's Dad's birthday," she whispered when she saw me wake up. "He died six months ago, and I keep dialing his number."

Twenty-seven times she'd dialed those numbers. Twenty-seven times she'd hung up before it could ring.

"How do you say goodbye to someone who still lives in your phone?"

I didn't know what to answer. Words got stuck like always when others' pain became too big for my small sentences. I ran to the porch.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Giuseppe was already playing against the wall. Seventy years old, leather hands, eyes that had seen war and peace in equal measure. He was the camp custodian, but everyone knew he was much more. He was the grandfather God had given to those who didn't have one.

"Problems, son?" he asked without stopping his play.

"Anna is hurting," I said. "And I don't know how to help her."

Giuseppe stopped the ball. He held it still between his fingers like you do with precious moments. "Want to play?"

"I don't feel like it."

"Perfect," he smiled. "That's the best time to play. When you don't feel like anything."

I picked up the paddle. Giuseppe served me a shot so slow it seemed like a caress. The ball came gentle, predictable, perfect. I sent it back easy. But in my head were Anna's sobs. Phone numbers that didn't answer anymore. Dads who didn't come back.

Paf. I missed.

"Where were you?" Giuseppe asked.

"I was here."

"No. Your body was here. Your mind was somewhere else." He picked up the ball. "In ping-pong it's like in life: if you're not completely present, you lose everything."

He served again. This time I tried to concentrate. But thoughts kept wandering. Anna crying. The dad who's gone forever. Death that breaks everything.

Paf. Another miss.

"Luke," Giuseppe said, sitting down. "Do you know Jesus' words about the lilies of the field?"

I nodded. "'See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin' (Matthew 6:28, NIV)."

"And what do the lilies do?"

"They grow."

"No." Giuseppe picked up the ball, rolled it slowly. "The lilies live. Completely. Every second. They don't think about yesterday's flower that withered. They don't worry about tomorrow's storm. They're completely present to today's sun."

"'Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own' (Matthew 6:34, NIV)."

"Jesus wasn't giving practical advice," Giuseppe continued. "He was revealing the secret of eternity. Eternity isn't a long time. It's this time lived completely."

The ball stopped in the center of the table. Perfectly still. Perfectly present.

"Ping-pong forces you to be here," Giuseppe said. "The ball comes fast and doesn't wait for your thoughts to be elsewhere. Either you're present, or you miss the shot."

"Like God's grace."

Giuseppe looked at me, surprised. "How?"

"Grace comes now. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Now." I thought about Anna, her twenty-seven attempts to call a dead man. "If Anna kept living in the past, she'd miss the present God is giving her to heal."

We started playing again. This time, I breathed before every shot. I felt my feet on the floor. The weight of the paddle. The sound of the ball. Nothing else existed except this moment, this shot, this connection.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

A perfect rhythm. A meditation in motion.

"There," Giuseppe smiled. "Now you're praying."

"I'm playing ping-pong."

"Same thing." He made a sweetest shot. "Prayer isn't talking to God about what happened yesterday or what will happen tomorrow. It's being completely present to what God is doing now."

The ball went back and forth for ten minutes. Ten minutes of eternity. I wasn't thinking about Anna, wasn't thinking about dead fathers, wasn't thinking about anything. I was just present to the miracle of a little white sphere dancing between two hearts.

"This is the Kingdom of Heaven," I whispered.

"What?" Giuseppe asked.

"This moment. This presence. This being completely here." The ball kept flying. "Jesus said: 'The kingdom of heaven has come near' (Matthew 4:17, NIV). He didn't say it would come. He said it's near. Now. Here."

Giuseppe stopped the ball. Eyes bright with someone who understood something precious. "Continue."

"Anna is looking for her dad in the past. But her dad isn't in the past. He's in the way she loves now. He's in her tears now. He's in God's presence, embracing her now." I took the ball from Giuseppe's hands. "Ping-pong taught me: either you're here, or you're nowhere."

We walked back toward the lodge. Anna was sitting on the porch, phone still in hand. Giuseppe approached her. "May I sit?"

She nodded. "I can't stop calling him."

"Why do you call him?" Giuseppe asked.

"Because I want to hear his voice."

"What if I told you his voice is here? Now?"

Anna looked at him, confused.

"Your father taught you to love, right?" Anna nodded. "Every time you love someone, you hear his voice. Every time you're kind, you hear his voice. Not in the past. Now."

Anna's tears changed. From desperation to recognition.

"Want to play ping-pong with us?" I asked.

"I don't know how."

"Doesn't matter how. What matters is being present."

Anna picked up the paddle. The first shot went wide. "I messed up."

"No," I said. "You tried. Now. In this moment. That's all your dad would have wanted for you."

We played until evening. Anna learning to be present to pain without being crushed by it. Giuseppe smiling as he watched the Kingdom take shape on a ping-pong table. Me understanding that faith isn't believing God was there or will be there. It's knowing God is here. Now. In this ball, in these tears, in this love that never dies.

"Each day has enough trouble of its own" wasn't a command not to worry. It was an invitation to live the present so fully it becomes eternal.

Like the lilies that don't think about yesterday. Like the ball that exists only in the moment of flight. Like God, who doesn't say "I was" or "I will be" but "I AM" (Exodus 3:14, NIV).

Always present. Always here. Always now.

In my notebook, I wrote: "Fourth day. I saw Matthew 6:28-34 dancing in a present ball. Anna found her father in the present instead of the past. Giuseppe taught me that praying is being completely here. I discovered that eternity isn't a long time, but this time lived with all your heart."

"The ball doesn't wait for our thoughts to be elsewhere. Like God doesn't wait for us to finish living in the past to give us the present."

"Tomorrow I'll learn more. But now, now I'm here. And that's everything."