Bad Math

“That’s not fair,” I said, sternly, to my husband. We were talking about something that happened at his workplace. I continued. “So, what you’re saying is you did a, b, and c, but the other party still went from a to z without going through the appropriate steps?” I was aghast. He went on to flesh out the details of a situation where he’d followed all of the rules and regulations set forth by his employer regarding a certain situation, while another party had blatantly violated each and every written policy standard yet wound up being the recipient of intense adulation. See, not fair. Fairness is often a thing we hitch our wagons to, the hill we are willing to die on, if you will. From the moment we are old enough to understand words, we scream, “Not fair!” Johnny took the toy from my very hand. I ran and was made to sit out during recess, but Suzie ran twice as far and wasn’t punished. I deserved a better grade on that project. How was I supposed to know my taillight was out? I don’t deserve this treatment, and I can prove it. Life is supposed to work in a logical fashion. See, this happens. Then, this happens. And, the result is this. That’s how it should be, right? It’s like math. Only, it isn’t.

I am adept at identifying miracles. After all, I’ve been in the middle of a few. I cannot think of a better example than childbirth. How is it possible to grow a baby with your very body and then offer it up for all the world to see? I did that three times. I was in the room when my 1st grandchild was born. My son was on assignment for the government and wasn’t allowed leave for her birth. So, I was there, pre-FaceTime technology, so he could be present to the extent speakerphone would allow. Seeing childbirth from that lens SHATTERED me. I remember weeping with abandon at the sight of this beautiful baby girl taking her first breaths, opening her eyes, giving her first pouty lipped cry. I get teary-eyed just remembering. The definition of the word miracle sums it up pretty well: “a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency.” You needn’t worry about the logic of miracles. There is none. You aren’t supposed to get the point. You just revel in the joy. Someone survives a horrific car crash. A terminally ill child regains health. A home is spared from a cataclysmic tornado. An airplane recovers from disaster and lands safely. It defies explanation. We are left to soak in the greatness of something we cannot logically explain.

When the bad things find us, and they always find us, we sob and wring our hands over the injustice of it all. It doesn’t add up, after all. We did our part. We followed the rules. We obeyed the laws. Like an AP math algebra equation, we mentally plot out all the x=? sections and all the times we started with the thing in parenthesis. See, it’s true. This terrible, awful thing should not have happened because I respected the math of life. This was supposed to lead to this, which was supposed to lead to this. Voila! I should be living in a different experience. But, the thing about life is that it was never designed to make sense. The human experience is a complicated thing. Turns out, there are no rules. In the words of Kate Bowler, author and associate professor of the History of Christianity at Duke Divinity School, life is really bad math. She said, “Anything we try, any formula we try to make it add up, it won’t. Not like that.” She goes on to say that when she thinks really hard and strong about a version of happiness that she can believe in, a prosperity gospel, so to speak, she surmises this. “When you are in the worst moments of your life, God and other people will show up. All the best parts and all the worst parts, the things you’re terrified of and the things you love, all of it is just love.” The bad parts can only be bad when they effect the things you love most and the things you don’t want to live without. She ends by saying, “Life is terrible math. Love is the only prosperity gospel I believe in.” Younger me has been standing on my roof for almost 15 years, screaming the injustices out like Paul Revere trying to warn about the British invasion. Older me is still saddened by the terrors of this world, especially lately. Yet, I am reminded that the terror only gets me because I love certain things so deeply. So, there is a bit of balance in life. On one end, we get miracles. On the other end, we get the opposite. Today, I commit to climbing down off of the roof. I need to revel in the miracles and find refuge in how wonderful it feels to love this much.