In the movie version of Frank Loesser’s 1950 Broadway hit, Guys and Dolls, Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando sing: “What’s playing at the Roxy? I’ll tell you what’s playing at the Roxy; What’s in the daily news? I’ll tell you what’s in the daily news.”
Today, we know all too well what’s in the daily news or “playing at the Roxy” and, sadly, unlike the musical, it’s not “boy meets girl”. No, our front pages are splashed with much less innocent stories. Newspapers and movies sell, it seems, when violence and disaster are headlined. Buried on the back pages or tucked away in the second section is where you find the so-called human interest stories: “Dog saves boy from drowning, “Girl raises $2,000.00 for local charity with her lemonade stand”, “Sisters reunited after thirty years.”
Why aren’t these the headlines? I believe that every day, there are minor miracles like those all over the world. Also, some of those miracles are not even dog saves boy stories; there are miracles that are about things that could have happened but did not. Have you ever seen those in a newspaper? I haven’t and I think it’s time to give thanks for those.
Last summer my husband and I returned from an intergenerational trip to Paris with our thirteen year-old granddaughter, Olivia. Along with thirteen other grandparents and eleven grandkids we walked miles over cobblestoned streets, climbed up and down hundreds of steps and rode the Metro all over the city to see the sights in the City of Light. Bastille Day, France’s national holiday, was smack in the middle of our trip; it was the height of the tourist season with the temperature in the nineties most days. It was all fascinating, amazing and beautiful: this was Paris after all! Yet here’s the more amazing part, the minor miracle.
Nothing went wrong. Nobody got lost, no one was hurt. No child got sick, no adult got heatstroke. There were no fistfights or even angry words between the children that I heard; even the adults behaved! No one was pick-pocketed or lost their passport or fell in the River Seine. Nobody was run over by an infamous Paris taxi or was hit on the head by a falling gargoyle. Nothing went wrong!
High above the city on the hill called Montmartre, rises the Byzantine basilica Sacre-Couer. At the very top of the western façade, there is a statue of Christ. He looks out and down on the city, watching over it. To one side of the figure is a bas-relief carving of a hen, calling to mind the passage in Matthew when Jesus laments for the city; “Jerusalem, Jerusalem how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings.” Christ of Montmartre is watching over Paris, like a mother hen, gathering her little ones to safety. It’s an image not unlike the Good Shepherd.
As it happens,, we had a good shepherd with us. Louis was one of the tour leaders. He herded us into the Metro stations and led the group along the winding streets of the city; but when we stopped for talks at each site, the other guide, Caroline, took over and Louis disappeared. I asked him after the first day how he spent his time when he wasn’t with us.
“Oh, I’m always with you,” he replied, ”you just don’t see me.”
Louis would stand quietly at some distance from where we were, on a street corner or up the hill observing the crowd, watching for anyone that he might deem to be a problem, and intervening if necessary. Louis was our own good shepherd, watching over his flock by day and night. Louis was the eyes and ears of Jesus
Now who can say whether that’s why we spent our week in Paris in total safety. However, having traveled in faraway places over many years, I find it astounding that twenty-four Americans between ten and seventy-five years of age could spend a week in Paris at the height of tourist season encountering nothing more that a stubbed toe. Clearly, someone was watching over us.