Sudoku

I love sudoku. This is a slightly new development; I've always enjoyed puzzles, word jumbles, and strategy games, but over the past week, I have discovered that sipping morning coffee and figuring out a sudoku puzzle is one of those simple joys in life that is worth making time for.

And I have learned some lessons from sudoku, which I feel obligated to share. Hint: I'm not just talking about sudoku. 

1. When I first start a sudoku, I immediately feel overwhelmed by the number of possible ways to begin. I usually have a moment of panic where I wonder if I'm really starting the puzzle in the most efficient way. What I found was that the most efficient way to begin is... to begin.

2. Figuring out the puzzle is a constant balance between looking at the big picture and examining each small detail. There's an exciting rhythm to be found in balancing both of these at the same time.

3. Mistakes are fairly inevitable, and sometimes they are helpful. It can be frustrating, but it really isn't that hard to re-trace your steps and figure out where you went wrong. Mistakes in the puzzle will be messy, but an abandoned puzzle will be blank.

4. Use a pen. I'm going to make my mistakes and make them boldly. Pencils make it too easy to be timid, to figure that I can just erase things and start over, to take the whole thing too lightly.

Yup. I'm a little addicted to sudoku these days. It's a stretch, but this is what I've learned from sudoku this week:
Something that seems random and chaotic and meaningless can become
(with a little gentle re-arrangement, with a little persistence, with a lot of coffee)
something ordered and coherent and... (I'm really stretching things here) beautiful.

Laughing and Crying at the Same Time

I have been thinking lately of those people in the Gospels who practically make a fool of themselves because they want the healing of Christ so desperately. 

In particular, I've been thinking of the blind man in Luke's Gospel, who keeps crying out, "Jesus, Son of David, have pity on me!" The disciples tell him to stop. I can just imagine them thinking, "Stop being so desperate. It looks pitiful. Have some dignity."

But that isn't Christ's response. His response to desperation isn't to turn away in disgust or in shame, but to ask -- What is it that you ask of me? 

The blind man is healed because he asks. Because he isn't afraid to make a fool out of himself in front of the entire crowd, to risk embarrassment, to risk being told that he isn't worthy, to risk those judgmental stares of everyone who thinks that he is blind because he is a sinner. 

I can imagine being in that crowd. I can imagine thinking that Jesus is great, what he's saying is wonderful, what he's doing for those other people is pretty impressive. 

But if he turned and asked me what I wanted -- I think it would be very easy for me to say, "What? Me? I'm fine. I don't need anything. Hey -- could we see that water into wine thing again?" I'd be tempted to stay blind my whole life rather than cry out in faith.

But -- there's another part of the story that intrigues me. It's that the whole scene is also just a little bit... funny. This whole blog post is so serious that it's funny. I mean, the guy is flaunting all social norms and just shouting in the middle of a crowd. He couldn't have done that if he were taking himself that seriously. I can just imagine the faces of people who have no idea how to respond to the situation. It's funny. And maybe that's important too -- we're weak, we're vulnerable, and you know what, we're refreshingly hilarious when we are those things. 

All this is to say, of course, I'd rather be more like the blind man and embrace the whole of life. That's really all I have to say about it at the end of the day -- I want to take it all in -- the sadness and the joy, the brokenness and the healing, the tragic and the comic -- just a little bit more.