Zipper

It is December, circa 2000. Outside it is a gray day in a grayish neighborhood in St. Paul’s Summit University district.

Inside finds me in a second-story apartment in a brick fourplex where I live with my three teenage children, and we are hosting their dad, grandma, and 5-year-old cousin, Andy, who are visiting us from Mexico for Christmas. Although my kids’ dad visits us often, this is my mother-in-law’s and Andy’s first visit to the US, and we are delighted to have them.

The living room is darkish, as our balcony’s overhang blocks the sun. On one wall rests a beat-up old orange and brown plaid couch whose ugliness belies its comfort. There is a Christmas tree in the corner which we all decorated together just a few days before. In a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, my six-foot tall high school son helped his grandmother to hang the ornaments up high. I cannot recall with clarity what kind of ornaments decorate this tree, surely nothing as noteworthy as my lesbian girlfriend’s collection of Christmas-themed flying vaginas, but there are undoubtedly a few special ornaments I have embroidered over the years.

Today we are preparing to go out together to do some sightseeing. My nephew, Andy, puts on his jacket and approaches my mother-in-law, his grandmother, who is seated at the dining room table, to help him with his zipper.

In a moment which is encapsulated in time for me, she draws him close and tenderly fusses with his jacket. She very patiently zips him up, taking her time– tugging at the jacket to even it out, putting the bottom of the zipper together, slowly zipping Andy into his jacket and gently patting him on the chest when she is through. She touches his cheek and speaks some tender words to him. 

The simplest of tasks, carried out with profound love and regard. I observe how she is totally present to the matter at hand, not in any hurry, not burdened by thoughts of other things she’d rather be doing at that moment, a giant to-do list, frustration at the multitude of repetitive tasks of raising a child.

In this moment I am aware that I have just witnessed a tiny miracle, by which I do not mean an event of a supernatural nature, but rather an infinitesimal interaction that carries an outsized effect. I understand in a way that has profoundly impacted my interactions with others to this day, that every occasion, every encounter we have with another human being, no matter how mundane, provides an opportunity to express either our love or our disdain.  

Mother Teresa is often quoted as saying: “Not all of us can do great things, but we can do small things with great love.” And in this moment, I consider the long-term impact of thousands of minute daily actions carried out in this manner. When raising a child, relating to a partner or spouse, a co-worker, neighbor, or stranger, we have countless opportunities to practice deep presence and regard. What might it look like, I wonder, if in our homes, our workplaces, our neighborhoods, we took the time to pay attention and bring our whole selves to each task before us?