God is Laughing WITH Us

Do not forget that God has a sense of humor. He refers to us as his sheep all throughout the Bible. Have you ever worked with sheep? They are stupid! One sheep runs into a closed gate. TWANG! A moment later, a second sheep runs into that same gate. TWANG! A moment later, twenty-three sheep run into that same gate! TWANG TWANG TWANG TWANG-WANG-WANG-WANG-WANG! At least He was kind enough not to call us His lemmings!

But, I feel as though God is rarely laughing at us, so much as laughing with us. Remember, His Son spent 33 years on this planet experiencing all the awkwardness, weirdness, and hilarity of being human. The way we look at a toddler walking into a mirror and falling back on his bottom is the same perspective we sometimes need to adopt when looking at our own lives.

For example, Amy and I spent a luxurious ten days in Austria, one of Europe’s most lavish countries. To top that off, we even spent our final night in a five star hotel in the heart of Vienna (and paid handsomely for that privilege, might I add). This hotel was the crème-de-la-crème of post-modern accommodation. It boasted rooms designed by French architect, Jean Nouvel, and branded as an “archisculpture.” “A monochrome masterpiece” sung the Sofitel website. We were elated.

Let me set the scene of our entrance. Firstly, we had spent most of our honeymoon traveling on a backpacker’s budget with actual backpacks on our backs! Well, in fact, we also had a pull-out-handle, roll-along bag with a sad squeak. Sque-eak. Sque-eak. Sque-eak. These were the sounds heard with every revolution of the right wheel.

So, we entered the sumptuous Sofitel wearing our driest clothes, T-shirts, jeans, and flip-flops (not quite the height of Austrian opulence), backpacks on our backs, and a squeaky bag in tow. The heavy glass doors were opened, we were greeted, and our squeaky bag was taken so quickly and with so little fuss, I didn’t even have a chance to fish out a Euro or two to tip the doorman, the greeter, or the porter. Subsequently we were ushered to a front desk attendant by the front desk attendant’s assistant. The tempo-ed sque-eak, sque-eak, sque-eak of the rolling bag could be heard fading into the background.

The customary, Austrian, salutary “Gruss Got” was omitted as the front desk attendant began immediately in English (we must have smelled American.)

“And how are we doing, today?” his German accent asked.

After traded pleasantries, our attendant (who, by the way, was wearing a suit nicer than the one I had been married in only ten days earlier) unfolded the leather clad document pad upon which we would sign our paperwork and proceeded to classily announce the pleasantries in which we would soon be permitted to indulge ourselves, his smile just shy of saccharine.

Documents signed, our attendant returned my credit card. But, I must stop here to describe in detail exactly how a credit card is returned in one of the most haute couture hotels on the cultured side of The Pond.

Now, us west-Atlantic rubes are used to having our cards hurriedly thrust back at us once the transaction is finished and sufficient funds have been stripped. However, the One Percenters are accustomed to the credit card caress, ostensibly approved by Emily Post. It looks something like this: the attendant’s hands are parallel to each other and slightly outstretched. His index fingers are pointed as though he is engaged in the most civilized gunfight at the OK Corral. There is just enough room between his two index fingers to embrace the credit card. The card is further supported by the knuckles of his middle fingers and steadied by overlapping thumbs. The card is returned with the text in the correct orientation to be easily read, should you so require.

And, as you reach to retake your card, the attendant slides his index fingers from the card, smiles subtly, and summons your silent porter with your squeaky bag with a soundless snap of his fingers.

The SQUE-EAK, SQUE-EAK, SQUE-EAK of our bag shook me from my reverie.

Our personal attendant then stepped from behind his desk and beckoned us to please follow him as the porter with the squeaky bag followed.

We then entered an elevator only slightly less impressive than the brass elevator to Adolph’s Eagle’s Nest. The lowly porter must have known better than to follow his “betters” into this elevator. He allowed the doors to shut on him with the personal attendant, Amy, and I inside. A soft sque-eak, sque-eak, sque-eak faded on the other side of the elevator’s doors.

The crystalline ding of the elevator announced its ascent, and the attendant, on that cue, began soliloquizing on the architectural philosophy and artistic history of the hotel.

(I would love to refer to the attendant by his name, but I’m not sure he was allowed to have one.)

“Inspired by the Gothic splendor of the nearby St. Stephen’s cathedral…,” he began as the corresponding floor number glowed in turn and my mind wandered. “Pretty numbers,” I thought. “I wonder what font that is?”

“…and so the architect has used a palate of only three colors for the hotel’s rooms: black, white, grey…” he continued.

My imagination re-piqued, my attention returned. A self-proclaimed minimalist, my mind fluttered with all the beautiful ways an achromatic scheme might be applied to each of the rooms.

“…which brings us…” his voice found purchase in my thoughts again. “What had I missed this time?”

“…to your room.”

Our attendant opened our room’s door with a flourish and allowed us to enter.

It was gray.

Notice, I did not say it was black, white, AND gray. It was just gray.

Notice, I did not say it was slate, charcoal, or steel. It was gray.

It was simultaneously sad and bereft of emotion. It was the gray of an elephant’s ass, a boring elephant’s ass. It was the gray of a Soviet era Russian mental institution. It was the gray of a sad storm cloud. No, it was the gray of the storm cloud above a sad storm cloud.

I assumed that if the world had suddenly found itself devoid of color, it would be this gray.

And! EVERYTHING in the room was this gray. The floor. The walls. The vanity. The shower. The refrigerator. The towels. The toilet. The light fixtures. I would have almost sworn even the light coming from the light fixtures was gray.

There were no gradations of gray, even. It was all the exact same gray, as though a gray grenade went off in the room and coated everything evenly with its grayness.

In fact there wasn’t even any art on the walls to distract from the grayness. Well, I say there was no art, but Sofitel would disagree.

In a room so gray, our eyes were immediately drawn to those things that the gray grenade had missed, all one of them.

My eye caught a series of black smudges running along the gray ceiling that appeared to be the result of a bicycle slamming on the brakes and skidding along it.

“Oh, you noticed?” our attendant inquired, his eyes meeting ours and then traveling to the smudgy ceiling. Apparently, we were about to become privy to something utterly special.

Amy and I shared a glance.

“The architect had students from the university’s art program use a black brush to paint their feelings when listening to Austrian opera,” he announced as though he were a docent at the Louvre or perhaps even an ambassador sharing the very idea of art with an otherworldly race of automatons.

Our eyes were so thirsty for something other than gray, that I’ll admit that I thought those skid marks to be of a Hellenistic grandeur.

The attendant finished waxing rhapsodic over the genius of the architecture. The last syllable out of his mouth and the porter entered, not towing, but carrying our sad, squeaky, rolling bag. He gracefully placed it between the gray desk and the gray couch and attempted to lower the pull-out handle.

“You have to jiggle it, because it sticks,” was somewhat lost in translation. But, the porter, in all his humility did everything in his power to prevent social awkwardness and simultaneously succeed in his duties. Twelve gray seconds later, he succeeded, and I tipped him so generously our last few meals were eaten from food carts instead of in restaurants.

The porter danke’ed us and made a noiseless exit.

Again, Amy and I found ourselves alone with the attendant.

“…and lastly…” he directed our attention to a wall of gray panels. The attendant slid one of the panels to the side, revealing the outside world!

The wall was a window!

We hurriedly joined him and helped him slide the panels until Austrian sunshine was filling every corner of our gray cell. Edmond Dantes could not have been happier upon the day of his escape.

“…as you can see, the architect has designed the room in such a way that Vienna becomes the art and the room fades into the peripheral so as not to distract.”

And, I suddenly loved our room! I realized that the architect had done what so many of the Bible’s authors had done: told a bleak and seemingly hopeless story that served to point to the majesty of Christ. For Christ permits his followers to live at the edge of Heaven even while they are here on Earth.

Our attendant, seeing we were pleased, dismissed himself.

Amy and I turned to each other and, unable to keep it in any longer, belly laughed until we were sore.

May your marriage be filled with belly laughs,

Will and Amy