Seeing the Pieces ~

Seeing the Pieces
I tend to find symbolism in everything. It’s something I’ve always done. Honestly, it’s probably a part of me that I exiled because it was different. I have a curious mind and often question things and people, but at a young age, that kind of curiosity got me into trouble. So instead of asking questions out loud, I decided to just try to figure things out on my own.
And at the exact moment of writing this, a random memory from third grade comes to mind. So, I’m going to trust that it is meant to be placed right here.
In third grade, our class was divided into reading groups based on ability. I was placed in the larger group with most of the other kids, but according to my teacher, I was a slow reader. That day, we were working on spelling words together. When it was my turn, the word she wrote on the board was cupboard.
I looked at it and said the only thing that made sense to me.
“Cup Board.”
The teacher shook her head and told me to try again.
‘Cup…board?’ as if questioning.
Again, she said no, and I could feel her rolling her eyes in frustration.
The group had to stay there until I got it right. Everyone was already thinking about recess. I could hear the moaning and snickering around me, especially from two boys who made their disgust very obvious.
But the truth is, I honestly didn’t understand what she was asking me to say. The word on the board clearly had two parts. My mind saw them separately: cup and board. I wasn’t trying to be difficult; I was simply reading what I saw.
It’s strange how memories work. Even forty-seven years later, I can still feel the heat of that moment and the shame of being the reason everyone was late for recess. It’s like my brain was wired wrong.
On one of my report cards, the teacher wrote: Jeannine is slow to complete her work. She does not make wise use of her time.
Slow.
That word stayed with me for a long time. It shaped me into an overachieving FIO! (FIO is the title I gave to my Figure It Out part.)
But what I understand now is something that a little girl in a third-grade classroom couldn't yet know.
Sometimes, what the world calls slow is just the mind taking its time to notice what others rush by.
Where the teacher saw a mistake, my mind was simply noticing the pieces.
Cup.
Board.
Two things joined together to make something new.
And as I remember this memory, I can’t help but smile at the subtle symbolism of it all.
Maybe that's exactly what I've been doing my whole life.
Seeing the pieces.
Holding them long enough to understand them.
And then discovering how they fit together.
There are so many gifts I want to nurture in this little girl now: her curiosity, her imagination, her wit, and, yes, her ability to see things differently.
Part of living Untucked is embracing that girl for who she is, just as God created her to be.
Last year, while walking the Camino in Spain, I kept hearing a quiet phrase in my heart:
Bridge the gap.
At the time, I didn’t completely understand what that meant. Honestly, I still don’t.
Since then, I’ve repeatedly tried to define what “bridging the gap” means. I thought it might be about connecting faith and philosophy or bringing together different perspectives on life. But the more I tried to define it, the more elusive it became.
Now, as I recall that third-grade classroom, I wonder if the answer was there all along.
Maybe bridging the gap just means doing what I've always done, seeing the pieces and helping others understand how they fit together through writing about them. And in seeing the pieces, maybe I’m not meant to be the one who has the meaning or even the answer.
It is simply about allowing God to work through the life I have lived and the words that seem to come when I sit quietly enough to listen, noticing what they reveal about grace, healing, and the subtle ways God moves through ordinary lives.
For most of my life, I believed my job was to figure everything out. After all, that is what my little FIO part learned to do so well.
But faith is asking something different.
It's more about letting things happen than figuring them out.
Perhaps the path we surrender becomes the very place where our calling grows.
Now, looking back, I see that little girl in the third-grade classroom differently.
She wasn’t slow.
She was simply taking the time to see the pieces.
And it makes me wonder…
Where in your life might you be invited to slow down and surrender, so you can begin to see the pieces?
Peace be with you.
J~
Note: This reflection wasn’t what I originally intended to write today. The memory appeared unexpectedly while I was sitting quietly, and something about it felt important enough to follow. Sometimes the stories that surface on their own are the ones that still have something to teach us.

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