Any baseball little sister knows this term all too well. Of the countless nights I spent at Braeburn Field watching my oldest brother, Ted, there would inevitably be several “pop flies.” A batter would slice and instead of the ball shooting toward the outfield, it would pop over the fence toward the head of the least-aware grandparent or younger sibling.
Protective Dads wanted to be the first to assess the sitch and blurt out the warning. Others would reflexively join in to emphasize the precaution. A fun way to entertain ourselves was to feign a deep grown-up voice and yell “heads up!” just to see who would stop dead in their tracks and look around like it was a nuclear attack. I like to blame our behavior on the synthetic nacho cheese preservatives.
Heads up is generally a good phrase; a quality reminder which snaps us out of our sleep-walking into awareness of our present situation. It could be a danger soaring our direction we need to be concerned about or an urgent reminder to fight the spiritual narcolepsy which quickly takes over. Life will bite us if we’re not vigilant. It will turn us into Zombies like that wholesome Hallmark Channel show The Walking Dead. Our default setting is always distraction and self-absorption. That’s my nature. And yours.
Awareness is a conscious decision, not a natural state. If not intentional about the present, we obsess about the past and worries about the future petrify our minds. We drone on from the bleachers to the snack bar to the bleachers to the bathroom on autopilot. Good thing I do not mix metaphors. So here’s the day’s call: notice the birds, notice Jesus in the distressing disguise of hurting humans (especially the most annoying ones. Yes, that guy, in adjacent cubicle with Funyon body odor and no boundaries) notice the amazing taste of your coffee.
This is exilerating: when you live heads up, life shifts. The groceries you complain about lugging in your home become sacred gifts for which to thank God. I mean we get bananas from countries far, far away. And they arrive in our neighborhood grocery store. And we don’t have to even climb a tree to hack them off with a machete. And pistachios and bacon and wine, oh MY!
Our homes (yes the one with the balding couch with the festering cheese stick in the cushion and tricky toilet) become glorious centers of refreshment and joy to the degree which we are grateful. A condo transforms into a holy place of nurturing when we bravely force ourselves to wake up and choose gratitude. Our backyard may be a Pinterest fail to everyone but feral cats but it is holy ground. If you decide it will be. The kicker: we have help in this heads up endeavor. The Holy Spirit works in us the Bible says. The Spirit moves in us and takes away the poison pity pool of comparison we love to soak in. While it is always easier to hop on the hamster wheel and sleep walk through life, it will only exhaust. You were meant for more.