The Reality of Grace

I don't know how it happened, but this thing has, on multiple occasions, become quite a ridiculous addiction. I didn't see it coming. As a matter of fact, I think I was in denial for quite a while, but now I'm starting to see that I need to step forward and confess. 

I never thought I'd hear myself say this. After all, I'm fairly intelligent. I eschew television in favor of books and human interaction. I listen to public radio, for crying in the mud. 

And yet, I love it. I love the excitement of it, the energy, the trumped-up drama. I love dissecting it, picking apart every little bit of it, making predictions and then throwing my hands in the air in disbelief when I'm wrong.

So I guess I say all that to say...to finally admit...to maybe even embrace the fact that...

I love reality television. 

There. I said it. 

Maybe this doesn't come as a surprise at all, given that I not only completely jumped on the X Factor bandwagon, but that I sometimes even felt like I was one of the hulking animals pulling the thing along, wearing my Josh Krajcik loyalty so annoyingly on my sleeve. 

But I really wasn't smitten by the reality television bug until about six months ago, and that was mostly because my kids infected me. 

Sure, we'd been fully immersed in the second season of Survivor, the one in the Australian Outback, when Kel was accused of smugglng beef jerky, Michael was evacuated after falling into the fire, and Colby pulled a huge oopsy when he heisted a piece of protected coral from the Great Barrier Reef. Our family was in transition between homes, moving from the confines of a tiny city lot to the wide open space of Amish country, but, every Thursday, we'd retreat to the city, to the place where our television still lived. We'd order a couple of massive Papa John's pizzas and allow ourselves to get sucked in to the drama. We loved the fatherly Rodger Bingham and the adorable Elisabeth Filarski, were wooed by Colby Donaldson's tremendous Texas smile and equally ample charm, and joined the nation in despising the dispicable Jerri Manthey. 

Each week, between shows, we'd talk strategy. We'd talk personality. We'd make predictions. During that season of Survivor, we never lacked for conversation fodder. Everyone had an opinion, and, more than once, our own family divided into fiercely defended tribes.

And when the next show aired, we'd gather in the otherwise-empty living room of our soon-to-be-former house and hold our breath. When the moment came for someone to be voted off, we'd hold it even more. No one was allowed to speak. No one was even allowed to think loudly. And, toward the end, when Roger and Elisabeth said goodbye, I have to admit that I shed a few tears. 

But when that season ended, we were done. For whatever reason, Survivor had lost its magic for us. Or maybe it was just that we'd landed in a new place, one we were working on surviving in ourselves. 

Now, aside from my addiction to The Simpsons and The Office (which, now that I think of it, have their own touches of reality), what we most often pull up on Hulu and Netflix are the reality shows. I hadn't thought of them that way, but it's what they are. When my daughters tempt me in to watch Extreme Makeover, Home Edition, they know I'll be in tears before the team gets off the bus and the adorable Ty Pennington yells good morning into his totally unnecessary bullhorn. I'm enamoured with Mike Roe's Dirty Jobs and acerbic humor, the insane experiments of the Mythbusters crew, and the transformative powers of the Supernanny. My preteen daughter is even more addicted, sucked in by Say Yes to the Dress, Cake Boss, and (just try to look away) Toddlers in Tiaras. I'm hoping she'll grow out of it. 

We've even had our own personal brushes with reality television. We've had friends on WifeSwap, which was very surreal, I'll tell you. And my eldest daughter, a communications major with an emphasis in film, did her internship at a reality show production company during her semester in L.A. 

I think one of the reasons I can admit all of this now is that I'm beginning to realize that I'm not alone. Of course I know that reality television is amazingly popular, but it wasn't until I found myself, yet again, watching footage of real people doing real things on The Best of YouTube, overcome with emotion as onlookers were amazed by the (ironically) almost unreal appearance of an unexpected flashmob. And when the mob was over, and the performers dispersed....

That's when it hit me. It's something sacred for all of us to be treated to something as it happens, something powerful and emotional, something unexpected and raw. Not in a Toddlers and Tiaras kind of way, because that's more like trying to avert your eyes from a train wreck. Not even in a Survivor or The X Factor kind of way, because that's doesn't even begin to approach altruism. But in a let's-make-a-difference kind of way. A let's-bless-someone's-socks-off kind of way. A "you-didn't-even-remotely-see-that-coming-did-you" sort of way. We need it in our lives. Every one of us. We need what happens when someone gives up a part of their day, their lives, their resources--whether it's money or time or love or talent--and heaps it onto some unsuspecting guy at the mall, or a familiy in a crumbling house, or a lady on the sidewalk just minding her own business. We need it badly. We need to give it, and we need to receive it. We need to witness it happening. 

We need unconditional, totally unexpected, completely undeserved grace. And we need to see others receive it, too. 

I knew it was something sacred when the flash mob dispersed, each member melting back into the crowd as if nothing had ever happened, leaving everyone a little bit happier, a little bit changed, a little bit more sure that life is worth living. How did I know? Because you can see it. Even though there's no more song and dance, the music has stopped, and the performers are no longer distinguishable from the rest of the crowd, the space where the mob took place remains largely empty. No one wants to walk there. No one wants to muddy the moment. No one wants to dilute that flash of brilliant grace. 

What can you do today to take someone completely by surprise? How can you take the resources you've been given, great or small, and toss them out to someone who needs them more than you do? An extra dime in the offering? The spot in front of you in the grocery line? A comforting word to a frazzled mother? Even doubly so to the mother who's not being very motherly? 

It doesn't take a flash mob to change a life. It just takes a dose of grace. 

And that's the reality of it all.