What Are the Chances

As a dental hygienist, one of my responsibilities is to remove the terror from the patient’s eyes. Some people come in looking as if they have just finished watching a horror movie. Once seated, their sideways glance is telling. They are waiting for me to pull out a machete, or something along those lines. My instruments are metal and sharp, but much smaller. Still, they can evoke great fear, even in the hands of someone only five feet tall, and so I talk sweetly.

One Friday morning, Gus (not his real name) came in, and his eyes were scanning the room, checking the corners for hidden danger. He was new to our office and this was his first hygiene appointment. While putting on the patient bib, I asked if he had any plans for the weekend, usually a safe topic.

Gus told me he was going to a concert on Sunday but was not looking forward to it. The singer was someone his wife liked, some country guy. Being a big fan of country music I told him how fortunate he was, but he was far from convinced.

His appointment ended and I walked Gus out front, introducing him to the receptionist. I mentioned he was going, reluctantly, to see a country singer in concert on Sunday.

“Kenny Chesney!” she squealed. “You’re going to see Kenny Chesney?”

Deadpan, he answered, “That sounds like the guy’s name.”

I explained to her that he wasn’t a fan of country music and was going just to be with his wife. He still didn’t believe how fortunate he was, even though we were both gushing. I told Gus he could stay home, and I would accompany his wife. We all laughed and my job was done. His face had transformed, and when he left, looked like he had just watched a comedy flick.

Cute story, but what does it have to do with anything? Well, it has to do with God knowing our hearts. He watches and sees; listens, and hears our deepest desires. And, like any good Father, when He thinks we’re ready, gives us what we want.

One hour after Gus left the office, I received a text from a friend inviting me to go see, as Gus would say, some country guy on Sunday. Come to find out, this was much more than one country guy, this was Country Fest - where four bands perform for over six hours! It had been on my bucket list for years! My immediate response was yes, and thought how wild it would be if I ran into Gus.

My friends and I had barely entered the stadium when I ran to the edge of the seats for a photo. I was at Country Fest, and could not hold my excitement. It was daylight when the first band took the stage, and as the sun went down, the stadium filled up. The country guy, Kenny Chesney, took the stage, and it was if the electricity from the crowd powered the stadium lights.

Two things happened simultaneously as he greeted the crowd: the people surged forward, and beachballs appeared out of nowhere, bouncing jauntily over the masses. The timing was perfect, everyone was on their feet, arms extended high in the air. Perfect form for hitting a beachball.

As the lights reflected off the vibrant colors of the shiny, vinyl balls, I thought, “Oh God, how I wish I could hit one of those beachballs.” Not an elaborate prayer by any means, but something I had always hoped to do; hit a beachball at a concert. My mathematical brain did the numbers, guesstimating the unlikely chance of hitting one of the beachballs, and I let that thought go.

At almost every song I turned to my friend to say, “This one is my favorite,” and got totally swept up in the music. The crowd’s energy seemed to increase exponentially the more the country guy sang; and he was fired up, placing his hands over his heart in a humble expression of mutual love.

And then it happened. From behind me, a beachball dropped down, as if from the heavens. It was so unexpected. I reacted automatically, hitting it into the person in front of me. When it bounced back I was ready for it, solidly hitting the beachball with all ten fingertips, sending it high in the air to the crowd below, where someone else could realize a dream.

The joyful noise within my head seemed to drown out the blaring music. I stood still, taking in all that happened. I had just hit a beachball at a concert, and not just once, but twice! What are the chances?

Well, rounding down, we were a crowd of 60,000 people. I tried to count the beachballs to divide into that but realized the futility of such an exercise. I would also have to factor in how many times each beachball was hit. My chances were slim.

Which brings me to something that happened earlier in the evening. During a break, my friend and I were returning to our seats when I stopped short. I saw someone out of the corner of my eye, but thought I must be mistaken. This person was wearing jeans, a black t-shirt, and a broad smile!

One row down and three seats in was Gus, and he was happy! Recognition was in his eyes, and I could see his mind trying to place where he knew me from. When I said my name the shock registered on his face. We had a nice reunion and I returned to my seat on the other side of the aisle, one row up and three seats in. We were essentially six people away from each other! What are the chances?

That’s an easy calculation: 1 in 60,000. Even slimmer than hitting a beachball.

But, odds don’t mean anything where God is concerned. Chances can, and will happen. I had planned to have a great night, yet God had planned for me to have an even greater night. He knows my heart, and how seemingly small things mean a lot to me. He sees me, and He cares. He listens, and responds. And I am thankful.

Country Fest, check. Seeing Gus, indescribable. Hitting that beachball, only God knows the depth of my joy.

Chances are He has much more in store for me, and I can’t wait.