The Awe and Wonder of Being Human

by Traci Hubbard   

Why is Peter Pan always flying?

He neverlands. I like this joke because it never grows old.

In 1988, I was at a graveside service of a young man – a brother of a congregant who was from a very wealthy and emotionally detached family. Feelings were suppressed and no one was deeply connected to the other.  I had barely slept for four days as I walked with a family grieving the tragic death of a son. The day of the graveside, we were experiencing freezing February rain. A hundred or so people were desperately trying to huddle closely beneath the tent covering. The minister was in his nineties, rail thin and very feeble. The casket was surrounded by six pall bearers and the minister walked at a snail’s pace around the casket, holding on to the top of it as he made his way in front of the congregation. I was standing with the family, teeth and legs shaking from the bone chilling cold when the minister said, “Let us bow our heads and pray for the dearly defarted…I mean departed.”

Well, my extreme fatigue took over and I began to laugh out loud – I mean a loud hysterical Julia Roberts type of laugh, and I could not stop. I turned around and made my way through the crowd saying, “excuse me” while my laughter had me enslaved. I made it out of the tent and walked in the freezing rain towards my car and turned around to see everyone staring at me, mouths wide open, like they were watching a climactic scene in a horror movie. The next day, I called the family and apologized profusely, but to no avail. They were not in a head or heart space to understand my fatigue and the uncontrollable laughter that ensued. The family left our congregation.

They were human, with expectations of their minister being more than human.  There are moments when the sheer spectacle of being alive catches us off guard—a breath held in the space between sleep and waking, a laughter that bubbles up unbidden a sudden realization that we are, in truth, conscious sparkles in a universe vast enough to defy comprehension. To be human is to inhabit a paradox: we are simultaneously cosmic souls and bearers of sacred meaning, creatures of gravity and grace, and, most hilariously, descendants of slime with smartphones and existential dread.

Let’s face it—being human is a wild ride. From the moment we emerge blinking into the world, we are propelled into a parade of marvels and mysteries: our bodies perform feats of engineering that would make a Swiss watch blush with envy, our minds conjure dreams, fears, and the occasional daydream about pizza at 3:00 AM. And throughout it all, we’re expected to navigate this spectacle with a healthy dose of dignity, even as we trip over our own shoelaces (sometimes literally).

But beneath the slapstick, there is wonder—a cosmic intention so artful it’s almost profound. We are composed of stardust, wired for curiosity, and blessed (or cursed, depending on how you feel about your morning alarm) with consciousness. We can ponder the secrets of the universe... or the secret ingredient in our grandmother’s lasagna, both with equal intensity.

Now, to the serious business of not taking things too seriously. Worry—our old companion—is always lurking in the corners, ready to steal the spotlight. “Did I lock the door?” “Will my hair behave during the Zoom meeting?” “What if the squirrel outside is plotting against me and thinks I’m nuts?” If worrying were an Olympic sport, humans would have swept the podium every year since the Stone Age. (And yes, there would be a bronze medal for “Best Cave Drawing of Worst-Case Scenarios.”)

But consider this: in the grand scheme of things, most of our worries are as consequential as mismatched socks. Life is a stage, and we are the actors—sometimes earnest, sometimes absurd, always improvising. There are plot twists, blunders, and punchlines tucked between the existential questions. If we spend our time worrying about every missed cue or wardrobe malfunction, we’ll miss the sacred ordinary.

Pause for a moment. Think about the sheer improbability of your existence. Your heart is beating—right now—without a single instruction from you. Your lungs are inflating and deflating, like a pair of party balloons at the world’s quietest celebration. Your brain is processing these words, translating squiggles on a screen into meaning, emotion, and maybe a chuckle or two. You’re an orchestra with divine cosmic conductor, playing with astonishing harmony.

And yet, the universe has a sense of humor. We stub our toes, lose our keys, forget people’s names (sometimes right after they introduce themselves), and spend an unreasonable amount of time debating whether that leftover shrimp ceviche is still good. We invent elaborate rituals—checking the fridge for snacks, rereading emails for typos, Googling symptoms we probably don’t have. In short, we are wonderfully, hilariously fallible.

But here’s the punchline: these foibles are not flaws in the human condition. They are features. They’re what make us relatable, endearing, and, dare I say, lovable. Nobody expects perfection, except maybe your pet who is secretly judging you for that failed attempt at yoga.

We often imagine awe and wonder as reserved for grand events: standing at the Capilano Suspended Bridge, sitting on the beach in Tofino, gazing up at the Milky Way, or hearing a live symphony performance featuring our own Lisette and Karen. But the truth is, awe is everywhere. It’s in the way sunlight dances on a puddle, the way Lake Okanagan seems to have diamonds dancing on its surface at dinner time, the sound of laughter drifting through a crowded cafe, and the gentle rise and fall of a sleeping child’s breath among thousands of others.

Even the mundane can be magical. Consider the humble potato. Is there anything more versatile? It can be mashed, fried, boiled, grilled, baked, or turned into vodka—proof that the universe has a sense of humor and generosity in equal measure. Or the fact that we can send videos of our grandchildren around the globe in seconds, sharing joy and silliness with family, friends, and strangers continents away.

Every day presents opportunities for astonishment. The secret is to look for them—to notice the odd, the delightful, the surprising. To laugh at yourself when you realize you’ve been talking to a muted microphone for five minutes, and to marvel that you can communicate with anyone, anywhere, about anything.

If worry, a symptom of fear and our ego wanting to control another person or an outcome, if worry is the villain of our story, humor is the plucky sidekick that saves the day. Try this: next time you catch yourself fretting over something minor, imagine it narrated by a wildlife documentary host. “And here we observe the anxious human, pacing in its natural habitat, pondering the fate of the lost sock.” Suddenly, your concerns shrink to their proper size, and you’re reminded of your place in the vast and comic tapestry of existence. It’s difficult to let go of the lost sock.

There’s a simple exercise for letting go: the next time you make a mistake, laugh. Not a polite chuckle, but a full-throated, possibly-snorting, head-thrown-back laugh. Celebrate your imperfections and the reality of impermanence.  After all, the universe didn’t go to the trouble of assembling our atoms just so we could spend our days worrying about spinach in our teeth.

One of the greatest legacies we can leave is laughter. It’s the universal solvent for anxiety, the balm for bruised egos, and the glue that holds communities together. When we can laugh with others, we share a piece of ourselves, inviting others to do the same.

Think of your favorite funny stories. They probably involve things going wrong: the cake that didn’t rise, the date who only purchased one coke in a bottle at the theatre and when you reached for a drink, you slurped their snuff spit – true story, or the beach vacation when it rained every day. These moments, in retrospect, become badges of humanity—proof that you lived, you risked, you adapted, and you found the joke in the journey. Full disclosure, I ran out of the theatre straight into the washroom and threw up, and then I took my lucky dime and called my mother to come pick me up. I still gag thinking about that moment. Two cokes…two cokes were not going to break that guy and snuff, forget about it. The next day I left a “lose my phone number” note on his doorstep and some dental floss.

To be human is to be a participant in a grand cosmic improv show. The lines aren’t scripted, the props sometimes fail, and the audience is always unpredictable. But if we can keep a sense of humor and wonder, we will find the show is richer, the applause louder, and the memories sweeter. I don’t know if it was my bowl of cherries I threw out, or the cherries my friend Susan brought when she visited me, either way, for the three days she was here, we were fruit fly slayers…our weapons…damp wash cloths and bowls of apple cider vinegar with a dash of dish soap. My neighbors must think I’m crazy…we stood by the big wall, an entire window over looking the lake, talking, crying, praying and destroying my clean window with fruit fly carcasses. My head still itches, and I am worried they have laid eggs in my hair and ears, and that I swallowed some while I slept. Another true story. The last thing Susan did before we hugged and sobbed our “I miss you(s) as we said goodbye, she ran to the window with her washcloth and killed two more intruders. It was a precious sacred ordinary hilarious moment.

Awe-Full Reminders

So, as you move through your days, remember:

·        Your existence is not because of your doing, it is precious.

·        Your mistakes are proof that you are trying—and learning. *Thomas Edison story about the lightbulb

·        Laughter is more important than perfection. Perfection is a fallacy. Laughter is connecting and healing.

·        Worry is rarely useful, and frequently ridiculous. It’s like worrying about the moon’s existence during the day. Friends, if you’re not suddenly floating up into space during a picnic on the beach, the moon’s gravity is proof that a cow will still try to jump over her at midnight.

·        The ordinary is extraordinary, if you’re willing to see it.

Humans are the only species that invents both the wheel and the whoopee cushion. Celebrate that. For myself, my maid of honor placed one on my side of the kneeling prayer ne=bench at my wedding. I worry that I missed a major red flag.

No matter what happens, we need to resist the urge to spend our precious moments worrying. Time exists to be filled with our curiosity, our silliness, and the kind of laughter that makes strangers want to join in. Seek wonder in small places and follow the advice of Jesus and Jiminy Cricket, let our Christ consciousness, our love, and humor be our guide. When we do, it will be easy to let go of things that no longer serve our highest good. Letting go of worrying over fluff and stuff snuffs out the dramatic puffs of anxiety. Anxiety is a liar and a thief that lives to steal the sacred ordinary moments from our lives.

Life, in all its tangled wonder, is too precious and too short for chronic anxiety and self-seriousness. Embrace the marvel of being human—the quirks, the questions, the belly laughs. Trust that the universe is a benevolent comedian, and we are both the punchline and the audience. And when in doubt, remember: the best way to honor the miracle of existence is to live with a sense of awe, let go of needless worry, and laugh as often as you can.

After all, if you trip over your own shoelaces, at least you know you’re moving forward. And if fruit flies begin emerging from your ears, your doctor will help and you have a great story to tell, even if it’s about a dearly defarted. May it be so, Amen.