THE MAGIC

“Pick a card, any card.”

“Watch closely.”

“Nothing up my sleeve.”

Magicians have been saying things like that for centuries. They invite us to pay attention, to suspend disbelief, to imagine that something impossible might happen right before our eyes.

And then, just when we’re sure we know what we’re seeing, they whisper a word like Abracadabra or Presto! and something vanishes.

Or appears.

Or changes.

Hence, THIS POEM written as I was reflecting on THE MAGIC that connects us:

He laid very astutely
In his wooden flip-top box
Tuxedo’d up
Shiny, slightly worn
No more rabbit out of the top hat
Laying serenely between his folded hands.

His overused
But never used enough
Now broken magician’s wand
Snapped in two
But not divided
At his waist
Declaring:

THE MAGIC IS GONE
AND NOW JUST BEGINNING

At first glance, it sounds like the end of the show.

The curtain has fallen. The props have been put away. The top hat is empty. The wand is broken.

The magic is gone.

Or is it?

The older I get, the more I wonder if we’ve misunderstood where the real magic was all along.

Perhaps the magic was never in the wand.

Perhaps it was in the hands that held it.

Perhaps it was never in the rabbit.

Perhaps it was in the laughter of the children who watched.

Perhaps it was never in making things disappear.

Perhaps it was in helping people see wonder that was already there.

Often, Others have worked this way.

The taking of ordinary things—mustard seeds, fishing nets, bread, coins, hats, wands, rabbits, tables, cups and even places like vineyards—and invited people to look again.

“Watch closely.”

“Notice this.”

“Imagine.”

Very often, miracles are never just displays of power. They’re magnificent invitations to see what’s already here at work in places we all continue to overlook.  

In a way, every life becomes a magic act.

We spend years conjuring kindness, creating memories, pulling hope from despair, making strangers into friends and friends into family.

And when someone we love reaches the end of their earthly performance, it can feel as though the magic has disappeared.

The stage goes dark.

The wand breaks.

The hat is empty.

But love has a way of performing its greatest illusion right there.

Because the person is gone, yet somehow not gone.

Their stories still appear.

Their laughter still echoes.

Their influence still unfolds.

Their love keeps showing up in unexpected places.

Like a magician’s final reveal, we discover that what we thought had vanished has simply changed form.

Maybe the greatest SHAZAM of all is that not even death gets the last word over love.

So ponder again those final lines—

THE MAGIC IS GONE
AND NOW JUST BEGINNING

—that’s not despair.

It’s hope.

Listen more closely and hear again the voice of every Caring Catalyst who has ever lived, reminding us that the greatest magic was never what happened on the stage.

It was what happened in the hearts of the people who watched.

And that kind of magic doesn’t disappear.

It multiplies.

Presto.

Watch closely.

The show isn’t over after all.