I see them as I hurriedly race up the stairs from the train to my office. The elderly couple, going down the stairs . . . during rush hour. They are clinging to a suitcase between them, trying to navigate stairs while hanging onto the wheels…. I see them. He whispers, “Help.” I don’t.
I’m on the street now, the wind cutting my skin despite the calendar screaming that it’s late spring. I throw my hood over my head and notice the people around me. Jaws set; faces stern; many hurting. Do you see them? I hurry along.
There she is again. A woman struggling to walk, to get across the street before the aggressive Chicago traffic fills the lanes. Again, he whispers, “Help.” Again, I don’t stop.
She’s playful and needy. She wants me to chase her. Her mom is there too . . . at the park . . . busy talking to grown-ups. “Chase ME!” she shrieks. And so I do, while I’m chasing my three. A moment of playfulness with a stranger. I see her.
He’s angry. Upset by a late train or the treatment of a police officer. That’s all I can make out as I rush by him. The officer is listening; remaining calm. He apologizes. The man is not interested. He needs to be heard. The officer sees him.
He’s new to America – confused and afraid. He knows our governments don’t like each other, his old and his new, but he doesn’t know why. No one sees him. He becomes angry because no one will listen to his hurt. His pain. We don’t see him. So he hurts people. Now we see him.
The service was terrible – worst in a long time. We were disappointed, but maintained our cool. My brother handled the message delivery. The manager heard and responded. He saw us. We might return.
We are waiting on the exit ramp of a highway. He hobbles toward us, using crutches. He needs something, anything. I yell at Julie to grab some money; I grab mine. We give him what amounts to less than $10. But this time He whispered, I listened, and I saw him.
I’ve been struck, over the last week, by how important it is for my children to be seen. For me to engage them. To look at their {crazy} creations. And ooh and aah over them. To hug them and listen to them. But not far behind that revelation has been conviction about when I fail to see.
There is so much heartache and pain in this world and I wonder…. How badly do the ones who hurt long to be seen? Who will look at them? Who will see them? REALLY see them? What a different world this might be if we all took more time to see and hear one another. To stop and notice the good things our children are doing. To play with the needy child at the playground. And, for me, to start listening to that still-small-voice whispering, prodding me to “Help,” because nothing else is really all that important. “Stop rushing,” the Holy Spirit begs. “Slow down. Be still. See people. Really see them.”
And so, I see.
1 comment:
Uh. Good stuff sister.
Post a Comment