I love people watching and have convinced myself that I’m a pro: my sunglasses hiding the direction of my gaze or the incognito peering from behind the pages of an uninteresting library find. Inevitably the words hold little sway to the treasures of humanity beyond the pages and the assurance of real, live social graces and interaction and nuance and emotion are just too much to bear, and I watch:
Where he slips his hand across her knee. Where she puts her head upon his shoulder… First date? Old lovers? They are too quiet with one another to be new, and her hair seems askance and he seems calmed by her easy way. They must be married.
Where a mother fusses over a baby hidden in an expensive carriage, and how suddenly a fleck of a hand blooms above the tuft of swaddling blanket and visions of a redhead baby boy bloom in my head, unbidden… Simply because the hand was pale, and his mother was a ginger.
And my mind wanders with them all day, these people/characters filled out by my mind, apparent only in face. They are reduced to their mannerisms and accessories, taken out of context, in five seconds of one day.
It seems unfair. But in my defense I usually give them an imaginative vignette worthy of their most astonishing feature.
(Good or bad.)
My son just turned eight and on Sunday we met with the bishop for his baptism interview. Perhaps I should have insisted on Saturday [the-day-we-get-ready-for-Sunday] that he have a haircut or stuck to my weak decree of “No Vans at church.” But I didn’t do any of those things and so he sat there, a thick swatch of hair blanketing his eyes, the toe of his faded shoes skimming the carpet back and forth underneath him.
He’s a quiet boy. So quiet that I think a lot of people assume that he’s a disrespectful kid. I frequently prompt him to answer questions and make eye contact and it feels silly to be reminding such a large child, but his heart is anxiety ridden, and his personality unsure, and when he grabs my hand through the fleece of an oversized sweatshirt, or still expects that I can carry him up the stairs to bed, I know his heart/mind/soul and what it thinks and feels. And I know it is pure and sweet and good.
The bishop talked and we listened. My son answered questions with the most imperceptible nods and suppressed mouth. The bishop paused at one point and smiled at my boy, “Wow, you are one quiet kid!” He said this as his eyes crinkled and welled, “But it’s ok because I was a really quiet kid too, and then they made me bishop and now I can’t stop talking.”
And there was a sudden moment that it was clear—the bishop saw my boy. The real boy. Not the old shoes, not the messy mop of hair, not the unwillingness to engage. He saw the boy inside, and the man he will be.
(And as a mom, I so appreciated that.)
I’ve glimpsed these moments too. One winter, driving downtown, I was one stoplight away from my destination when the traffic stopped. Though a few homeless people milled on the sidewalk outside my car, my heart began to hammer against my ribs as I watched a certain one. He was not different from any of the others, but something pulled me to him. The light changed to green and I quickly turned right and circled back around the block, praying aloud that he would still be there. He was, and I pulled up to him and rolled down the passenger window and called out. He walked towards my car as I reached money in my hand across the seat, and our eyes locked (eyes I will never forget) and what I said was “Merry Christmas,” but what I wanted to say and lacked courage for was, “You are my brother.”
He bowed his head at my offering, quiet gratitude or guilt for the sordid things my generosity would purchase, but I didn’t care, I needed to stop. I needed him to know he mattered, that I saw he was a child of God and part of me in the most basic and ethereal of all senses. And whether that exercise affirmed something in him or just me, I pulled away from the curb and burst into tears.
(And abandoned my errand all together. How could I after that sacred moment lost?)
I feel like my mother best explained it to me in the temple, the last few moments of being just her daughter, while we stood before a crystal sconce lit mirror in the bride’s room, all golden and soft shadow. Her hands fumbled with the edges of my dressing as she attempted the millions of buttons up my back and suddenly put her head in her hands and sobbed. “Mom?” I sought her reflection in the mirror. “I see you,” she said as she looked up. “I see what Heavenly Father sees. And I am honored.”
If we could really see what he sees, would we not be honored to be in the presence of so much nobility in spirit? Because that nobility lies in everyone: the couple, the mother, the quiet boy, the homeless man, the bride, you, them, your enemy, yourself. Perhaps we would love more, and more freely. Perhaps we would be stumbling over ourselves, lining up to serve one another. Perhaps we would just be more patient, kinder.
I wonder how this happens? How do we see God’s children as such every day? How do we see them as He sees them—their whole, real embodiment and true character—and not pick apart their parts?
And, have you ever had any moments like these?
Related posts:
Continue reading at the original source →