I see so much aggression and hurt and frustration. All around. All the time. I see these emotions on people as if they were sporting unsightly, unmistakable battle scars. We’re all trying so hard, lacking the capacity to see the simple—the simple that could save our hearts’ aching and striving. We look at each other every day and ask, “Why can’t you see me? Why do you look over there and in that place? I’m here. My heart is here. My hurts are here. My voice is here. I hurt too! You hear me? You see me?” But our friends and family are looking right back at us with the same inquires pounding away in their heads. These thoughts overwhelm us, especially when we get busy with the “tyranny of the urgent” (as my teacher phrased it). Day to day life can suck you dry. The more that wicked tyrant of time and energy takes hold, the louder our inner cry becomes, “See me, see this, don’t turn from it!” When I remember this, I remember to breath, look up, and see… you. It is easy to become selfish and forget everyone else’s need to be seen, everyone else’s hurt, everyone else’s drive to have someone hear them.
I can’t seem to get the tyrant of time off my back these days. He doesn’t let up, and the greater my responsibilities in life become, the meaner that fierce jerk behaves. So as I cower to his demands, I am training my eyes to see beyond myself. We all have that tyrant to deal with. All of us have to struggle with the demands of daily life. But as we fight this battle, have we settled with this tunnel vision that keeps us from looking out and extending a hand to our friends? Have I turned a blind eye to the hurt of a close one simply because I’m tired of my hurts being ignored? If I’m struggling to stretch myself for those closest to me, how can I even begin to help those tired strangers who need a quick and painless shot of encouragement and truth from a perfectly capable source?
About a week ago, I had the opportunity to remind myself of the need to look up and look out. I work as a waitress at Cracker Barrel. I was serving a lovely older lady. She was my first table of the evening. She was perfectly dressed, very prim but coordinated and fashionable. She spoke softly and her words had a genuine sweetness to them. Our conversation was short and simple and plain. I went through my required routine, with a syrupy happiness to my tone, “Hi, how are you? My name is Kala and I’ll be your server today…” I sold her the special. (It’s so funny to me how, when your life suddenly takes this new shape, you start concerning yourself with new, silly little things you never have cared about before, like the special on any given day at Cracker Barrel.) I brought everything I ought have. And she said thank you. And as routine dictates, I asked if everything was okay. She responded hesitantly, “Uh well, yes. This looks good. Thank you.” Here for the first time, I noticed a distance in her speech. Had it been there from the start? I wondered if I had done something wrong in my service to her. My mind was already back in the kitchen, thinking about the fact that I needed to retrieve more biscuits for the front bread pan and suspecting this table would be the beginning of a long, arduous night. Naturally, upon her response, I inquired, “Are you sure?” With a smile and a hope she wouldn’t catch offence, I said, “You don’t look like everything’s alright.” She wrenched out a quirky smile and sputtered, “Oh, I’m okay… It’s just…” Her lower lip quivered. I felt my heart get heavy. The resonance of whatever her damage was had caught me up quick. “Today was my husband’s burial service… he passed away last week.” The shock of her own words out loud seemed to force her eyes to well up with tears. My mind raced back to me from the kitchen, but everything felt as if it had slowed. “Aw, I’m so sorry.” My words felt silly, trite, and so insincere as I stood there with my “Rising Star” apron on and my tray in hand. She tried to gather herself back together. I could feel her worry creeping in, concerning onlookers from the surrounding tables. I stood awkwardly for a moment, then reached out and pet her shoulder. As I waited there, half frozen, watching her gather her little napkin about her dripping eyes, I wondered if her tears would stop. They weren’t big, weepy tears. But they were the steady ones that you can’t quiet. I know I’ve cried like that before, just wishing I could stop up all the water somehow, wishing I were too dehydrated for the tears to come anymore. I stroked her shoulder a few moments more, hoping I could shield her a bit from unavoidably feeling embarrassed. Then, after repeating “I’m sorry” surely at least two more times, I asked her if I could pray with her. She had a hard time answering; but once I heard what seemed to be her consent, I took her hand and prayed. Aloud, I thanked God for her obvious strength. I prayed she could have continued strength unknown to her. I thanked God for having put her husband in her life. And then I chocked up. My words became soggy and her grip tight. I mumbled through a few more repeated phrases of please’s and thank you’s and spat out an “amen.” I held her hand a second more until she relinquished her grip. Then we both patted our eyes dry. We smiled and I told her that if there was anything she needed of me, just to let me know. After that, the dining room became a bit more awkward. I gave her the ticket for her meal and let her know I would pray for her. She thanked me and hugged me before she left.
Surely, this is what we are called to as Christians, getting rid of the tunnel vision and training ourselves to spot other’s battle scars. Because, more often than not, the battle scars will not be as apparent as what I had met with that day. Our discernment needs to be on point. We have to get our eyes off of ourselves. We have to look up then look out.
