Seeing is a giftThere are people around us, everywhere, that need to be seen. Sure we notice their clothes, designer or dirty; skin, white or black or a thousand other shades; stuff, Apple or knock off. But do we see what God sees. An image bearer?
A wounded boyThere's a little boy next door, four years worth of pain old. His solemn eyes make him look older. He's cautious, as skittery as a stray puppy. It took him a whole weekend to finally smile at me and it felt like I'd struck gold. It took even longer for him to talk and when he did I knew why. It's painful to my ears, it must be torture to his own, to hear the words jerk out.
When Chris hears him speak he looks at me confused. One day when I answered back Chris whispered, "how did you understand that, did he actually say something?" It's taken me weeks to learn the rhythm and I do a lot of guessing but it's worth trying. I want him to know he has a voice and not be afraid to use it.
I shudder to think of the teasing he may endure. The wounds that will dig deep into that little heart, tracing back over existing scars. I see a small boy being swallowed up into a tough man with clenched fists, but the little boy will remain, buried deep, aching. I imagine he will look a lot like his daddy; a little boy who's so afraid that he drinks too much and yells, who beat's his whatever she is, wife or girlfriend I don't know which anymore. I pray love will intervene and that won't be the case, oh I hope it won't be, but it feels like a long shot.
Now he crosses the street and walks on in to my house, without saying a word, and makes himself at home. He smiles at me and sometimes he holds my hand. And tonight as he walked through the kitchen where I was making dinner he stuck up his hand and said "bye." I reached out and hugged him. Then he kept on his way out the back door. It could have been my imagination but I thought I heard, "I uv ooh," tossed over his shoulder. "I love you," I shouted back. And I do.