When my youngest brother was small he used to bury his nose in my hair or my arm, sniff deeply, and say, “You smell good.” Only he was so small it came out “You ‘mell good.”
I think of him even now when I smell something delicious or disgusting and wonder if he’s still sensitive to smell. And I wonder if my nose has evolved into as good a “smell detector” as his always was. Continue reading →
An old friend and I recently reconnected around grace and during our musings, she reminded me of an important grace symptom: refusing to care what people think of us.
After our chat I couldn’t stop thinking about this post, written a long time ago during my new-to-grace days. Thank you, my grace friend, for the reminder of this important truth and the chance to walk down memory lane for a few minutes.
My Dear Reader,
I don’t care what you think. But actually, I do. That’s why I agonize over my blog posts until I’m almost sick of looking at them. It’s why I’m insecure every morning and night thinking that I’ll never write anything worthy of you reading. Or if you do manage to be duped into reading it, you’ll put it aside in disgust with a shake of the head and a tsk, tsk, because it really was mindless drivel anyway.
I don’t care what you think. But, I do. Continue reading →
Not too long ago I was struck with a deep thought, halfway between the stationery and the pop at my local grocery store.
Navigating the obstacle course that is the center aisle, I realized I was watching wobbly cart wheels, wan produce, cardboard displays – looking anywhere except the faces of the people I passed.
And the thought struck me . . . Why don’t I really look at people? Why do I go my merry way, skipping around live souls God created? How can I so easily walk past someone without truly seeing her?
I guess it’s just easier that way, easier not to get involved.
I mean, what if they don’t smile back? What if he thinks I’m staring? What if I see something I don’t know how to deal with – like supreme sorrow or listless eyes? What if she actually <gasp> started talking to me?
Or perhaps I’m too wrapped up in myself. Yes, it’s far from pristine, but after all it’s what I think of most of the time – my small, little life.
Or maybe, just maybe, I have nothing to offer them today: no smile, no nod, no hope. Only eyes as empty as theirs might be.
So, I hide behind shyness, glancing at pretty baubles and cardboard – ANYWHERE but at the faces.
Later I read the story of the rich young ruler confronting Jesus, and I’m struck by the little “stage direction” before Jesus’ final line in this scene:
And Jesus, looking at him, loved him. (Mark 10:21)
Here’s Jesus confronted by a man hoping to gain the “Good Teacher’s” approval. Stopped in His tracks by a man eager to brag of the ways he’s been good and done good all his life. Jesus doesn’t laugh at him or nod disappointedly or tell him, “Seriously? You think you’ve kept every commandment perfectly since the day you were born? Oh brother!”
Jesus instead gives the Pause and the Look. He stops and truly SEES the poor, searching, young man. And when Jesus truly sees this man, He loves him.
I want to be so overwhelmed by this same love and grace toward me that I become proficient at the Pause and the Look.
My prayer? That even in a supercenter aisle, Jesus’ love will stop me in my tracks, discard silly only-me thoughts, and overflow onto others so I truly see them, and maybe, just maybe, they catch a glimpse of great grace.
Janna, Grace Embracer
P.S. Have you ever felt like you’re not truly seen?
sign photo: creative commons, courtesy of timlewisnm
child photo: public domain, courtesy of lisa runnels
When I take my Maltese-Yorkie, Buster, on a car ride he adores sticking his head out the window, and I have to confess I’m a sucker for the happy doggy grin he wears when the wind’s in his face.
He gets especially excited when he sees a dog on the sidewalk or a swift bicycler and gets so worked up he’ll jump back and forth over the back seat repeatedly. (Yes, I have a very high-energy dog. You don’t know the half of it.)
Without fail his leash gets stuck between the seats, and he’ll start to whine and scramble frantically with his paws even though the more he frets the tighter his leash sticks. I can’t untangle him until we park, and by that time he’s moping because he has to sit still until I jerk his leash from the seat crack.
I know how Buster feels–stuck in bondage to something I can’t control and can’t escape. Continue reading →