“Found moon….found moon!”
On a recent drive along the foothills my two-year-old daughter exclaimed, “Found moon!”
From her limited vantage point, seated in her backward-facing car seat looking out the rear window of my Subaru, she had once again beaten me to the punch in terms of moon-sighting during daytime hours.
Now, let’s be clear – I no doubt saw (as in my eyeballs viewed it) this very same moon when I went out to get the paper, loaded up the car, tossed some trash into our outdoor garbage can, and started my drive. But my daugher saw it. And, in the seeing, allowed her little soul to bubble over with delight, surprise, and wonder. I could only ask myself, “why didn’t I see it?”
Distraction, worry, busy-ness, the miraculous becoming mundane, seen-it-before, been-there-done-that – a whole host of reasons could be listed for why I missed the wondrous sight of the nighttime orb light being visible in broad daylight, but part of it is simply the fact that sometimes I just don’t see.
Jesus bemoaned the incongruity of people made in the image of God who have lost the human capacity to see, wonder, feel, and just be alive to their surroundings:
“‘We played the flute for you, and you did not dance;
(Matthew 11:17)
we sang a dirge, and you did not mourn.’”
Like zombies (the walking dead), many of us sleepwalk our way through work, conversations, nature, movies, the Bible, worship, relationships, chores and even (maybe especially) our own stories and the stories of those around us. We just don’t see.
Recent attachment theory in the therapeutic world lists out four primary needs or capacities, first for babies and children, but ultimately for all of us throughout our lives: to be seen, safe, secure, and soothed.
To be seen.
Don’t we intuitively know this? I’ve been in meetings or conversations where I’ll say something moderately disclosing (“my physical health and energy level has just been a struggle for a while now”), and had varied responses. The more common response is on the surface. Or a quick pivot to their world (“oh, I’ve been so tired also”). The less common response is to be asked another question, or given a statement that lets me know I was just taken seriously. Seen.
To see – to really see – is a highly intentional act that takes a lot of practice, a fair amount of personal discipline, and at least some grief at our own losses over being unseen ourselves. If I just lean a bit into the loneliness of invisibility, something in me begins to rise up, “O God, please help me not do this to others.”
An obvious place to practice this is in nature. In the winter months, I do my prayer and meditation time in my little home office. In summer, I am on my front porch. Summer quiet times in the early morning have an entirely different feel to it, as I feel a light breeze on my face, notice the chirping of baby robins in the tree around the corner of my house, see the slight rustle of leaves up high in the large tree in my front yard. But I have to notice and not just vent to God about a hard day or simply read my latest Bible verse. I have to see.
The less obvious place is with the people in my life. As a counselor sitting with people I am tempted to bring insight or training to the conversation, rather than presence. As a husband I am tempted to be appropriately nice rather than to really be curious about Jill’s inner life and daily struggles and dreams. And even (especially?) as a Dad to a two-year-old, I need to squat down to her level, make eye contact, and see her little soul dancing inside those young eyes.
In a startling declaration of God’s awareness of us, the prophet Isaiah wrote, “Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are continually before me.” (Isaiah 49:16)
Apparently, our names and lives are ever before God, continually under his gaze. This is not a gaze of scrutiny, but a gaze of grace and love. Completely seen by the One who sees all.
Seeing nature, a face, a life, another soul is a God-like thing to do, and opens our souls to new worlds of wonder, discovery, and connection. And, you might just find the moon.
A postscript:
Speaking of raising a two-year-old…
In my last blog I more or less promised to say more about becoming a new Dad – the oldest new Dad I know – in my sixties. I intended to do a top ten list of “reflections of a new old Dad.” I’ve been stumped ever since! While I’ve pondered this a bit, I don’t know that I have a top ten list of important insights to share. The most profound aspect of this has been the profound fatigue that comes with caring for a baby and now chasing around a two-year-old these days. I am so incredibly tired almost all of the time. But, that tiredness is usually accompanied by a smile. I think I’ve been a pretty good Dad during my decades-long venture of being one to my four grown kids, but I’m not sure it was always accompanied by a smile. I am less concerned with getting it right this time around, more fiercely wanting to allow my delight in our little girl bubble up in me and overflow to her. To, as I just mused about, see and rejoice in her.
A couple weeks ago I watched her in one of her many little accomplishments or discoveries. I don’t remember what it was – she jumped or said a new word or listened to her Mama or something extraordinarily simple but still in the category of “brand new” for her little timeline. I got down on one knee (a challenge for a new Dad in his sixties!), face to face, and said to her, with a smile, “I am so proud of you.” Her little 26-pound body trembled with glee from head to toe.
But, for now, nap time – and I don’t mean for our two-year-old!
1 thought on “Do you see?”
Mark:
It is so wonderful to read your insights about being an older dad. My husband was 57 and 59 when our babies came into the world (so you have him beat!). He raised his second family much differently than his first. Like you, he focused differently. He paid attention differently. He taught differently. And yes, that evasive sleep…
All the kids are now adults. Our daughter, the last of the six, is 38 years younger than her oldest half-sibling. When the ‘halves’ are together, they razz each other and bicker like they grew up in the same house. Her half-sister (and youngest of “Group I”) and our daughter have SO much in common it’s frightening. As much fun as you are having now, I hope the relationships will grow between her and the rest of the family. It is, indeed, a gift from God.