do you see what I see
Sometimes all I can see is what hurts, what’s hard, what I wish could be different.
Before we even leave our driveway, Riley stops, setting her water bottle down, handing me the paper, her pen. She lifts her sunglasses, peers more closely at her phone. “It says license plate, so…” She talks to herself more than to me, speaking of the list I now hold in my hand, bending as she says this to get a closer view of the plate on Zoe’s car.
We’re on a photo scavenger hunt, a particular adventure of the photography club at Dynamic Opportunities, where Riley attends school. The moment we stepped off the porch, Riley started to see things–a swing set in one neighbor’s yard, a basketball goal in the other, the tall tree in our front yard by which we mark the seasons.
“Hmm, let me get a little closer,” Riley says, stooping, bending at the waist, craning her neck and that poised phone. Behind us, the sun burns bright, shooting powerful beams through the trees, making it harder for Riley to see what she captures on screen. So many things threaten to obscure the view; sometimes we do have to lean in.
“Okay, yep…I think I’ve got it,” she says, reaching again for the list and her pen, pressing both against her phone to make a careful check mark. She spins around. “I need a water hose,” she says, with some enthusiasm, “and there’s the mailbox!”
I smile; it may be several minutes before we leave our own yard. I feel delighted; this might be the most we’ve felt this grass tickle our ankles in a while, certainly the most notice we’ve taken of the ordinary blessings–their angles and arches and hues–that surround us. I usually start out quickly, spurred on by progress and time. Today, slowing has widened our eyes.
When at last we have exhausted the observation of our own immediate environment, Riley, content to go on, stows her water bottle in the crook of her arm, and we take to the glittering streets. But just a short distance away, she spots the street sign–“with a stop sign right there too!”–and unburdens her arms again item by item to better hold her camera. Unhurried, she captures and clicks and checks, and every few feet she finds another gift to gather.
Around a bend in the road, we greet another family out walking their dog, and Riley asks permission to take a picture. “I need a dog for my scavenger hunt,” she says, rattling the paper in front of her in the air.
“For school?” the mom says, and I nod, and they readily agree to the photo, pleasantly smiling with some appreciation for the project. One of them, settling the dog, says, “We’re in no hurry.”
A little further on, Riley spies a trampoline in a backyard two yards away from us but visible from the street. “Oh look, a trampoline!” She says, crossing the street, edging her toes as close to the side of the road as she can manage without stepping into the grass. She doesn’t see the man in that yard blowing grass clippings, but he sees her and kindly stops, tilting his head toward me with silent curiosity. I tell him she’s out seeing, explaining briefly about the hunt, and he smiles, tells her she can walk across his yard to get a better picture. He’s patient with our interruption, lifts his hand when we offer thanks: It’s nothing.
I walk away thinking that if these hard times limit our activity, they can also loose our kindness, our patience, our gratitude, if we let them.
“Look, another basketball goal,” Riley says, laughing a little. “But I already have a picture of that. And another fire hydrant, right there.” She points, catching my attention. “Ooh, and water hose. But I already have a picture of that too.”
I think of all the times I’ve walked these same streets without observing so much detail, without sharing life with so many neighbors, and I begin to wonder: What if I started my own walks setting out like this to see? What if every venturing became a hunt for grace, a search for good? I walk along beside Riley as she collects her treasures, and I remember a friend’s story about her grandchildren, how they asked her if she’s ever seen Jesus. She and I, we spoke of John the Baptist, how he, recognizing the Christ where no one else did, called out, “Look (John 1:29)!” We smiled, she and I, because we get to point to the lamb as He lingers in broken places. We get to extend our arms; we get to encourage, “Look.” Slowing widens our eyes. So now, as Riley and I hunt for the extraordinarily ordinary all down our winding street, I begin to compile a look-for-list of my own.
I look for love, a kind hello, the gift of a smile.
I look for something stunning, someone helping, for creativity given as a gift.
On the driveway, someone has chalked a mosaic, carefully taped. Someone has written slow, in giant, sweeping letters, have a happy day. Someone has placed a teddy bear in their window for a child. Someone has taped up a dozen brightly colored hearts. I start looking and begin to see: social distancing hasn’t kept us from reaching for each other.
Riley stops, unburdening her arms again, bending to take a picture of a UT flag flapping below a neighbor’s mailbox. She needed a letter T. Her hunt list crumples on one side where she holds it. My own list just grows, unburdening my heart.
I look for a playing child, oblivious to worry; a trusting child; a held child, clutching hard to love.
I look for butterflies; for dogwoods tipped blood red; for birds, unworried.
In a driveway a few more steps along, someone has written clear, written wide, with chalk: I am with you always (Matthew 28:20). I reach for Riley, resting my fingers on her arm, and with the other hand I point.
“Hey–hey Riley, look.”
