By Mary Eileen Oakes
People see God every day; they just don't recognize him.
~Pearl Bailey
I was twenty-five. I had a rewarding job and a close circle of friends. I was loved by my family. I had a good education, food on the table, and a roof over my head. I was healthy. It looked like I had everything, but I was just going through the motions. I was lonely.
People see God every day; they just don't recognize him.
~Pearl Bailey
I was twenty-five. I had a rewarding job and a close circle of friends. I was loved by my family. I had a good education, food on the table, and a roof over my head. I was healthy. It looked like I had everything, but I was just going through the motions. I was lonely.
The night that I became aware that there was something missing from my soul was on a cross-country driving adventure with my sister. As we drove across the flat darkness of Kansas, she described a feeling that someone was always with her, guiding her. She felt as if there was a greater force that comforted her. After a long philosophical conversation, she fell asleep as I drove. I secretly cried that night.
My downward spiral of doubt, pain, and sadness continued until one night, as I lay awake, the phone rang. My sister was calling to let me know that my brother and his wife were on their way to the hospital to deliver their first baby three months early. As my sister-in-law was rushed in for emergency surgery, my brother stood alone and scared in the sterile, pale blue hallway. When I arrived, he met me with a quivering chin, fearful eyes, and a request for prayer. Although prayer had become a thing of the past for me, I was struck with the urgency for some sort of faith.
The next couple of days we waited while my nephew, Taylor, lay in the incubator with tubes attached to his feeble body. The rest of the family came daily to the hospital where we all prayed, cried, and even laughed at times.
On the third day after Taylor's birth, I went grocery shopping and someone caught my eye as I was getting out of my car. She was an ordinary-looking little old woman wrapped in a long wool coat. As she walked slowly past, she looked at me, and in her eyes I saw oceans of kindness and warmth. When she smiled, my fear for my nephew's life disappeared. Her eyes and her gentle smile touched me so deeply that in one second I forgot what it was like to feel alone. After she continued out of sight, I continued to look at the people passing by, only this time they were different. Every person carried with them, whether it was obvious or not, innocence and the ability to heal — God. I cried for two weeks from the overwhelming feeling that He was, and had always been, right there with me.
Taylor will be sixteen this year, and my faith has not wavered since. In all those years, I have gone against everything I was taught as a child about avoiding eye contact with strangers. I listen with my eyes to what they have to say. In their eyes, I see laughter, I see tears, I see loneliness. I see a new engagement, a celebration, an anniversary. I see longing for forgiveness, and I see absolution. I see the child within. I see old age. I see sickness, and I see confusion. I see regrets, hope for a new job, fear and victory. I see culture, and I see family. I see love and faith and hope. I see the future, and I see humanity. But, most importantly, I see God. And I know that I can give to others the gift that was given to me in a stranger's eyes.
My downward spiral of doubt, pain, and sadness continued until one night, as I lay awake, the phone rang. My sister was calling to let me know that my brother and his wife were on their way to the hospital to deliver their first baby three months early. As my sister-in-law was rushed in for emergency surgery, my brother stood alone and scared in the sterile, pale blue hallway. When I arrived, he met me with a quivering chin, fearful eyes, and a request for prayer. Although prayer had become a thing of the past for me, I was struck with the urgency for some sort of faith.
The next couple of days we waited while my nephew, Taylor, lay in the incubator with tubes attached to his feeble body. The rest of the family came daily to the hospital where we all prayed, cried, and even laughed at times.
On the third day after Taylor's birth, I went grocery shopping and someone caught my eye as I was getting out of my car. She was an ordinary-looking little old woman wrapped in a long wool coat. As she walked slowly past, she looked at me, and in her eyes I saw oceans of kindness and warmth. When she smiled, my fear for my nephew's life disappeared. Her eyes and her gentle smile touched me so deeply that in one second I forgot what it was like to feel alone. After she continued out of sight, I continued to look at the people passing by, only this time they were different. Every person carried with them, whether it was obvious or not, innocence and the ability to heal — God. I cried for two weeks from the overwhelming feeling that He was, and had always been, right there with me.
Taylor will be sixteen this year, and my faith has not wavered since. In all those years, I have gone against everything I was taught as a child about avoiding eye contact with strangers. I listen with my eyes to what they have to say. In their eyes, I see laughter, I see tears, I see loneliness. I see a new engagement, a celebration, an anniversary. I see longing for forgiveness, and I see absolution. I see the child within. I see old age. I see sickness, and I see confusion. I see regrets, hope for a new job, fear and victory. I see culture, and I see family. I see love and faith and hope. I see the future, and I see humanity. But, most importantly, I see God. And I know that I can give to others the gift that was given to me in a stranger's eyes.
http://www.chickensoup.com
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