One Who Sees

She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: “You are the God who sees me,” for she said, “I have now seen the One who sees me.”
-Genesis 16:13

 

This is for you, the girl sitting two tables from me in the back of an old coffee house.

 

This is for the way you rushed in here with a mission, plopped your backpack onto the bench and paraded to the counter.  For the way you spread out your books across the tiny space of table top and quickly opened to the marked page of a worn paperback, where you finished the novel’s last pages before the barista called out your order. For the way you rose, got what you needed, and made your way back to your fortress, where another page soon opened you to another world.

            This is for the beautiful folds of your floral summer dress, covered with a knit white sweater, cheery against the wooly, frowning clouds hanging lowly in the sky. For your iced strawberry mocha topped with whipped cream and a slice of egg quiche on a blue rimmed plate, for the way you slide a piece onto your fork and lift it without looking to your mouth. How you don’t look because you are so engrossed in the novel spread out before you on the table you can’t look at anything but the lines and lessons trickling into your magnetic mind.

            This is for the hopes I feel radiating from your heart, the passion you spill forth from the simple pleasure of sweets and stories. This is where I sense that the reality of your troubles- the quietness of your day at school and the fear of talking to that gentle boy who sits by you in English- fall away and you are safe in literary arms. You’re away from the petty girls with their frivolous fancies and the feeling of never quite fitting in. Away from the pressures of performance and the worry of where to place your faith. This is for simply being, in your moment, in your fantasy, in your heart that yearns for truth and love and acceptance.

            You are so lovely, with your summer sandals and your straight hair the warm color of cinnamon, the shy smile as you wake back into this afternoon, to the bright flowers perched outside the window and the girl who looks a lot like you two tables over, because she sees herself in your hands, how they delicately cradle that story, and the squeeze that shakes her heart when she thinks of what she loves.

            I pray you feel the love of God, how He watches you sip your drink and scan word after word and piece them together. How He, too, feels your passion within, and how He craves your company.

             You are precious, dear girl. You may be unaware of how glorious you are, but my heartfelt hope is that today, somewhere in the softness of your soul, you feel a stirring that can cast your dreams farther than your favorite fable, and sense the calling of the One who called you to existence, and who is captivated by your every movement.

            Because every movement you make is marked by His blood, which is the greatest romance you will ever have the privilege to not only read, but to live.

            So live. Live well. Live loved. And keep those passions perched inside your heart. And, once they find courage in His care, let them soar.

 

Prayer:

Lord, you watch over Your children and see them through Your crimson shaded eyes. Let me see Your people as You do, and to pray for their spirit to unfold to Your gentle prodding. And be with this girl, wherever she is and with all that she longs for. Amen.