He Gives Me That Look

He gives me that look from across the table that makes my heart flip around so wildly inside this chest of mine that I almost reach up to touch it.  The corners of his mouth playful with me and I can't help but let out a tiny giggle and we are smiling and laughing and life should always feel this good.  The kids are grinning from ear to ear and they love this playful banter and laughter at breakfast so much it makes them all a little goofy too.  I get up first for a refill and he follows me to the coffee pot and I can sense he is right behind me.  As I turn around, coffee cup in hand - he gently takes it out of my hand placing it on the counter, his fingers lace through mine and he asks me for this dance.  I notice we have an audience peaking at us from the other room, I am laughing out loud now and looking up at him, I dance with him right there in the kitchen, completely un done yet - jammies still on, bed head hear and coffee breath but he doesn't care.  I get the distinct impression that he sees a different "me" here in this kitchen right now than I do. And it feels so good to be loved just as I am - undone, mess of a person that I am - I guess that's "love" isn't it?  Love dances and embraces and accepts and sees what is inside.  How did this day ever come to be?  We are both pushing 40 and that seems so old and yet here in this kitchen, this morning, I feel anything but old.  I guess that is what love does for a person - it rekindles the part that makes us feel alive.  His love also brings me coffee in the morning and gets up with the kids in the night, "so I can rest", he sends me out with my friends and with my camera so that I have room for the relational, creative "me" that needs to make an appearance every now and then and then when I get home from all of that creative girl-friend time he tenderly takes my feet up on his lap, rubs them as I go on ad on about who I saw, what we did, which aperture setting I used or tried and I am sure he does not know half of what I am talking about - but this man knows "me".  I guess that's what love does - it serves beyond what is convenient or interesting to itself.  And he does a million other really sweet things to demonstrate his love for me.  How does one ever "love" back enough when you are loved and taken care of so well?  I have absolutely no idea what the equivalent is in his man's world - but I am trying hard to learn.  Trying hard to figure out how to cheer on his favorite football team and how to get into March madness or super bowl season in a way that is a blessing and not annoying.  I am not exactly sure how to love him but every day is a new day to try and express it in his language.  I guess that's what love does, doesn't it?  It tries and intends to bless.  Now just to bring some "real" to this picture I am painting, I have no grandiose ideas that my marriage or my husband or myself have this love/marriage thing all figured out.  In fact, not even close!  We struggle ad fight and I subconsciously want control and yet have none.  He forgets to hang up his bath towel and around we go again.  But love is a choice that we make day in and day out.  The "choice" part is what makes the little things actually big things, big deposits that ground us and keep us dancing in the kitchen in our jammies - coffee breath and all.  I am so thankful for another year and another fresh start to love this man I call my husband and my best friend.

An Opportunity in the Rear View Mirror

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap tap. I saw him in the rear view mirror approaching and am fumbling now, trying to find the right change and some food. I know there is some food in here somewhere I’m thinking to myself as I rifle through my big “mom” bag stocked with water bottles and snacks for our trip to the museum.  Peripherally, I can see him still standing there next to my car, he raps on the window a little harder and a bit franticly as the window of opportunity for a hand out gets smaller as time ticks on the red stoplight ahead. I quickly look up at the stoplight, there is a countdown in red next to that little light and it currently says 36 seconds until the light turns green.   “Hurry Mom, the light’s going to turn green.” I hear from the backseat.  I don’t reply, I know it and I feel the urgency to give this man something to eat and something to keep him warm.  All I can find are my $1 gloves, a few rmb and an apple that was intended for our morning snack today.  I turn to the window and thankfully he is still there.  I look the Asian man right in the eye as I roll the window down. He quickly looks at the ground and begins to nod his head up and down, a sign of humbleness and unworthiness in this culture.  I use both hands to hand him this “gift”, (using two hands is important in this culture- it is a symbol of respect) what I hand him is not much mind you, I feel embarrassed to even give it to him. But I think it’s better than nothing and I don’t know what he will receive today and what he will be allowed to keep.  It is said that the majority of people on the streets begging here are either pimped to do it or have been disabled with that purpose in mind.  (blinded, disfigured, etc) The food and gloves wouldn’t be taken away from him, although the money might be.  As he takes my small offering, he looks at me and I look at him, right in the eyes we look at each other for what feels like 10 minutes but in reality was only seconds and I see the laugh lines up by his eyes, and the scar on his cheek. I wonder briefly what this man has laughed about recently and what has made him cry and how the scar got there. Was he a child or an adult when it happened? Did the gray hair come before or after he had children? I know mine came after.

Then, I tell him boldly that he is made in the image of God and that God loves him and that I hope this gift helps him today and please don’t forget that Jesus loves you.  He thanks me quickly and all of this in a 36 second encounter at a red stoplight that too quickly turned green.

 I drive on, but I see him in my rearview mirror limping to the side of the road, looking after our car with a look of confusion, joy and wonder, then sitting down and taking a bite of his apple.  And his eyes haunt me all afternoon. I can’t forget them. I can’t forget the humanity of them.  I wonder, “Whose grandfather is he?” “Whose husband has he been?” Will he ever be reunited with a family that embraces him and laughs with him? Cries with him?  Will his wife ever again run her fingers over that scar and know the story behind it? See, here there are a lot of men, women, and children who are taken from their homes, disabled in some way and for various reasons put out on the street to beg for food, clothing, money to eat. Very few people ever stop and nobody ever speaks to them. They are the downcast, the downtrodden, the looked down upon portion of society.  They are lumped together and (I am guilty of this too) not seen as individual human beings who have had dreams and plans, hopes and sorrows. But the humanity in this humble man’s eyes will change my perspective forever. All I had to give today was an apple planned for our snack time, some change and some really cheap gloves from Target but what I received back was a tremendous burden to play a bigger part in humanizing some of the social justice issues that are so prevalent here in this country and in our world.  Today,  I encountered an opportunity to change my perspective. . . and judging from the view in my rearview mirror. . . maybe his too.