Perspective

Recently I went through a box of old photos my stepmother had kept. One picture, in particular, had a profound affect on me. It was taken one cold, snowy December night when I was ten. The year was 1983 and I was just a few days shy of my 11th birthday. In the picture I am wearing a hideous red velvet jumpsuit with a frilly, red and white striped shirt and a pair of boots that had been handed down through my five older brothers and had been cut down a bit so that they would fit me. We won't even discuss my hair. It was, after all, the 80's and taken in that context - with the exception of the boots - I looked just fine. I was even smiling, which was rare for me as a child. You see, I was very excited. That night, I was to attend a church Christmas party.
A few months earlier my family had decided to look for a new church but by Christmas we hadn't found one. The pastor of our previous church and his wife had decided to become missionaries and I think my parents were not very fond of all the changes in the church after that. We hadn't attended in several months so it was a surprise when the new youth leader called our house one night about a week before Christmas. She wanted to invite me to the youth Christmas party. My parents said that I could go, but they would not drive me, so she agreed to pick me up and drop me off.
We lived at the end of a very long dirt road that meandered through thick patches of woods and pastures. The road was about two, perhaps three miles in length. My brothers and I walked this road every school day to the main road to catch the bus and this "bus stop" was where the youth leader agreed to pick me up. I remember that night very clearly. It was extremely cold and had been snowing all day. The wind was biting, the snow flying, and it was so very dark outside. I was afraid of the dark all those years ago. Okay, truth is I still am. But I'd have braved anything to get the chance to go to that party. My stepmother had been baking - a rare occurrence - while I was getting ready and when I left she placed a large slab of banana nut bread, wrapped in a paper towel, in my hand - another very rare treat. I remember how warm it was in my mitten covered hands and as I walked out the door I held it close to my face to feel the warmth. I honestly don't think it lasted very long, I was whip thin but had the appetite of two teenage boys. Because it was so cold, and so dark, I hurried to the main road. When I arrived I stood where I could easily be seen and waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually I was so cold I knew I couldn't stay out much longer and decided I'd better head back home. That walk, which before had been quick with hope and anticipation, was long and dreary and bitterly cold, inside and out.
My stepmother was angry to see me, insisted I must have dawdled and that the youth leader had tired of waiting and left. I had embarrassed the family and should be ashamed of myself. I remember I cried myself to sleep that night. Couldn't I ever do anything right? It seemed I couldn't.
A week or so later the youth leader called again. She spoke with my stepmother and then asked to speak with me. I realize that her explanation was meant as an apology but it was, really, a cementing of an idea that had been growing in me for years. You see, she told me she was very sorry but she had forgotten about me.
Forgotten about me.
I was forgettable.
My response? Oh no, that's okay. Don't you worry about it! My feelings don't matter, let me make you feel better. And she did. And that was when I knew: I didn't matter. Not to my family, not to strangers. Not at all.
Over the years I have searched for people that will love me, for whom I would matter. You ever see two people, friends, family, spouses, and when one walks into the room the other lights up? I want that. Who doesn't? Just one person to think of me each day. To notice if I'm not around. To love me enough to push and prod until all my neurosis lay in a broken heap at our feet. For a while, I thought I'd found that.
So fast forward to about eight months ago or so. Myself and six other women had this group. We met on a private fb chat and watched a movie together and talked once a month, sometimes twice. We had a private group page and shared our lives, we'd known each other for about 13 years but lived too far away from each other to get together in "real life". One of our group often isolated herself and had been gone for a while. I called, I messaged, I sent cards. She avoided. One day I finally got her and she cried, saying she was afraid to come back to the group, that we would be angry with her for having been gone so long. I promised we weren't and she said she would come back. I thought it would be nice if she could see how much she meant to everyone, but in order to not single her out, I created posts with each of our names on them. The idea was that each person should write something they really loved about that person. Everyone participated and wrote wonderful things about each other. The other ladies told each other how they felt they were like daughters, sisters, mothers, how special, how talented, how loved they were. Under my name? They all wrote in varying ways that I was a good mother.
Oh, I know. It's silly to be hurt by such a thing. But you see, I was ten again and felt like an afterthought, someone that didn't matter so much, but you included because you were being nice. I didn't share how hurt I was, I knew I was being childish. But the truth is, I have always been that little ten year old girl with so much hope only to be told I'm forgettable. Of course, I didn't realize at the time, but I was well on my way to this little island of crazy I'm currently inhabiting. The price is high but as they say in real estate: location, location, location. And the location of this little island is right in the center of all my broken dreams, lost hopes, blackest moods, biggest fears, neediest impulses, deepest pains. So I think I reacted to the exercise more emotionally than I would have had I not already been developing all those little tiny cracks.
Who doesn't have baggage? Who doesn't carry a lot of hurt and pain around with them? I know a woman that was sure that every time she walked in a room and someone laughed that they were laughing at her. Didn't matter that they hadn't even seen her, all those little snubs and hurts and insecurities started poking at her until she felt like she was wrong somehow, less than. Most people have them, learn to heal them or live with them or let them ruin their lives. Usually one of the three. I'm somewhere smack in the middle of that triangle.
In the end, I think our lives all come down to perspective. We cannot see anything through eyes other than our own and our experiences color everything. But there is someone that sees all things, clearly.

Hebrews 4:13 Nothing in all creation is hidden from God's sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we much give account.

Matthew 6:3-4 But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.

Matthew 6:6 But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.

See a theme there? God sees everything, even into our hearts. God can see what is really happening, and He can see how WE see what is happening. And guess what? God loves us, insecurities, neurosis, breakdowns, breakups, crackups and all. Because, in the end, our perspective is flawed. God's however, never is.

Zephaniah 3:17 The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, He will quiet you with his love, He will rejoice over you with singing.

Now go find yourself the soundtrack to The Prince of Egypt and listen to the song "Through Heaven's Eyes" sung by the extraordinarily talented Brian Stokes Mitchell or go to this link and remember, God sees everything and He still loves you.