On Being Seen
For almost two weeks he laid there on the side of the road. He was probably flung overboard by a buckled child who was desperately kicking around for some freedom. He must have slid right past mom’s attention as she pushed a wiggly stroller. The cold December rain and snow did not do him any favors. A few cars, occasionally crossing the yellow sideline, had pushed him here and there. He was only a discarded toy. Who can blame a world for passing? Yet, every time I drove by, I craned my neck. I am not sure what I was hoping to see.
Then, just a few days ago, on a sunny, cold afternoon, I pulled over. Just like that. I didn’t give myself time to analyze. I stepped on the brake, looked around for traffic, and gave him a ride home.
His once fluffy coat was salt-stained and mud-soaked. One eye was dangling from his head by a thread – the other one gone. His cap was almost torn off. He went through the wash three times. He needed a little coat, something not too complicated for a lost seamstress.
Then, carefully and with small, precise stitches into his again shiny body, I sewed his eyes. Two wooden buttons.
They stare at me from odd places on his face. As he sits across from my desk, I would like to think he can see. As his renewed eyes point in my direction, I pray for my eyes to be made new, to see again.
I want desperately to notice a hurting world around me — desire my eyes to see my God who sees me.
(Heidi Viars, 2022)