I slammed the cabinet door shut. Again. Why do the people in my house insist on leaving them open, yawning wide and exposing the mismatched array of cups, bowls, and a screwdriver that belongs in the garage? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the hall closet door standing open. Somebody had grabbed a jacket and then just walked away, assuming it would magically close on its own, or that the fairies would swoop in and shut it. I could literally feel the irritation rising up to my hairline. I stomped around the house shutting doors, slamming drawers, and picking items up off the floor. Good grief, I seethed, Am I the only one who could see this?
My mood worsened as I walked into the laundry room. Piles everywhere. Stinky mounds of clothes begging to be washed. I turned around and walked right back out. The crabby girl inside me wanted to run away.
As I stomped through the house, I felt tired. Tired of that saggy yellow sofa and the way the pillows never stayed put. Tired of the way the drapes didn’t hang straight. Tired of the pictures on the wall that had hung there for years. It was just so the same.
I walked upstairs to finish packing. I was headed on a brief trip to El Salvador with Compassion International to learn about their program and meet the two sweet girls that my husband, Geoff, and I had just started sponsoring. Trudging up the steps, the thought struck me: I’m such a crab. They probably won’t be very excited to see me.
Help Me to See
On the flight, I read through the materials Compassion had shared with me and learned a little about their child sponsorship programs. My eyes were drawn toward the faces. The deep brown of the little girls’ eyes and the feisty glint in the smile of the little boys. I felt my heart begin to respond. God, speak to me. Help me to see what you want me to see.1