“I see you!”
Her four-year-old sing-song voice announces she has won yet another round of hide-and-seek. She pounces on me, and both of us roll to the floor in a heap of giggles.
“I see your tears. The worst you have imagined is happening,” I observe gently.
The young woman’s eyes meet mine. Tears spill through dark lashes. She nods, then sobs in the unyielding pleather recliner in her child’s hospital room. She reaches for my hand, holding it hard as she weeps.
“I see you, beautiful boy.”
I smile as the sparkling eyes of a beloved six-month-old meet mine and a grin fills his round, rosy face. Our eyes meet. We are known to one another.
It is a healing gift to bear witness and to be witnessed.
Heart and eyes meet in step with another’s joy or grief. We feel the other’s joy. Our heart recognizes, and so also feels their grief. We have been understood by one who has spoken words for us that are too painful to speak ourselves. In painful or joyful mutuality, we are surrounded by Knowing’s near embrace.
Following a painful season of loss, I avoided such connection, fearing that being witnessed would rip at the festering scab that was forming over my wounds. This is a legitimate fear when pain is close to the surface and one is working hard to keep the scab in place. Yet true connection necessarily means tapping into my own pain. It is risky. It will hurt. And sometimes we just don’t want to hurt any more. I discovered, though, that nothing is more necessary for healing than to begin digging under that festering scab and into the covered-up, lonely-making, old wound. Have you discovered this too?
Cole Arthur Riley wrote a prayer that bears witness to this process entitled, For the Lonely Souls. It is rich with wisdom. The words of her prayer offered imagination and wound care for that festering scab:
“Near God, thank you for being a God who does not wish for us to be alone. We hold close that you are a God who didn’t just feed the five thousand, but gave them people to eat with. We confess that we have become so acquainted with rejection that we struggle to believe that others truly want to be with us…”
Does this feel familiar to you? “So acquainted with rejection that we struggle to believe others truly want to be with us…” I confess, it does to me. Following the pain of loss, I became used to the lonely fear of not being wanted, of not being vital to another person. This fear was food for that festering scab over my painful wounds. I had been afraid to risk poking at it and afraid to risk feeling the pain again. I was afraid to allow others to bear witness to it with me. I allowed it to be more comfortable to endure a season of loneliness than to tend to my pain. But–and this is important–the Near God did not design us to be alone in our pain.
The prayer goes on, “…As we find ourselves in seasons of doubt and disappointment, let us encounter the face of God in the faces of those who love us… We long to be chosen, to be known and understood. Heal the stories of abandonment and rejection buried deep in us…Amen.”*
As I read these words earlier this week, tears filled my eyes and I felt them land deep within me. “Let us encounter the face of God in the faces of those who love us.”
Once again, the Divine’s presence, way down deep in that wound, was waiting for me, bearing witness to and holding the pain with me. I was not alone there. I was known and understood by a Near God who spoke words for me that were too painful to speak myself. It was healing.
You may encounter the Divine in different ways or by a different name. Even so, we find encounter with a Near God when we courageously look into the faces of those near us, when we allow others to see the pain that lives in us. It is when we bravely allow ourselves to be witnessed that we can bear witness. We feel and know that we are not alone.
You are seen, wounded one. You are chosen, known, and understood. You are not alone. And you are so, so loved.
*Riley, C.A. (2024). Black Liturgies, Prayer, Poems and Meditations for Staying Human. New York: Convergent Books.
Jill English is an encourager of people and a lover of words. She is most happy out-of-doors, particularly if out-of-doors involves a beach or a wooded trail. Her most magical moments happen as “Mimi” with her well-loved grandchildren and her adult kids. After retiring from a career in graduate theological education, Jill works as a chaplain resident with an interfaith spiritual care team at a large trauma center hospital. Learning to listen and tend well to the stories of others has inspired awe at the tenacity of hope and resilience in the human spirit. Jill lives in Grand Rapids, MI.
Blessed are those who are seen & loved and encouraged by you, dear Jill – for yours is the face of God.