Fix Your Eyes

Encouragement for difficult times

When my kids were little and learning to navigate the world, they often used me as a human barometer. When meeting someone new, they would first absorb my reaction (warmth or hesitance) and react accordingly (hiding behind my legs or going about their business). When I received disappointing news, I had to be careful to temper my reaction because any negative emotion on my part immediately resulted in waterworks from my sensitive children. And new spaces or experiences always required excitement and curiosity on my part if I wanted them to embrace the unfamiliar.

But nothing indicated the level of emotional connection between me and my kids as much as when they got hurt. I have a very clear memory of my three-year-old son going down a twisty slide. My sister-in-law was at the top helping him get situated and I was at the bottom ready to catch his perfect little self. He was that childlike jumble of thrilled and afraid, grinning even as he clung to the sides of the slide in a sort of joyful terror. I waved at him from the bottom, encouraging him to be brave and let go. He did eventually tip over the edge, but because it was a cool day and he was wearing overalls, the slide was much more slippery than he expected. As he started to careen around the corner, he grabbed tight to the edge and refused to let go. By the time he reached me, he had squeaked down at least half of the slide with his pudgy hand clamped around the plastic lip. When I swept him into my arms I could see the slick of blood left behind on the playground equipment.

My son “hiding,” circa 2006

“Hey, buddy!” I enthused, bouncing him. “Was that fun?”

I was smiling, but I was also frantically taking note of everything. My sons’s blood was streaked all over the slide, a messy red line that made my stomach flip. And he was trembling in my arms, on the verge of a total meltdown. My mind whirred through how quickly I could gather up our things and drive to the ER, and how I would keep him calm if he needed stitches. His pain made me want to cry in that gut-deep, wrenching way every mother knows so well: we would happily step outside of our own skin, stop our own beating hearts, to prevent our kids from hurting.

But. I couldn’t break down and I couldn’t let him break down either. So I gave him a squeeze and a kiss and settled him on the end of the slide. “Looks like you got an owie,” I said, dropping to my knees. “Let mommy see.”

He fisted his tiny hand, tears gathering, and stared at me. It was all right there in his eyes: What happened? and How could you let this happen? and Am I okay? and Help me.

Beautiful boy. Precious trusting child.

I wish I remember what I said to him. Probably something along the lines of, “I’m so proud of you. You’re so brave. I’m so sorry you got hurt.” The truth is, I can’t recall the details of what either of us said as I crouched in the gravel, but I do remember that he didn’t cry. Maybe a tear or two snuck down his sweet cheeks, but he kept his eyes on me as I carefully uncurled his fingers and discovered that no stitches were needed. He had simply roughed up the skin on his palm, and though it was definitely bleeding, it was a shallow wound. My relief became his relief. My strength his strength. A scratch, nothing more, and as my fears of emergency treatment and needles faded, I began to joke and laugh. I cleaned up the wound with wet wipes and patched it with bandaids, then kissed his delicious neck and cheeks and knuckles and head, and he went down the slide again.

Me and my kids on a beach in Wisconsin, circa 2016.

I know this is an inelegant metaphor, but it feels so true to my soul I simply had to share it. Sit at the very end of whatever pain you are experiencing today, my friend, and for just a moment, fix your eyes on me. I know I’m not your mother, but I am your sister, and I do love you. Take whatever you need from this and from me.

In a world that feels overwhelmingly chaotic and at a time when it seems like the adults have all left the building, I see you. I acknowledge your fear and your pain, the way that your chest fills with a howl at the injustice and horror of it all. If you feel like you can’t look to the so-called leaders, the people in power who choose cruelty over care, or if your friends, family, or church refuse to even acknowledge the wound, I see it. I know you are bleeding. I’m so very sorry.

I wish I would have said this to my son all those years ago, but I can say it to you:

You’re so brave. So strong and smart and capable. I’m sorry this happened to you, and that life is hard sometimes and bad things happen. But you are resilient, a wonder to behold. And every moment of pain you experience can be a catalyst to kindness, a way for you to learn and grow and expand with empathy for the world around you. Use it. Learn from it. Go be salt and light and one of the helpers that I already know you are. And don’t forget to always keep your eyes fixed on the ones who love you, the ones who give you strength when you have none and hope when all seems lost. We belong to each other.

I’ve been sharing direct quotes from my friends on the ground in Minneapolis and St. Paul on my social media feeds, and it’s one of the most surreal things I’ve ever done. In my wildest dreams (nightmares?) I could never have imagined living in a country where heavily armed, masked men roam the streets and kidnap men, women, and children by smashing windows, tearing them from their cars and homes, and violently separating them from their families. Native Americans, international students, green card holders, legal residents, and US citizens are being caught in the dragnet, thrown to the ground, manhandled, and detained—or worse. It’s madness.

Comments flood my feed and inbox from friends who are living it—and still there are so many who deflect, try to argue that they aren’t experiencing what they are experiencing, or suggest that this is all warranted and that people should just “obey the law.” They are. We are. This isn’t a “radical left” agenda and no one is arguing for lawlessness. Please: Stop. Look. Listen.

Much ink has been spilled bearing witness to everything that is happening, and I’m not sure how anyone can turn a blind eye anymore. I won’t try to convince you, but I will close today with a snippet from my friend Marta who is in the thick of it. It both broke my heart and gave me hope, and I pray it is the glimmer of light that you need today:

It is both just as bad as what you see on social media and also overwhelming with hope that can’t be communicated.

The whole community is not backing down. There is one ICE agent per ~150 residents in Minneapolis (proper) and we are all being loud.

Someone in my church said “we’re a choir, and we’re all loud. We cover for each other so everyone can sneak a breath wherever they need it.”

May you find time to sneak a breath today. We are here. We see you. And we are and always will be better together.

Linking arms with you now and always. xoxo - Nicole

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