“Is that your son?” I asked pointing to the little guy who had just scored on my grandson’s soccer team.
Strangers to one another, we’d been standing side by side echoing with the same groans, cheers, and sideline advice. Although we didn’t know one another, it was obvious that we rooted for the same team.
“Yes!” he said enthusiastically.
“Go Green!” we yelled almost simultaneously.
Both my grandson’s and the man’s son wore green jerseys. Through grins and grimaces we’d become “friends.”
“Is that your grandson?” he pointed.
I noticed immediately the presumed “grandmother,” title. People no longer assume I’m the parent, nor do they teeter on the questionable fence of grandparent as once-upon-a-time. My role is set in stone and wrinkles.
“Yes, that’s my grandson,” I answered with equal pride.
We chatted briefly and then gave our attention again to the young boys on the field.
After a bit, he turned to me another time and offered,“There are seats over there if you’d like to sit down.” He motioned to a small set of bleachers.
I smiled, then pointed to all the stuff at my feet. I’d become the gate keeper to water bottles, snacks, a spattering of toys, and a bag with the wallets.
“That’s ok,” I said. “I’m the keeper.”
“I can watch your stuff,” he volunteered.
The metal bleacher was just a few feet away, but I didn’t mind standing.
I assured him the game was far too exciting for me to stay seated.
Then it hit me. He wasn’t just being kind. What he saw was an older lady, shoot, probably in his eyes someone old as dirt, who couldn’t possibly stand for an entire soccer game. He was likely thinking he should have taken a CPR course just in case.
It was kind of shocking to my sensibilities, which are deeply buried within this seasoned flesh. Inside I still feel quite young.
When we had talked before, my inner person felt at par with him, thirty-something-ish. Like we were friends having a conversation. Same age. We were both watching the game and cheering for the same team. Same experience. To think my outward appearance didn’t actually match who I am, or think I am, felt almost like a betrayal. As if I wore someone else’s clothing, or wore a disguise.
As I stood there, thinking about it, I began to wonder how often people looked at me and didn’t really see me. And in a sudden twist, I felt unknown and unseen, like a victim of mistaken identity. I wanted to be known not categorized. And most certainly I didn’t want to be classified as “old.”
The reality is people see through eyes of humanity.
The reality is people see through eyes of humanity. Phil sees me with eyes of a husband. I am a wife. My children see me with eyes that know me as Mom. My siblings saw me as a sister. My grandchildren as a grandmother. People see me differently, but not completely.
Wasn’t that also part of Jesus’ story?
The Jewish people looked for a Messiah Ruler, and they expected Him to look and act a certain way. They wanted someone with the proper pomp, religious garb, and ceremony to take the political scene in hand. They looked inward and longed for someone to turn the tables on the injustices they faced and give them a better life.
He is despised and rejected by men, A Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. And we hid, as it were, our faces from Him; He was despised, and we did not esteem Him. (Isaiah 53:3 NKJV)
The dissonance between the imagined Messiah and the Jesus they saw, blinded them from seeing God Himself.
The Messiah’s own people, didn’t even recognize Him. They mocked Him, insulted Him, misused and mistreated Him. They nailed Him to a cross.
My uneasiness with the simple exchange at the soccer field pushed me to recognize I often look at people in the same way the man had seen me. I expect outsides and insides to match, and surely like the blindness of the Pharisees, I sometimes miss the value inside.
Jesus came to redeem the reign of sin in our souls and to make us His own. And sometimes I get fooled into thinking who I am is of greater importance than than Who He is.
The most precious of truths is that Jesus sees me as His child.
This is the victory of the cross. And its victory must also change the way I look at others.
My grandson’s soccer pass to the man’s son grabs both of our attentions.
“Go Green!” we shout.
We turn toward one another and grin.
He assumes it is at the joy of a goal. Honestly, it’s because I’ve remembered who I really am. I am a child of the King.
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