I’ve never been good at saying words out loud. Something about hearing them come out of my mouth makes me immediately doubt everything I’m saying, no matter how much the opposite is true. Even as a child, if I needed to apologize or say something hard to my dad, I wrote it down. It was easier for everyone.
A few days before my dad died, I was making some notes in my phone of things I wanted to tell him. I ended up hastily sending it on the Wednesday before he died. I knew he’d be awake. He had had a rough day, and a piece of me was afraid he’d just let go in the middle of the night. I wanted him to read what I had to say before he left.
I wrote about some memories I’d been revisiting, as well as some random thoughts. One of the things I wrote was a line in a song from a movie I was pretty sure he’d never seen.
Years ago, I saw The Greatest Showman in theatres with a friend. I watched it again on the plane ride to get to him. I longed for predictability and comfort. And I liked the songs.
If you haven’t seen it, the movie is loosely based on PT Barnum and his start with the circus. Hugh Jackman is the lead, and he brings a cast of misfit characters to work at what eventually becomes a circus.
For We Are Glorious…
You might recall the hit song from the movie was called “This is Me.” While I like the song, there is one line in particular that brings me to tears nearly every time I hear it. The bearded lady, played and sung by Keala Settle, sings about finally accepting herself despite her obvious physical differences.
In the first verse of the song, she sings breathily, as if in awe, “for we are glorious.” The second time she sings it, it’s more forceful and confident. She believes she is glorious.
There is something about the way she sings this line, particularly the first time, that takes my breath away. My heart goes into my throat, and I can feel the tears well in my eyes. For me, it is a very clear reminder of the holiness in each person. Of the intention and love with which we were created.
In my 2 am letter to my dad, I wrote: “Something about how she says ‘for we are glorious’ hits deep and reminds me every time of where we come from. We are created by God in the image of God, and we are glorious. Full of glory. The dictionary says ‘having or deserving beauty, honor, or fame. Or delightful, wonderful, magnificent.’ We are God’s handiwork. His greatest creation. Bringers of light.”
…Even When We Forget
But it’s so easy to overlook the gloriousness in both ourselves and others. Daily life, stress, bad attitudes, differing opinions – there are so many things each day that cloud our eyes to the true nature of people.
That line in the song – for we are glorious – reminds me to keep my eyes open. In fact, it makes it hard not to see and delight in the holiness inside each one of us. People that I know and have a relationship with, and those I just see in passing. Divisions and disagreements become secondary to honoring the holy within each other.
It’s not an easy thing to recognize God in others. Often, we are too close to people. You would think closeness would make it easier to see. But I think it’s more like looking through things under a microscope.
When we get close to someone, we start to see parts of them rather than the whole. There are parts we like and parts we don’t, but behaviors, attitudes, and habits slowly start to cloud our eyes to the divine in them. Plus, our own view of the world shapes how we see people. Our perception is our reality.
But if we step back, separate ourselves from our opinions of that person, and look at them with fresh eyes, we can’t help but see the divine in everyone.
There have been a few times in the last few years when I have really tuned in to people’s inherent worthiness. Times when it was almost palpable. Where I could see God living and breathing in them. These are a few of those times.
Made In The Image Of God At The Airport
I’m in the airport, again. This is my ninth flight in six months. It’s a Tuesday, and it’s early. Like 4 am early.
The bagel counter inside the terminal has just opened. I get what’s become my usual – an everything bagel sandwich with sausage, egg, and cheese, and a medium vanilla cold brew coffee. It’s really more coffee than I want this early in the morning before a flight, but it’s the smallest size they have, so we make do.
This time, I pack my sandwich away for later. Something to do on the flight later. For now, I’m sitting. And watching. And drinking my coffee. I have my notebook out, but I’m not writing. When I travel without the kids, I like to look around and listen. I like to watch the world move around me.
Something about this flight feels different. I’m going back to my childhood home for the first time, to be welcomed home by my mother alone. I can’t really put into words what I feel. It’s not nervousness or anxiety or sadness, really. But it’s also all those things. We are walking a new path – one that none of us has walked before.
As I try to form an internal sentence about what I’m feeling, I watch people. I see a family traveling. A mom, dad, and two young kids. Each kid has a Yoto player, and headphones with cords much longer than their ages should allow. The parents take turns getting up, walking around, tending to the kids, and calling them back to their waiting spot.
I watch as the flight crew gets ready for us. A lady in a dark blue suit furiously taps on an unseen computer. Her head is down, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Staff wheel an elderly gentleman toward the gate. They check whether he needs anything before they leave. Eventually, the pilots and flight attendants walk to the gate and through the boarding doors, smiling at their coworkers and us travelers as they pass.
Some people are traveling in sweats and leggings. Others wear shorts and t-shirts. It’s warm where we’re starting and maybe where they’re going. There are mothers wearing children, toddlers sleeping in strollers.
Some travelers have only a small backpack. Others a backpack and a rolling suitcase. Some chat with companions or people seated beside them, while others doze a bit before we board. As time passes, more people fill the walkways and waiting areas.
Watching people, a thought enters my head. “Made in the image of God.” I look at the variety and unique features of each person, and wonder about their personalities and preferences. Each of these people is made in the image of God.
God is present, shining, through every person in this airport.
The Worthiness of The Man at the Library
One Friday last summer, the kids and I visited the local library. We’d lived in town for about six months, and going to the library was part of our weekly routine. When we arrived, we were the only people in the children’s area.
Not long after the kids started playing, a man came in with his granddaughter. He sat down on the couch against a window while she moved to play with the toys. I’m sitting at the puzzle table with my youngest. He’s still small enough that he might randomly fall over. He still needs most of my attention.
Without hesitation, I notice my oldest moves to sit next to the man on the couch. This man is older than me, maybe 65 or 70. He could be younger, but his face and skin are leathery. A testament to a life lived in the sun. He’s dressed nicely in a striped polo shirt, khaki shorts, and brown sandals.
I keep a close eye on my son, but I don’t feel a need to move closer. The children’s area is small, and while I can’t hear their conversation word-for-word, I can catch the gist of some of the topics. They talk about the butterflies outside the window, coming to the library, my son’s shoes, and the fans in our house (a very exciting topic since our last house didn’t have ceiling fans).
The man’s granddaughter brings play food to my son, prompting him to play with her. He isn’t rude – he interacts with her when she approaches him, but he doesn’t leave his spot on the couch. He doesn’t seek her out to play.
Maybe 30 minutes later, the man and his granddaughter gather their things to leave. When he left, the man smiled at me. He stopped to say adults don’t usually chat with him, and he really enjoyed chatting with my son. We left not long after, and in the parking lot, the man honked the horn of his red pickup truck and waved goodbye.
When I journaled about the interaction later, I couldn’t help but wonder if my son saw something in the man that I missed. Did he pick up on some loneliness or sadness? Would I have seen the same desire for connection if I’d looked a little closer? Something about this man kept my wiggly three-year-old in his seat.
So often we move through life focused on the task at hand, forgetting that we’re also in nearness to each other. May this be an encouragement to look more closely at the people nearest to us and to recognize humanity in them, whether we know them personally or not.
We are all worthy. We are all doing the best we can with what we have. And we’re all more alike than we think.
Tokyo and The Vastness of God
I’m riding the bus to the airport. One of the great things about Japan is the public transportation system. Rather than drive myself and figure out long-term parking, I can take one train and a bus. It’s a long ride – about 90 minutes. But it would be at least that long if I were driving.
At least this way, I don’t have to worry about getting lost.
I’ve made this trip a few times, but on this particular ride in 2019, it’s dark. I pull out my phone and type some notes. They read:
We’re on the highway, passing rows and rows of apartment buildings. Some windows still have tape on them, either an X or a star, the telltale sign of a hurricane. I’ve heard that’s a myth, though. And the clean-up of the gunk left behind is no joke.
I do love the city at night. I love riding this bus at night, looking at all the lit windows. On the train to the station, I was keenly aware of how many new people were on that train. Despite always leaving and returning to the same station, I haven’t knowingly come across anyone I recognize. What are the odds that I’ve shared a train car with a repeat person in the last year and just haven’t known it?
As I watch train cars whiz past; occasionally, they match the pace of the bus. I can see the people inside. Some sit with eyes closed, some stand with one hand holding a strap above their head, the other holding a phone. Some people read, and others just stare into space.
The office buildings and apartments fill my field of view like stars. I think that each of those windows is a person. Maybe more than one person, with a lived experience and point of view entirely different than mine. A different language, one that I can not interpret, bounces off the walls and between cubicles.
One light is a family, where a wife and small children welcome their husband and father home from work. He walks in, sheds his shoes, and puts down his briefcase. One light is an office building where workers stay late. Maybe the janitor has started making his way between the desks, sweeping and wiping surfaces, emptying trash.
The light in the next building is from a single woman’s apartment. She’s standing at the stove making dinner, tearing open packages, and sauteing vegetables with chopsticks. Maybe her laptop has a show on for her in the background.
In one light, a father rocks his child to sleep. In another, maybe someone is sick while someone else paces the floor with a fussy three-day-old baby.
People commute home, picking up dinner along the way. Some stop to meet friends for a drink, or to have a drink and a snack alone at their favorite izakaya, chatting only with the person behind the bar. Someone goes shopping for a new shirt. Children show their parents pictures colored at school.
Each of those lights is a person with a full life. I find myself overwhelmed with the visual reminder of just how many people there are in the world. I think too often our routines make the world feel small.
But God is attentive to each one of them.
There have only been a few times when I feel like I’ve come face to face with the bigness of God and this world, and this is one of them.
May we keep our eyes open, expecting to see God in ourselves and each other. Let there be opportunities to set aside our differences and celebrate the goodness of God in us. Every one of us is worthy, simply because we exist.
