Breaking the Invisible
Have you ever felt invisible?
Growing up, I was the third of four kids and I struggled with feeling “invisible.” I remember sitting at the dinner table looking at my Father’s handsome face. My two older brothers had the ability to capture his attention with their funny stories. His face would light up with laughter. I wanted to make him laugh too, but when I would try to come up with something funny they all just stared. “How did they do it?” I thought to myself.
Truth be told, whenever I tried to be funny I got blank stares. I wasn’t made to be a stand-up comedian, but from a young age, I also knew I wasn’t made to be invisible. It didn’t take much thought, it was something I just felt drawn to do. At the age of five, I took my stand on the yellow pleather ottoman in the family room. It was Thanksgiving and all the Aunts, Uncles, and cousins were gathered together when I started to sing.
“This land is your land, this land is my land, from California to the New York island…” Everyone stopped their conversations to stare at the little girl in curls. In that moment of visibility, a star was born.
I was no longer invisible…for a few minutes.
Later in Junior High, I went through an unpopular stage. I remember in seventh grade the torture I felt at lunchtime. First, standing in the lunch line trying not to feel awkward while all the popular girls talked to each other. Were they talking about me? As I remember back to those lunch periods, I envision big hair, stone-washed jeans, and name-brand polos. I also feel the sting of insecurity the younger me felt.
After I got my tray then came the hardest moment of the lunch hour. Where would I attempt to sit? I wanted so desperately to fit in. I had a history of trying to make friends in all the wrong ways. My attempts to be cool hadn’t worked very well.
As I scanned the room I saw an open spot at the end of the popular girl table. As I sat down at the end of the table I felt relief, no one rolled their eyes at me as I sat down. I dug into the mashed potatoes but suddenly realized I was not a part of the group after all. The other girls had turned their bodies away from me so their conversations would be “private.” Though I was at the table I was not invited into their world, I felt like an outcast.
I was invisible.
Then later when I became a mom for the first time on April 14, 2002, I felt it again. Not at first of course. When I held that precious little boy in my arms with a rush of emotion I knew my life would be changed forever. It was when we were packed up to take him home that I felt the fear set in. The size of the car seat alone freaked me out. He looked too small sitting in it with his poor little head slumped forward. As we buckled him in he seemed too fragile so I road next to him in the back seat all the way home. I felt inept in caring for such a precious commodity.
Less than two years later I had his sister Elaina. Then twenty months later I had their sister Lydia. All of a sudden my arms were full. I loved my babies, don’t get me wrong, but life had become much more demanding. At the time Brad was the Youth Pastor at a small church. I found my daily life consisted of loading my babies into the van, driving to a service, unloading my kids from the van, keeping them quiet while Brad preached then taking them home again. I was frustrated that I couldn’t help him, my hands were full.
I felt invisible.
Have you been there? Have you ever had the thoughts:
I don’t matter
What I “do” doesn’t count
I am more of a slave than a respected person
I’m not accepted, welcome, or important
There is a name of God in the Old Testament: El Roi: The God who sees. This name was given by Hagar the runaway Egyptian slave of Sarai to God when he spoke to her in Wilderness. Her story is found in Genesis 16. You can also read my blog: Faith/ The God Who Sees about her story. As a slave, she lived the life of someone who knew how it felt to be invisible, but God showed her she was not invisible to Him.
I preached a message about Hagar the Egyptian slave woman on Mother’s Day. But as I think about that message I am drawn to how Jesus lived and breathed this name of God, El Roi: The God who sees. Though Hagar lived centuries before the birth of Christ she saw something in the character of God every person longs to know.
God sees us and He cares.
When Jesus started his ministry after around 30 years of obscurity he did not choose to make a name for himself by charming or pleasing the “Big Shots.” The four gospels of the New Testament are full of stories of the opposite. He pursued those who were unseen by society. He called mere fishermen to be his disciples. He healed the lepers and the blind. He rescued women that were tormented, abused, and had bad reputations. He saw the outcasts, those who felt invisible, and He healed them with His great love.
“Seeing the people, He felt compassion for them, because they were distressed and dispirited like sheep without a shepherd.”
As I look back over the many times I have felt invisible I realize the question in my heart was: Does anyone see me? Does anyone care?
One day, about six months ago I was shopping at Aldi with my mom. This has been my favorite grocery store for most of my life. I know it started back when I was about eight years old because an Aldi store was built right behind our house. I remember my three brothers and me peaking in the windows, anticipating the opening. When the Grand Opening finally came we enjoyed all the free giveaways. On the first day, they gave away helium-filled balloons. We each came in the automatic doors to receive our colorful balloon. My favorite giveaway was the powder sugar donuts. To our surprise and delight, we came in for a second donut, third, and fourth and were never turned away. We ate powdered donuts until our stomachs hurt from the sugar overdose.
Fast forward to the present, I was pushing my cart through the store talking with my Mom when I saw a woman come by. She wore a rumpled tee shirt and sweat pants. Her hair looked disheveled as she pushed her cart past us. Next to her, a little girl walked holding on to the side of the cart. She looked to be the same age as my son Judah, about four years old. What stood out to me was how she obediently followed. Unlike my children, she wasn’t demanding attention or trying to convince her mom to get her a snack. Meanwhile, her mother seemed to be in another world. She was talking out loud but not really to the girl or to anyone else.
I noticed them, but I was on my own mission so I continued down another aisle. As I completed my shopping and moved my cart over to the check-out I noticed the woman and her daughter were ahead of me in line. By this time the woman had a heaping cart full of groceries. She had finally finished unloading them all on the conveyor belt and was trying to pay, but her card wouldn’t go through. Unfortunately, she was holding up the line.
Aldi is unique because there are only 3 workers in the entire store. These three workers do everything from unloading supplies to ringing up groceries. Sometimes if there is a problem at the check out the line gets backed up. As the woman was trying to use a different card to pay I could hear the grumbling of other shoppers behind me. Finally, the card went through so the woman wheeled her grocery cart out the door, but I noticed she didn’t buy any paper bags. This would mean she would have to put all her groceries into her car one by one. She had such a heaping load my heart went out to her, so I bought more bags as I checked out and tried to find her in the parking lot.
I saw her standing by the trunk of her car with the heaping cart.
“Excuse me,” I called feeling my heart pounding in my chest.
She turned in alarm.
As gently as I could I continued, “I saw that you had a lot of groceries, but no bags… I bought extra, could I help you?”
Her alarm changed to relief as she began to tell me her story. The young woman (I will call Leah) had just had a baby. The infant was only two weeks old. She was new to town, to Aldi, and at present, her trunk wouldn’t open. Unable to open her trunk, my mom and I bagged her groceries as she thanked us. Her daughter, the oldest of her three children, was in a car seat watching quietly. A two-year-old and a newborn were waiting at home with her husband.
Leah had been struggling with sleepless nights and migraines. Feeling like she needed to get out of the house she decided to go grocery shopping. As we bagged her groceries she kept repeating, “I don’t know why I bought all of this…”
As we loaded the last bit of groceries and put them into her car she thanked us again. I stood facing her. I looked into her tired brown eyes. In the store, she seemed checked out, but as we faced each other I realized she was lonely, overwhelmed, and scared.
“Leah, do you know that God sees you, and He cares?”I asked.
Her voice softened with vulnerability, “You think he really does?”
“Leah, I said with a shaky voice remembering every invisible moment I had ever had, “Yes I know He sees you and he cares for you. Can I pray for you?”
She nodded as she looked at her feet.
“Dear Lord…” I began. As I prayed I felt like the mediator bringing two estranged friends together. After the Amen, she reached out, giving me a hug as she cried and whispered, “Thank you.”
Both my mom and I were speechless. Before us, stood a young mother who felt seen, valued, and cared for.
We reluctantly said goodbye. As we sat in my minivan afterward, we were silent for a few minutes. Emotions stirred in both of us as we realized we had witnessed something extraordinary, something Holy.
Like Jesus, we had reached out to this young woman who felt alone. As we said, “Hello in there…” She came to life, and so did we.
El Roi: the God who sees, reminded us that none of us are invisible. We all matter. We are all needed. We are all loved.
I want to be aware of those around me who need to be reminded of how much they matter. Life is always pressing its demands on each one of us. It is easy to tune out, to become distracted. Still, the true joys in life can be found in mundane places, like the Aldi parking lot, if we will allow God to open our eyes to see.