"I See You"

Because sometimes knowing we're seen is all we need

“I just want you to know, I remember these days of working and mothering tiny babies—and I see you,” said a dear friend at the C.S. Lewis Writer’s Conference last week.

I stared at her for a second…and started crying. Because as much as that conference was a dream come true, I was working hard on little sleep, and pushing a stroller at the roots of Pikes Peak is a lot different than pushing a stroller in a Louisiana park.

“I see you,” she said again that evening as she gently took the stroller from my weary hands. “Go sit down and catch your breath. I’ll take it from here.”

“Thank you,” I sighed, entrusting my 5-month-old to a far more experienced mother who, I knew, would care for her as if she were her own.

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“I see you, I see you,” murmured another dear friend to my disgruntled baby, who had just endured the supreme indignity of crying in the car with me unable to comfort her (in my defense, I had a tray of Arnold Palmers for dinner on my lap). Then, when I went to lift her out of her car seat, I bonked her head on the car door.

Cue the shrill screams of pure, unadulterated baby-rage.

“I see you,” soothed my friend once Baby Molly had quieted a bit. “And it’s going to be ooooooookay.”

Molly rubbed her eyes, and with a tiny sigh, she nuzzled her head calmly against my shoulder.

(And please let the record show that the bonk didn’t even leave a bump.)

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“I see you,” I said to a new friend whose story is so reminiscent of my own. Once upon a time, I walked in her shoes: I know what it’s like to ache for a good husband and sweet children yet have no idea when that dream may ever materialize.

And after a week of “I-see-you’s,” I know how much we need to hear them.

“I see you,” I said again, looking straight into her beautiful eyes. “And I know how it feels.”

We wrapped our arms around each other in front of Glen Eyrie Castle and stood there for a moment, listening to the mountain stream a few feet away. I knew then we were united by more than our shared grief. We are two women who are, as Amy Lee puts it in her book This Homeward Ache, “tucking our chins in against the howling wind and walking on.”

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And I see you, friend of Letters from Crickhollow. I was astonished (and delighted!) by the overwhelmingly positive response to the launch of my Substack, not to mention the flood of FIFTY new subscribers!

I’d venture to guess you’re a bit like me, hoping to cultivate beauty, grace, and honesty in your life. Maybe you’re also like me in that you’re not always sure how to cultivate those things when you’ve got a house that needs vacuuming, dishes in the sink, unfolded laundry in at least three baskets, and enough emotional baggage to keep you and your counselor busy for a while.

But that’s okay. We’re on this journey together, and to paraphrase Amy Lee this time, we are all making our way home to our liege lord. And today, perhaps knowing that we are seen, loved, and understood by Him is all we need.

Then she called the name of the Lord who spoke to her, “You are God Who Sees”; for she said, “Have I not even here [in the wilderness] remained alive after seeing Him [who sees me with understanding and compassion]?” (Genesis 16.13, AMP)