eyes to see

I am sitting here thinking of what to write for my next blog post. It has been a while since I have written and a certain part of me thinks I am obligated to produce something new. At the the same time, I know I like to write. I have been gifted in words to the point where I find it therapeutic. When I determine for myself that I must put something on paper, I begin to distrust the exercise. I know I do not need another avenue for ego-boost. I could certainly look back on the last few years of my own public writing and combat my former way of thinking. But, then again, I know how I have changed and do not think I need to continually reprove myself in front of others...internal blog wars, if you will. So, I continue to sit here and wonder what to write.

A man was just sitting outside this coffee shop with a copy of a magazine meant to help the homeless of this city. He has kind eyes, though one is lazy to the left. I have seen him a couple of times at the same corner, selling the same magazine. He sports a wrinkly, maroon oxford with black slacks and a cubs ballcap. Chicago tells us not to buy from unlicensed vendors. If I was in charge of those permits I would certainly present one to this rogue peddler. I find his demeanor quite respectful and I have been glad to see a number of passerbys respectfully refuse his offer, looking him right into the lazy eye. Though sales may be low, the interactions have been humanizing on both ends.

A younger man walked by earlier when I was writing about the vendor wearing a t-shirt with the logo of the nearby sex-store written in red across the chest. He looked unsure of himself as he walked down the street, eyes darting from ground to a few feet in front of his stride. I wonder how he got that job? I judge that place and the subsequent solicitors that frequent it every time I go by. But this guy actually works there. That is a whole new level. He sells sex. I find his lifestyle less than worthy of my respect. I think I lumped his humanity in there too.

And here I sit, typing away on a little white computer with a fancy piece of fruit that lights up on the opposite side of the screen. What do people see in my eyes as I glance up to see them stride past? Who is deeming me worthy of their respect? Who is deeming me worthy of their judgment? How much is assumed of my own person in the second or two that I am seen through the glass? I do not like the liberty that I take on piecing together the lives of strangers. I need to be careful of the conclusions I make as well as the prayers I compose of people I do not know.

I am presented with the liberty to love everyone. Beyond that, I am obligated to speak, listen, and understand before I determine. And, I am not sure how much determining I am to do in this life anyway. I will leave that mystery up to Jesus. I must be grateful for my own story, ask for the boldness to share the maker of that story, and trust that I will be given the eyes to see how much He cares for the stories of all others.