Who Do You Turn To?

A child’s panicked cries are quickly drowned out by laughter.

The sudden shooting flames frighten him and the adults around him are amused by his reaction.

I feel sorry for the kid. This is my first visit to a restaurant where food is prepared at the table, so I didn’t expected a wall of fire to erupt, either.

But at least my first experience is watching it from half a room away.

For the child, it’s happening inches from his face.

 

A few minutes later…

A family with a small boy, three or four years old, is seated at the table across from us.

As the chef wheels his cart up to the grill, the boy studies his every move.

I go into Personality Trainer mode:

Careful attention to detail, this one; likely a Melancholy/Analytic. Which means he doesn’t like surprises. And he’s very sensitive to public embarrassment.

I worry for this little lad.

• How will he react to the fire? 

• Will his parents laugh if he cries?

The chef juggles his knives, cracks eggs mid-air, and drizzles oil on the grill.  With great mystery, he tells the boy, “Watch this!”

I watch the boy.

Through the flames…

I see him do something he’s done hundreds  of times already in his young life.

It’s an instinctive movement.

So quick, I would have missed it if I hadn’t been staring so intently.

He turns to his father.

Eyes wide, eyebrows up, he looks at his father, wordlessly asking:

• Daddy, what does this mean?

• How should I feel?

• What should I do?

This father meets his child’s gaze with a warm, reassuring smile that says:

• I’m here.

• You’re safe.

• We’re in this together.

At the next burst of flame, the boy flinches only slightly, keeping his eyes fixed on the culinary show before him.

By the third explosion, he bursts out in delighted laughter.

His father joins him.

On the drive home…

Daniel and I talk about the split-second glance we witnessed between father and child.

We wonder whether the father was aware of the all he was doing in that brief moment: affirming, mentoring, bestowing a blessing.

And then, in the quiet, I wonder something more personal:

Who do I turn to in my moments of fear?

When I turn to fallible people to interpret my experience, to answer my questions:

• What does this mean?

• How should I feel?

• What should I do?

I inevitably find myself surrounded by scorn.

It’s only when I turn to my Father that I receive the reassurance I seek:

• I’m here.

• You’re safe.

• We’re in this together.

Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.