Seek My face, You wrote me.
My heart says, Your face, Lord, do I seek–
but I’m really not sure how to.
I can’t visualize faces, even one I’ve just seen
on our waitress or a bank clerk.
Even my husband’s, when he’s out of the room.
Others can do that;
Your face, Lord, do I seek.
(I have been seeking.)
But I’m really not sure why.
I expect You want me to see Your kind eyes
penetrating mine, beaming into mine Your compassion.
It’s kind of You to offer, Lord, but I’m not sure it matters.
I don’t need to see Your face.
I know You love me.
Your face, Lord, do I seek–
kind of—only because You command me to.
Not with expectation.
Spill that tender gaze on someone else.
Don’t waste Your time on me.
They’re hurting more. They matter more.
It’s all right.
Turn away, Lord. Hurry to them. They need You now!
I can wait.
I am not seeking Your face, not consciously.
I’m reading a book or on the computer
or lying in bed.
I am seeing something, a piece of something,
in my imagination. What is it?
The upper right corner of a picture.
Part of a face. One eye.
The left eye of a man.
He is not looking at me but straight ahead
at something above us to my left.
An eyebrow, part of a cheekbone,
a suggestion of jaw, a round of shoulder.
A man dark with sun and sweat.
In that one eye, such agony.
And something else: a pleading for an end.
Even without seeing where the taut tendons lead,
This is You, isn’t it?
Your face. Part of Your face.
Not the part, the frontal view, I expected.
looking across my view,
You let me see Your love for me.
Not shiny feeling but birth-giving death.
Not Your love toward me but Your love on my behalf.
As evidence of that love drips into those eyes,
running from Your nose and chin,
You take on my enemy, no holds barred–
with Your hands tied.
You rip open the lion’s mouth,
wresting me from his jaws
and out from under his claws.
Bringing me home.
You show me all the love I can bear.
Enough to last and cherish for a lifetime.