The memory of little boy voices calling us to watch them, “watch me mom,” watch me dad.” I can hear my mother’s voice saying “watch them, take the time to watch them, you only have this moment.” They were not the voices of arrogant, spoiled children, they were the voices of well-loved, confident children, they knew we would watch them. Sometimes we failed to take that time, but I know in my heart we “watched” more than we didn’t.
I had a neighbor tell me that I would never get anything to grow in our front gardens now that our trees were gone, just too sunny, just too hot. I smiled and silently said “watch me.” There is something about hearing the words “never, can’t, impossible,” that bring out “watch me.”
I have learned over the years to not tell a Norseman something cannot be done, they are men of few words, but the head tilts, the eyebrow raises, and then they precede to do whatever they were told was not achievable. They aren’t ones to crow about it, they just move on to the next immovable object.
“Watch me” makes me think of an older Justin being told by a teacher that he would not succeed in college, “watch me,” being told by us that he just had surgery and couldn’t live at the bottom of the hill at Franciscan still in a walking boot and crutches, “watch me,” not arrogant, but a quiet strength. We finally just learned to watch him and enjoy the ride.
I think a lot about what image of God we imprinted on our sons, how much bad programming they will have to undo.
I think about what image of God we imprinted on our sons, how much bad programming they will have to undo. I remember after my father died my mom saying that God had answered all her prayers for the house they had just bought two months before his death, she had dreamed of a family room with a bay window, but she said I forgot to add your father, I forgot to include him. In her grief, I can recognize that she was trying to figure out what had just happened. I know that she prayed for my father’s health, but at thirteen that made an incredible impression on me. I would get tied up in knots about praying about anything because what if I did it wrong. What if I forgot an important detail? From that single grief driven remark from a beautiful, loving woman, I extrapolated my base formation for prayer. I thought it best to not pray at all because the vision I had of God was one of waiting, waiting for you to leave something or someone out, waiting for you to do it wrong so that he could exact retribution. Don’t snort or scoff, the image of an angry Almighty is a popular one, often used to procure “good” behavior and instill fear.
I think back to the night of Justin’s death. I always prayed for the boys at night. When that officer came to our door that next day, I did ask myself, did you forget to pray for him, is this your fault, was the angry, vengeful God just waiting for the night when you let your guard down to take your child? Did I do it wrong, in my ignorance did I ask the wrong things, pray the wrong prayer, did I fall asleep before I got to the part where it counts?
For almost three years God has been silent, not just silent, absent.
For almost three years God has been silent, absent. Dark, so dark. I realize now that all my childish misconceptions of God had to die, if I was allowed to feel Him, then I would have not let go. In complete abandonment of darkness, there was a stillness that allowed me to think. In the dark He reveals His true heart in a single word, Mercy. In any and all situations, simply pray for His Mercy, His Mercy cannot be outdone. What parent can resist a child’s plea for mercy, we are overcome with tenderness and reach out to stroke the child’s cheek, our hearts melt.
There is a song by Don Harris, “With All Faith”, one line in particular plays over and over in my head, “press into the heart 
of the Father.” That is an image of invitation, of open arms, of a child resting its forehead on a parent’s chest to hear their heartbeat. Childish? No. Childlike, yes. Sign of a mature faith, absolutely, for we finally see ourselves for who we are, beloved children of God. A God who we can say “watch me,” and we are watched with delight and joy. He watches with eyes of mercy, he waits for us to tell Him all about our day, to spill into His lap all the pieces that are simply too big for us, and have Him sort through the collection from our pockets, lint, string, tissues, buttons, nothing is too big, nothing is too small.
In that state of conscious watchfulness, we become aware of the Other, the presence of One who watches with us and over us.
Dad didn’t die because mom didn’t pray right, dad died because his heart was too weary and diseased to beat any longer, our bodies wear out. Justin didn’t die because I didn’t pray right, Justin died because we live in a world where accidents happen. They died because we all will die one day, our time is finite. With that in mind, there is a great gift we can give each other, the gift of watch keeping, to watch the cat bird as it sits on top of the tallest pine and sings its heart out, to watch our children grow, to watch as waves chase the little sandpipers along the shore. In that state of conscious watchfulness, we become aware of the Other, the presence of One who watches with us and over us.
“His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me”
