Until We See Faces

by Donna Poole

Just because I live on a dirt road in the countryside doesn’t mean I’m not guilty of living an interstate life too often. When we’re flying down an interstate, we don’t see faces. Even the angry face of the man shaking his fist at us when he flies by blurs. But on a dirt road most of us—I’ll leave a few people unnamed to protect the guilty—drive slowly to save our cars,  bunnies, and kittens and to be able to move over for someone coming the other way. We smile and wave at neighbors. We see faces. Road rage is hard to express when you know you’re going to see those same faces again the next day when you’re not temporarily insane because of anger.

Do you, like me, think part of the problem in our world today is we don’t see faces? We see groups. It’s easy for some people to feel furious with groups; then the name calling starts, and anger quickly escalates into hatred and sometimes even into murder.

Perhaps those who overreact wouldn’t if they just looked at faces. When we really look at a face, we see into a soul, and we feel the positive emotions God has given us. We smile; we share a laugh or a tear. We feel compassion.

We felt so much compassion Friday. I went for my first chemo treatment. John and I sat in the waiting room in the large Rogel Cancer Center at the University of Michigan Hospital; we didn’t stare, but we glanced at faces.

We saw a “Marilla” from Anne of Green Gables, only this Marilla was short, chunky, and adorable. She wore a gigantic garden hat to cover her baldness, marched with purpose to a wing back chair, curled up and promptly took a nap.

Two young women came in together. It was easy to tell the patient. She had a large black patch over her eye. They were both nervous.

A smiling mom pushed her teenage daughter in a wheelchair. The two chatted cheerfully. When they took the daughter back for treatment the mom bent over, kissed her daughter’s head, and just for a second, the agony showed on her face. It said, “I wish I could do this for you.”

Oh, how we prayed for her.

We smiled a connection with the young couple across from us. He was the patient; she had to tell him twice how to find the bathroom. When they called him to go back for his chemo, he forgot his computer and another bag.

She looked at me, sighed, and rolled her eyes. I grinned. I almost told her they were the reverse of John and me. I’m the one who always gets lost and forgets my things. She called his name when he forgot his bag, but he kept going.

“I don’t think he heard you.”

She yelled his name with a mixture of love and frustration.

He meandered back. “You forgot your stuff!”

He smiled pleasantly and distractedly. “Oh, I guess I did.”

She again rolled her eyes at me, grinned, and opened a book. It’s a long day for family waiting; because of COVID they aren’t allowed back in the treatment rooms with loved ones.

“Lord,” I prayed, “please give them many more years together.”

Many others came in, most wearing scarves or hats, some just going au naturel bald. There were a few newbies like me who still had hair.

And then the room stilled. A couple came in; He was helping her walk. She reminded me so much of my sister Eve who died of cancer. She was taller than Eve, but like Eve, maintained that sense of dignity and style until the end. She was probably five feet nine inches and weighed perhaps eighty pounds. She wore a long flowing skirt and a beautiful blouse, but the lovely outfit couldn’t hide the fact that she had little left to fight with. He sat her gently in the chair; she had no strength to lower herself. He propped her up until she was sitting straight and adjusted her blouse for her.

I saw their faces, the way they looked at each other, the love and loss in their eyes, and I prayed for them.

Then I noticed the young woman with the eye patch. She was staring at the frail woman. All hope left her own face. She shook her head repeatedly and dropped her face to her knees, still shaking her head. I wanted to go to her and say, “Oh honey. It doesn’t mean we will all end up that way. Don’t lose hope. Do you know the Lord? Can I pray with you?”

I couldn’t do that; the emaciated woman would have heard me, and the COVID social distancing rules were firmly in place, but John and I sat where we were and silently prayed for her. My heart was full of tears.

Finally, it was my turn to kiss John goodbye, and the Lord and I went back for my treatment. My nurses were so kind, but one was especially tired.

“You have a hard job,” I said when she glanced my way.

“Yes.” She adjusted a bag on my IV pole. “I love it, but it’s very sad.”

“Oh, hey, I forgot to introduce you to someone else in the room with me.”

She looked alarmed. Was she dealing with one from the psych ward?

I tapped my chest. “I have lots of lymphoma masses, but my biggest is right here in my lungs. Meet Morticia. I named her that because she is going to die.”

She laughed. “Morticia!” She laughed again. She looked a bit less tired.

I couldn’t live an interstate life in the fast lane Friday; God kept me in that cancer center for twelve-and-one-half very slow-moving hours.

Do you think we wondered about anyone’s politics Friday? We did not. There were many races; all were suffering, and all lives mattered. We cared about all as people. As people! That’s how life used to be, remember?

That cancer center where we saw faces reminds us that life hangs in the balance for everyone. We don’t have forever to be kind and to remember what really matters. If we could all just slow down, stop shouting rhetoric, and look at faces; if we could see hurts and feel compassion; if we could make a tired someone smile; if we could offer a prayer for everyone we meet—that would be life at its best on the backroads. And maybe I’m just a simplistic country grandma, but I think it could change the world.

If you haven’t already, find the face of God first. Because in His eyes, we all have faces.