God has a Hundred Eyes, Mom

That's what my 8-year old said from the backseat of the car at our nearby gas station.

We're not a religious family. We used to be, or I used to be. I would drag my husband and child around to various churches, in the hope of raising our son certified in the entrenchment of some salvific belief. My husband endured my insistence for three years, and I still don't know why. He shrugged his way through bible studies while I prayed over every sniffle and cough that emerged in our asthmatic son. In the throes of a deep post-partum depression that gradually morphed into bipolar disorder, I was desperate for something bigger than ourselves to carry us through some of the worst days of our lives. The disappointment in that was that we were never carried. There was no over-arching joy that was promised by the True Believers. There was no promised development of purpose. We were dragged through hard years with no sense of direction, and until I lucked out in finding the proper care of my mental instability, we simply hoped for better times. Thank Science for pharmaceuticals.

"God has a hundred eyes, Mom." I had just tried to give a destitute man one of my son's snack bars, with my son's permission. My son loves to feed the homeless, despite his own disdain for food ("I'm a drinking kind of person."  -- So am I, son, just in a different way.). "He didn't want it," I said. "He has no teeth. I feel sad that we have nothing else to give him." "It's okay," he answered. "God has a hundred, eyes, Mom." I pushed my key back into the car's ignition, and we pulled out onto the road that would lead us to another much-anticipated playdate. The Red Hot Chili Peppers were being played on the radio. "Turn it UP," I heard from the backseat. The conversation was over. As with so many other things, my son's focus had moved on. However, mine had not.

Several years ago, when we parted from The Church, it was an inevitable withdrawal that resulted from a tragic testimony performed by one of the congregants. Her nephew had been severely beaten, and killed, by the father's girlfriend. The members of the church celebrated -- how fantastic would it be if the father came to salvation through this gift of hardship! My stomach churned. Maybe I wasn't mature enough in my faith, although I had spent years training to be a missionary before marriage and family became my life. Maybe my new medication was obscuring my view of His Mysterious Ways. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to rage against this spiritual machine. Instead, I simply walked away. My husband was relieved that the religious chapter was over. I was relieved to finally let go of my empty, forceful-against-all-sensibilities hope. Our focus had moved on.

It's my son's belief that baffles me, bemuses me, makes me think deep thoughts. He is like the priest in The Spirit of St. Louis, who responds to Lindbergh's question posed in Jimmy Stewarts' patented amicable voice - Would God save you if your airplane failed? "I don't know. But he would know that I was falling." That's all my son seems to want from an unseen God. A witness. To him, that's enough. There are no demands from either party. There are no expectations, no contracts, no false hopes, and no threats. Just being seen is enough. In these last few years, I have moved on to living a pragmatic life filled with if-then statements. It makes sense to me. It satisfies me. But then, there is a hungry man out there who has no home. And no teeth. There is no "if I give him a snack bar, then he will be a little less hungry" cause and effect that can take place here. But, to my son, this man, his life, his falling, is seen. I don't know why that matters, but it does.