The bank was nearly empty of customers, except for another man and myself. I had just entered and stepped into line behind the other customer when the teller said she could help him at her window. He said something like, "I'll wait for the next teller. I don't want to do business with you."
I can't say why the man responded this way. The woman seemed unphased by the man's words, though, which told me she may have had dealings with him before. She called me to the window, and as she was processing my request, she glanced once toward the man, who was now with another teller. I felt the need to say something to her at that point, so at the end, I managed to say, "Don't let people's words discourage you."
She said thank you, but I left with the impression that she had a deeper need that I wasn't able to fill. It was a moment that you don't see often in public, when you see a person-- whether a stranger or someone you know-- as a human, someone with their own internal struggles and unmet needs. I had never met this woman before, but after that man's comments, I saw her differently than I would have otherwise. She was, to me, someone with hidden pain (or perhaps just anger).
This wasn't the first time this week that this had happened. In the early part of the week, I had been paying close disciplinary attention to a student of mine. Lately, he has been acting out and I have been disciplining him for it. Because of it, he's felt that I've been picking on him.
Events continued this way until Wednesday, when he called me over to see if I would check his homework. In the next few moments, as I watched the difficulty he had in putting together sentences, something in me clicked. I began to see him as more than just another student. I saw that same internal struggle, the same inward hurt, that I saw in the lady today at the bank. At that moment, he became human to me. Because of this, I tried to be nicer to him yesterday and today. I tried to pay attention to him, because I know that something in him needs that. I only hope that the next time he acts out, I am more thoughtful about how I respond.
All of this says something about how we are to interact with those around us. People are important, not because they have something to offer us, not because they are kind to us or make us laugh. People are important because they are human, because they are God's creation. If I learned anything this week amid all the business, it was that God sees us so much more clearly than we are able to see ourselves and others. If it is true that he knows even the number of hairs on our heads, there is an importance he assigns to us, an attention he pays to us that none other can give. I read this week that God will "give a memorial and a name better than sons and daughters" to those "eunuchs who keep my Sabbaths, who choose what pleases me and hold fast to my covenant" (Isaiah 56:4-5). To think that God can care for us enough to assign us this kind of importance should be life-changing. It's too bad that it sometimes takes an awareness of others' pain-- as it did with the lady at the bank, and as it did with the student in my class-- to understand that truth more clearly. Thanks for reading.
I can't say why the man responded this way. The woman seemed unphased by the man's words, though, which told me she may have had dealings with him before. She called me to the window, and as she was processing my request, she glanced once toward the man, who was now with another teller. I felt the need to say something to her at that point, so at the end, I managed to say, "Don't let people's words discourage you."
She said thank you, but I left with the impression that she had a deeper need that I wasn't able to fill. It was a moment that you don't see often in public, when you see a person-- whether a stranger or someone you know-- as a human, someone with their own internal struggles and unmet needs. I had never met this woman before, but after that man's comments, I saw her differently than I would have otherwise. She was, to me, someone with hidden pain (or perhaps just anger).
This wasn't the first time this week that this had happened. In the early part of the week, I had been paying close disciplinary attention to a student of mine. Lately, he has been acting out and I have been disciplining him for it. Because of it, he's felt that I've been picking on him.
Events continued this way until Wednesday, when he called me over to see if I would check his homework. In the next few moments, as I watched the difficulty he had in putting together sentences, something in me clicked. I began to see him as more than just another student. I saw that same internal struggle, the same inward hurt, that I saw in the lady today at the bank. At that moment, he became human to me. Because of this, I tried to be nicer to him yesterday and today. I tried to pay attention to him, because I know that something in him needs that. I only hope that the next time he acts out, I am more thoughtful about how I respond.
All of this says something about how we are to interact with those around us. People are important, not because they have something to offer us, not because they are kind to us or make us laugh. People are important because they are human, because they are God's creation. If I learned anything this week amid all the business, it was that God sees us so much more clearly than we are able to see ourselves and others. If it is true that he knows even the number of hairs on our heads, there is an importance he assigns to us, an attention he pays to us that none other can give. I read this week that God will "give a memorial and a name better than sons and daughters" to those "eunuchs who keep my Sabbaths, who choose what pleases me and hold fast to my covenant" (Isaiah 56:4-5). To think that God can care for us enough to assign us this kind of importance should be life-changing. It's too bad that it sometimes takes an awareness of others' pain-- as it did with the lady at the bank, and as it did with the student in my class-- to understand that truth more clearly. Thanks for reading.
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