Above the Mask

I was reaching for a jar of salsa in Aisle 3 when the little girl rounded the corner, singing softly to herself.

The child glanced my way, and I gave her a smile.

The little song faltered.

Eyes on my face, the girl edged past me and my salsa. The song was struck up again, with a whistle-in-a-dark-alley nonchalance, as she examined the soups, one over-the-shoulder glance flung worriedly in my direction.

Dang, I thought. It happened again.

In recent weeks, I’ve joined the ranks of people wearing masks indoors. Signs in store windows have taken the decision out of my hands -- which I appreciate -- and encouraged me to slap on some facewear before entering.

It’s a fascinating phenomenon, this walking about a public space, every face half-sheathed. Wrapped in dainty florals, practical white, or cowboy bandana-blue, faces become half-faces, top halves left to do the job of being human while mouths and noses hide for safekeeping.

With only the upper 50% of my face to work with, communicating with strangers has turned into a whole new art form.

Smiling, for example. It ain’t what it used to be.

When I smile, my eyes get weird. They squinch up into vaguely menacing slits, while the bridge of my nose wrinkles like a shar-pei. Taken by itself, the top half of my face registers all the friendliness of the Grinch, rightly alarming small children in grocery stores.

Don’t get me wrong -- I’m seriously stylin’ in my mask, the Hulk flanking one cheek and Captain America on the other. Masks are the bomb. Masks protect lives.

But, this demure hiding of our breathing apparatuses changes everything when you’re face-to-six-feet-away-face with a stranger.

When half of you is covered up, you have to learn to smile with your eyes.

As I paced the aisles in search of ketchup, peripheral vision skewed by the fabric that kept sucking up against my nose every time I inhaled, I practiced letting my eyes say what the rest of my face couldn’t.

Passing other masked shoppers, as they glanced at their shopping lists or looked worriedly for a bag of flour, all of us muted by the cloths over our mouths, I tried to unsquinch and ungrinch and silently, eyes-only, speak to those strangers words of kindness, warmth, and solidarity.

Some of them looked back, spoke back equally silent, equally heartfelt sentiments of, yes, we’re all in this together.

Others kept walking, heads down, eyes on their lists.

Trapped inside the wrapping around my face, stifled breath matching the omnipresent, ill-defined anxiety hovering over my own shoulders, I tried to let my fellow aisle-travelers see, whether they were looking back or not, that I wasn’t a creepy grinch-woman.

And I wasn’t another nameless stranger who didn’t care.

And they weren’t alone.

Heads down, eyes on our lists, it’s easy to be swallowed in ourselves, lives limited to the now and to our own fears, our own stories of what if and maybe and oh dear.

And, if there’s ever a time when deep delves into ourselves are justified, it’s now.

Everyone is reeling.

Every story is riddled with shrapnel.

The little sing-song girls, the ketchup-hunters, the cashiers with tired eyes and the worried-looking man in the parking lot -- all the stories around us are full of angst. 

But, in the middle of it, so many of the mask-bound masses are smiling with their eyes.

Depositing gifts on doorsteps. Hanging hearts in windows. Sending social media sunshine. Leading virtual classrooms. Hunching behind sewing machines.

Looking up from their own masks, brave-hearted people are radiating compassion and hope in the midst of a time when normalcy is as hidden as our noses.

****

I can’t help thinking of a certain man.

A man, on His way to certain death, to flogging and humiliation, to betrayal and scorn and pain.

A man with the weight of the souls of all mankind on His shoulders.

A man who knew angst.

A man who, on his heavily weighted 33-year walk, looked with eyes that smiled on fathers and mothers and children, teachers, lepers, fishermen and prostitutes.

A man who, suffocating on a cross, gazed with hazed eyes at the people who put Him there and -- even at His darkest time -- saw their need, their hurt, their confusion.

Looking up and out with love flooding your eyes when you are frightened-anxious-sad-overwhelmed -- it’s not safe. It’s not the expected. It’s not what’s easy.

But it’s what my Jesus did. And it’s what beautiful, courageous, love-driven people all around me are doing every day.

****

Lord, Lord, my heart cries out.

I’m breaking.

This is so hard.

In the midst of it, Lord, in the midst of even this, lift my eyes.

Let me see them.

Let me love them.

Let me smile with my eyes.

First published in The Alpena News on May 9, 2020.