Look

I recently became the proud owner of a super-cute, cherry red, simple-but-durable kayak.

The Yak now travels atop my intrepid Jeep Liberty, always ready to explore with me the delights of Northeast Michigan’s inland lakes and streams.

Buggy somethings skitter across the surface and frogs rustle the reeds as I slide into the water.

A beaver industriously ignores me while a sunbathing turtle, at my approach, toddles to the water’s edge, sticks his head underwater, and hopes I won’t notice him.

A startled swan lifts giant wings, then runs -- runs! -- across the water and launches, honking like a Model T Ford.

Another swan -- no, wait, a white heron -- poses like art, its long neck stretched to the sky.

A deer, chest-deep in water, placidly chews a lily pad.

Below the surface, however, lurk dark, terrifying unknowns.

A disclaimer, here: To my knowledge, the various bodies of water in and around Alpena contain no actual submerged creepiness.

Here’s the thing, though -- while I love paddling around on top of it, the underwater part of water freaks me right out. Even as a kid, I had to move the bubbles aside to make sure nothing but dishes hung out at the bottom of a sinkful of dishwater.

From the safety of my kayak, I can tolerate the occasional fish backing shyly into a forest of lake plants, and, if I think reassuring thoughts, I can ignore the strings of bubbles marking the presence of unseen creatures moving in the darkness below.

Sometimes, though, I have no choice but to paddle over a submerged tree trunk or branch, looming through the green of the water.

Egad. Horrifying.

Stomach in knots, heart pounding, I whisper, “Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look” as I flutter past the log in a near-panic, eyes desperately averted.

(Yes, I know. It’s ridiculous. Hey, we all have our weirdnesses.)

When I encounter something frightening, I look the other direction and furiously pretend the scary thing doesn’t exist -- even when I’m not in a kayak.

The daunting task. The bill I don’t know how to pay. The sentence I don’t want to speak. I fear them, so I avert my eyes and act like they’re not there.

I suspect most of us have gotten pretty good at not seeing that which makes us uncomfortable.

The unkempt woman muttering to herself in the store aisle.

The young man with a tentative swagger as he walks a downtown sidewalk alone.

The coworker with sparkling laugh and sassy comeback and eyes full of sadness.

The curly-headed boy following his father up the steps of the homeless shelter.

We don’t know how to help, and we have troubles enough of our own, so we pass by with a silent, “Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.”

Yet, we, ourselves, imperfect and muddled, are seen with loving eyes by a Savior who sought out the low and the despised and the wretched, the sick and the sordid, the lonely and the desperate, and told them they mattered.

None of us are overlooked by the One who did not look away from the looming tree in His path but strode to the cross to make the least of us His brothers and sisters.

Despite my weirdness and foolishness and insignificance, my Maker sees me, wants me, rushes to tell me He loves me, and offers to stay by my side as I walk through whatever each day brings.

I don’t want to see the things I ought to be doing better, the wrongs against which I ought to take a stand, the people to whom I ought to be showing love.

I don’t want to look at the problems in my world that frighten me.

But they’re there, whether I turn my eyes to them or not.

Good Lord, make me see as you see. Help me love. Help me reach. Help me do what’s right.

Give me the courage to look.

First published in The Alpena News on September 11, 2021.