If Eyes Are Windows to the Soul, Then Why Are Our Blinds Closed?

I’m blessed to live in a beautiful area that I often refer to as “God’s Country.”

Geographically, our region has it all: meandering hillsides, sparkling lakes, ever-changing seasons, and a diversified culture. For the most part, we have a laid-back approach to life, and rarely, do we meet a stranger. The cost of living is low in comparison to other areas. We value faith, family, and freedom.

With beauty also comes compromise.

We’re also smack dab in the middle of Tornado Alley. The humidity during the summer months is oppressive. One day we might leave wearing short sleeves. The next morning, we’re donning our parkas. Occasionally, (sadly), crime comes calling. We have myriad places of worship, though some choose not to attend. Life in the Ozarks is good, though not perfect.

And while we’re homebodies to a degree, we also enjoy visiting one of our favorite spots along the Gulf Coast when we vacation. It’s a quieter, less touristy spot than most where fishing’s great, the locals are friendly, and time seems to stand still. Transitioning to the salty sea air is easy, as is our daily view of endless sand and surf. (Please forgive that pesky alliteration.) It’s a “somewhere over the rainbow” kind of place where we can temporarily shelve stress and worry, and totally regroup.

One particular summer while there, we decided to venture into a city we’d always wanted to visit. We were excited for many reasons. (Think history, jazz, cathedrals, horse-drawn carriages, pralines, and Cajun cooking.) Think before. Before the devastation and rampant violence following Hurricane Katrina.

During our visit, we chose to leave our vehicles in a secure parking lot attended by a security guard.

The day was stifling hot, combined with high humidity, making us miserable only moments after leaving the comfort of air conditioning. We’d brought waters, of course, but when it’s that hot, all the water in our well back home couldn’t have quenched our thirst entirely. A sip of water, a bottle, or a bathtub–it wouldn’t have mattered. It was still mind-blowing, brow-dripping, shirt dampening hot.  

As our extended family headed down the narrow alley beyond the riverfront, we came upon a few scattered vagrants napping in the street. Despite the heat, one elderly man was covered with a newspaper, an empty, brown bottle still clutched in his frail hand.

“Mommy, why are those people sleeping here?” our young son asked, his bright blue eyes wide with childlike innocence. “And how come that man has a water bottle and the others don’t? Do you think maybe he already shared what was in his?”

I leaned down as we maneuvered past the homeless souls and told our little boy, “Honey, it’s sad, but these men are homeless. This is where they live because they have nowhere else to go…”

Discretely, I avoided the “water bottle” observation.

I saw wheels turn as our youngster absorbed my explanation.

“Well…” our son said with a sigh, “Why doesn’t somebody help them?”  Extending his small arms outward, palms facing up,  he continued, “Why can’t we help them?”

“Sugar, I think, perhaps, people have tried to help those gentlemen. Sometimes, unless folks really want to be helped, they just return to the life they’ve always known. They have to want to change.”

“Hmmm. But we still don’t know for sure if somebody’s tried to help them, Mommy,” our little one pressed.

I patted our son’s head, tipping the water bottle toward him, encouraging him to drink. His attention would not be diverted. He shook his head no, glancing upward, and pointed at the lovely, flower-boxed windows above.

“How will anybody see them if their blinds are closed? They’ll never even know the men are there!”

I hadn’t even realized that our little boy knew the word “blinds.”

That hot July day has long since passed, but a three-year-old’s impression remains as strong today as it was then.

I’m not particularly a philosophical person, but I do believe that God imparts deep truths through way of babe’s mouths. As Christians, we’re called into a higher service. We’re asked to do the uncomfortable, to move past the shiny trappings of cultural dictates, to extend ourselves. 

Apathy, however we paint it, whatever lovely term we use to disguise it, will always remain the same–ugly.

And even if we choose to close our blinds, does that really make the word–the choice–more palatable?

It may. Until we’re the ones on the receiving end.

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Can you think of a time during which God asked more of you than what you thought you could give?

How do we differentiate between “helping” and “enabling”?

Blessings Always,