In God’s Eyes
Copyright © 2013 Chris M. Hibbard All Rights Reserved
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© 2013 Chris M. Hibbard
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He was caught in traffic, wondering why the red light ahead of him was keeping him from his family, on one of the shortest days of the year. His mind was troubled. His eldest son, ever vibrant and filled with joy, had seemed so somber lately—and the burden of knowledge weighed heavily on this father. His cell phone buzzed, and his foot nearly slid off the brake as he fished it out of his pocket. It was his wife.
“I’m on my way,” he answered the phone. “Is Johnny home from school yet?”
“Yes, he is,” his wife replied. There was pain in her voice, the deep concern of a loving mother. After a brief pause, she went on. “It happened again.”
His face flushed with anger, and he found himself clenching his teeth, even holding his breath.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I love you.”
Why God? he demanded as he hung up. Why do you let this happen?
When he pulled into the driveway, he noticed the walkway to the front door had a fresh coat of snow. Time to shovel the walk again. He crunch-crunched his way inside, and stomped the snow from his shoes. He passed his two youngest children in the living room, playing video games.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hi, Daddy!”
“Hey guys. Is your homework finished?” He tousled their hair on his way through the living room.
“Yep.”
“Almost…”
He smiled. He rounded the corner into the kitchen and found his wife standing at the counter, nervously flipping through a magazine. Her body was rigid with pent-up frustration. He embraced her from behind, and craned his neck to kiss her cheek. As he did, his lips met with a salty tear. He squeezed her tight.
“Is he in his room?”
“In the bathroom,” she replied. “He won’t come out.”
He made his way down the hall, and knocked on the bathroom door.
“Occupied,” he heard Johnny’s voice on the other side of the door.”
“I’m home,” his father said tentatively. It was almost a question. Do you want to talk?
“I’m busy,” Johnny answered. His voice nearly cracked.
“Okay. Come out for dinner when you’re ready.”
He returned to the kitchen and sat down. His wife’s Bible still lay there from earlier in the day, across the table from him. Almost as an afterthought, he reached for it, and spun it around so he could read it. It was opened to Psalms 56, and he found not a few notes scribbled in the margin near verses eight and nine. One note read: Lord, hear me cry, and another, watch over our family.
Soon, the table was set, and dinner was served.
“Kids,” his wife called loudly, “it’s time to eat.”
Johnny was last to come to the table. He held a washcloth half-filled with melting ice cubes to the corner of his mouth. His cheek was red and swollen.
“It’s your favorite, Johnny,” his mother said cheerfully, “beef stew.” All day she’d looked forward to seeing his smile at dinner. She’d been praying for him from the time she started the beef stock in the morning, until she turned the stove off that evening. The house was filled with the warm aroma, but it brought no smile to Johnny.
“Why is his face still red?” his youngest sibling asked, pointing.
“Never mind,” their mother answered. “Eat your salad, honey. Don’t spill your stew.”
It was a quiet meal. Johnny’s father missed his son’s rambunctious stories from his day at school. When dinner was over, Johnny cleared the table silently, and went directly to his room.
“No games…no videos?” his father asked him. He only shook his head in response. His father followed him into his room and sat beside him on the edge of his bed. “Son, tell me what happened.”
Johnny looked about to answer, then turned away as his eyes squinted out fresh tears. He dropped his gaze to the floor.
“I tried, Dad, I really tried.”
His mind raced. Had he tried to fight back—or tried to avoid the bully altogether?
“You tried what, Son?” he asked, cautiously.
“I tried praying…but nothing happened. He still found me, and he still beat me up.” As he spoke, his expression changed from desperation to shame.
“It’s not your fault, Johnny. Bullies…just want to bully people.” He cringed even as he said it. Can’t I come up with something better than that? He sighed. “I don’t know what to say, Johnny.” He wrapped an arm around him and patted his shoulder. “Can I pray along with you?”
“Okay,” he mumbled. “You start.”
Johnny’s father slid to his knees, and placed his elbows on the bed. Johnny knelt beside him, waiting. His father searched for something comforting, but he felt only anger. With another sigh, he began.
“God, come hear us tonight. Hear our prayer and answer it.” He faltered, wanting to shield his son from the rage building inside him. Knowing he’d rather be honest than appear right, he finally blurted out, “God, protect my son!” He prayed the bully would be caught and punished. He prayed the other boys at school would also stand up to him, or if not, at least report him to the principal—something Johnny wasn’t willing to do.
When they were finished, he hugged his son tightly, and told him how proud of him he was. “There’s nothing wrong about reporting him, Johnny,” he told him yet again. His son only shook his head.
“It will only get worse, Dad.”
He told his son he wanted to talk to his principal, just to ask him to assign an aid outside to watch over the children before and after school. Again, Johnny refused. He left his son’s room feeling worse than when he’d followed him in.
Back in the kitchen, Johnny’s mother was praying also. As she heard her husband approach, she rose from the table, then leaned against his chest. He saw the Bible on the table; she’d turned to another scripture, and she’d been writing on a notepad beside it.
“It will get better, hon. I just wish you’d let me speak to the school,” she told him.
He searched for a response, but he had no words to bring her comfort.
“I feel so helpless,” he finally replied, clearly frustrated. “There’s nothing I can do.” He pulled away from her, and reached for his jacket.
“Where are you going?” his wife asked.
“For a walk.” He winced to think his anger was only going to add to his wife’s concerns. He needed some time to calm down. On his way past the table, his eye caught on the words his wife had written on the ruled lines of her notepad.
Ps 68:5-6a: Take away his anger Lord, let him see
Unwilling to be swayed by words, he stormed out the back door. Unwittingly, he’d stepped right into a snow drift.
Oh, great, he thought as he stomped through a fresh foot of snow, heading for the driveway. It had cooled considerably since he’d returned home. As the snow pushed up his pant legs, he could
feel it clinging in clumps to his socks. He reached the street and started walking aimlessly. It was so silent, every noise trapped by the fresh blanket of snow. It was a clear night, and he could see the constellations overhead. The air had the smell of a cold winter night. His steps crunched on the snow left on the road after it had been plowed.
He pulled a wool cap from the pocket of his jacket and pulled it over his head. It’s supposed to get down to zero tonight, he remembered. He reached into the other pockets of his thick jacket to pull out his gloves. His hand found something else, something he’d all but forgotten. Earlier that day, when he went to pay his bill at the cafe where he’d eaten lunch, he found a small rack of MP3 players beside the cash register. He’d waved his hand questioningly toward them, and the cashier smiled.
“Stocking stuffers—only ten bucks.”
Why not? he’d thought. He knew it was just the thing to cheer Johnny up. In all his anger, he’d forgotten it was there. He relaxed, only slightly. He knew he only wanted to argue, to dump all his frustrations on someone, and he was wise enough to get away from his wife before he started an argument with her. That’s all she needs right now.
Well, God, you’re getting one of David’s prayers tonight, he thought silently, and he began to dump all his problems on God. He prayed all the things he’d wanted to say while he was kneeling in his son’s room.
Do something about that little bully, Lord. Get him suspended—better yet, get him expelled. Make his family move, make him sick, I don’t