(*Originally posted November 13, 2009)
It had been a really long day.
6 am came too soon, and as usual, I was running late to the airport. Due to the extra few minutes I spent taming my hair, I was unable to stop by Sonic for my habitual Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper.
The tragedy.
The flight from Nashville to Houston was one of the bumpiest I’ve ever been on. And I fly. A lot. This year alone, it’s somewhere around 45,000 miles. No kidding.
Several people on our plane threw up and one even passed out on our descent into the stormy city of Houston.
Once in the terminal, I checked my next flight on the screens.
My 12 pm flight to Dallas was delayed until 1 pm.
Then 2 pm.
Then 3:15 pm.
4:15 pm.
Canceled.
Fortunately my phone alerted me a good fifteen minutes before they announced it so I was able to get in line early and snag a seat on the next flight out.
5 pm.
6 pm.
6:45 pm.
7 pm.
7:30 pm.
Finally.
I have never been happier to be en route somewhere.
Dallas wasn’t my final destination though. After spilling Diet Coke on a very conspicuous area of my lap, landing, collecting my soaking wet luggage, and getting my rental car, I drove to Coppell, a suburb by the airport, to meet my mom and brother for a quick bite to eat before driving to Wichita Falls.
Normally a two hour drive isn’t anything to fret over.
But I was tired.
Frazzled.
Grumpy.
And my hair, which I so purposefully wasted time on, had succumbed to the humidity and easily doubled tripled in size.
At least I was in Texas, so I fit right in. (I’m a born and bred Texan, so, I can say that, okay?)
Shortly after midnight, I pulled into my hotel and knowing I would be sleeping in the same clothes I was wearing (as my PJs were drenched from the Monsoon), I rang the buzzer to the front desk.
A middle aged woman with few teeth and a bit of a scowl checked me into my room. Honestly, she kind of spooked me a bit. Enough that for once, safely inside my room, I locked all the locks on my door.
I looked in the mirror at my road-wearied face. My Diet Coke stained jeans. I looked like I had aged ten years in what was really just a ten hour journey.
The walls are a little thin at the hotel, and outside my room I can hear the scowly lady talking to someone.
Just hearing her words, her voice made me pause. My heart sunk as I realized what a jackass I had been to judge this woman for absolutely no reason whatsoever.
I think it would be safe to assume a middle aged woman who looks like she’s lived a lot of life probably didn’t plan on making $6 an hour working the midnight shift at a small town, Texas inn. And in my hurried, cranky, spoiled interaction with her, I didn’t view her through the eyes of love.
Leaning into the mirror more to look into my eyes I prayed, “God. Help me see people the way you see them. Help me see people through the eyes of love.”
It’s so easy for me to judge. To compare, contrast, and separate the worth of humanity within my own mind, and by my own eyes. As if somehow I have the right to do that.
Yet I do it.
All the time.
I wonder what people look like through the eyes of love. I can’t say I’ve ever really set every agenda aside and simply narrowed my focus to see them that way.
Beautiful.
Worthwhile.
Broken.
Childlike.
Lovely.
And so it’s my hope this week that I can open my heart a little bit.
Open my mind.
And this week, may we all be challenged to look through the eyes of love.
