Open My Eyes

Steve’s Shiny Thing, https://bellacoola.ca/

It has been our custom to take our grandchildren to Foundry Church Family Camp in August the last several years. My husband, Steve, and I have always camped in tents resisting the bourgeoisie recreation trailers with cushy chairs and beds. The grandkids were invited to join us as soon as they were potty trained. We all look forward to the two-night outing at the end of summer. Honestly, the only thing Family Camp has to do with “camping” is sleeping in tents.

Last summer it was early enough in the morning of the second day, and Hawley, our six-year-old grandson, sat in the tent with Peri, his nine-year-old sister, waiting for her to open her eyes. How long can a little boy sit and pass the time when he has something on his mind? Not long it turns out. He resorted to solving the dilemma of his sleeping sister by accelerating her awake-ness. He pried her eyes open with his little fingers. This, after his attempts, no doubt, at whispering her name with increasing volume “pewi…, Pewri…, PERI!”  Needless to say, Peri was less than pleased with her brother, but she was indeed awake.

There is a song by Michael W. Smith that says, “Open the eyes of my heart, Lord. Open the eyes of my heart. I want to see you. I want to see you.” I am fairly committed to not doing for others what they can do for themselves and find it awkward to ask God to open the eyes of my heart, but I resonate with the plea of the song.

I had the vision of God prying my eyes open to see what He has given me. It felt urgent and immediate that I see this thing. In particular, it is to see the gift of Steve, my husband, that God has given me. “Don’t miss this,” God says to me like I had awakened from a life coma of routine.  

I get accustomed to what is all around me like a goldfish swimming around a bowl. The fish goes round and round seeing the same things: fingerprints on the bowl, plastic plant, glass decor, sand-colored gravel, fingerprints, plant, decor, gravel, fingerprints, plant, decor, gravel. Occasionally. food flakes float down from the top of the bowl. Gobble, gobble. Fingerprints, plant, decor, gravel.

My world is larger than the fishbowl, but the routine can be similarly mundane. Steve is mostly in my view as I go about my day doing the things I do. Like the goldfish swimming around and around, I see him again and again throughout the day. But do I really see him? Am I looking at him with engagement or just familiarity?

Over the years people have joked about the effort it must take to be with Steve. He’s a real package that’s for sure – coming up in a rather spontaneous fashion with untruths and exaggerations that are quite funny. Never does he hurt people in that sarcastic manner that always has a grain of truth. His humor does not leverage a defect or weakness of somebody present just to get a laugh.

People who have known him long enough are aware that Steve is a surprisingly balanced fellow. In addition to being an eruption of impromptu comedy, he is serious, caring, sincere, kind, and somewhat scholarly. He can listen well and be compassionate. In his working career he was respectably successful, and he still manages to earn his keep.

Let’s not get carried away here. The man is like a snapping turtle when he finds something he is interested in. Bella Coola in British Columbia has arrested his attention, and we have all heard plenty about it. We’ve seen the tourist video on his phone, heard about the steep 30-mile-long single-track dirt road that leads to the must-see fishing village and have been educated about the abundant yet elusive “spirit bears” present in the area. What has kept us away from this place, we wonder?

Steve found Bella Coola, the present shiny thing in the theater of his mind, while building a camping adventure to Alaska for my 60th birthday. It all began with the mustard seed of an idea and evolved with the aid of a Milepost book on Alaska, a Lance Camper, Toyota Tundra truck to carry it and a map of British Columbia to get to Alaska from Oregon. Bella Coola is a pit stop 1,010 miles from Bend, Oregon, and a convenient byway on the 2,500-mile trip up north.

Maybe it will be my 63rd birthday, or it could even be my 64th, but I am confident we will get to both Bella Coola and lots of places in Alaska now that COVID19 is behind us and wide-open borders are ahead.

Here is my point: It is easy to brush the enthusiasm and familiarity of my long-term marriage partner off in a been-there-seen-that attitude and act as if he has been there for years and years and he will continue to be there into eternity. Yet I know that is not the case. Anything can happen at any time. Blink and it could all change.

I am always looking, but do I see? Do I see the gifts God has given me and engage with them in such a manner that reflects my gratitude? I have been listening to Steve’s enthusiastic reports since 1978. He is a pretty wonderful man, and I want to stay wide awake and fully present with him. What a gift he has been to me.

Family Camp in August will be different this year. Hawley will be seven years old, and that adorable way his “r’s” rolled out as “w” is gone. Their economies of size have changed, and Hawley is gaining in weight and height on his bigger sister. Peri turns ten in May, and if I believe the rumors about how she expects her life to change in double digits, Hawley will be lucky to even dwell in the same universe as her, let alone the same tent.

One thing is certain. I am grateful here and now and I am so thankful that God opened the eyes of my heart.