The God Who Sees - Chapter 2

Her voice was soft but also...weathered is the only way I could describe it.

“Oh, I don’t know if I can answer that.  I don’t...I’m not really sure what you’re asking.  Do you want to know what my favorite is?”

A muffled reply.

“That doesn’t really...I’m sorry, that doesn’t make much sense to me.  I would say that my favorite is yellow.  Not a pale yellow, mind you.  More like a buttercup.”

The interviewer must have repeated the question because she gave a little laugh and said, “Your question still doesn’t make sense.  Do you think you could ask me another one?”

More muffled talking.

“That one is easy.  And it makes sense.”  She laughed again.  Actually, it was more of an infectious giggle through what sounded like closed lips.  “Mr. Charles Ingalls from the Little House on the Prairie books.  Are you familiar with those?”

A short pause while the interviewer responded.

“Lovely, lovely books, aren’t they?  Yes, well, I suppose because he was a simple man who had strong values and loved his family.  Above everything else he loved his family and took care of them.  There’s much to be said for a man like that.”  Something in her voice made me wonder what she wasn’t saying.  “As for what I would say, well, I’m not too sure.  Probably not much at all.”

The silence was profound.  I thought maybe the interview was finished until I heard more muffled talking.

“Why yes, although I don’t know if you’d consider it a quote.”  She sounded greatly relieved to be moving on to a different topic.  “ ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.  My help cometh from the LORD, which made heaven and earth.’ ”  That’s Psalm one-hundred and twenty-one, verses one and two, in case you aren’t familiar with it.”  Her tone wasn’t condescending, she genuinely sounded like she was trying to be as helpful as possible.

She paused before saying, “I’ve seen an awful lot in my lifetime.  It might be difficult for you to believe, being young as you are, but this world has changed enormously, so much even in the last few decades, and it has always helped me to know that no matter how...unbalanced things get, the Lord is watching over me.  At times, that was all the comfort I had.”

Another pause.

“No, I’m sorry.  I really don’t think I would care to.”  Her voice was apologetic but firm.

I heard the muffled voice again.

“Well, again, I can tell you my favorite.

I come to the garden alone,

While the dew is still on the roses,

And the voice I hear, falling on my ear,

The Son of God discloses.

She paused and then I could hear a faint humming.  When she continued, she was singing softly:

And He walks with me and He talks with me,

And He tells me I am His own;

And the joy we share as we tarry there,

None other has ever known.

I could imagine her smiling as her voice tapered off.

“You don’t know that one?  Mmm.  I guess it is a little old.  Like me.”  She gave that closed-mouth quiet chuckle again.  “Sometimes I close my eyes and I imagine myself in just such a place.  A beautiful garden full of daisies, yellow ones, of course.  And we’re there, together.”  She hesitated.  “I—I know we’re not supposed to make images of Him, not even in our heads, but I like to think He had a kind face.  And a gentle voice.”

There was a significant moment of quietness.  Then I heard a ruffling sound like papers being shuffled and more muffled talking.

“I’m—excuse me?” she asked in a surprised voice.  “My, you do come up with unusual questions.  Could you please repeat that?”

The interviewer obliged.

“Well.  I might have to think about that one for a minute.  Do I — do you have the time?”

Something was said and the silence stretched on for what seemed like several minutes.  I was surprised that whoever put these interviews together hadn’t edited out the silence.  Finally, the woman spoke again.

“It would probably be a sequoia tree.  Or are they called redwoods?  Is there a difference?  I’m not sure.  Do you know?”  A muffled answer.  “Oh, well, neither do I.  One of those huge trees, you know, with the massive, solid trunks.  I supposed that’s the main reason I thought of them.  Solid.  It’s...the best way I can describe her.”

There was a world of unspoken emotion in that slight pause.

“Hmmm?  Oh, my mother.  She was a strong woman.  Very strong.  One would have to be to raise eleven children.”  A question was asked.  “No, all of them boys.  Except me.”

Two words.  I sensed that she had summed up her entire life in two words and my heart broke into a million pieces.

The woman cleared her throat and asked, “Do you have any more questions?”

Another muffled response.

“Yes.  I see.  So.  How would I describe it?  Like...oh, like sunshine after a heavy rain.  She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.  I was like my mother, you know.  W—well, I mean, I had six boys and then, my daughter.”  I could hear the smile in her voice and I imagined that it lit up her entire body.  “My Daisy.  I made sure she knew how treasured she was.  At least, I tried to.  Maybe I — well, maybe I spoiled her a little now and then.  But I wasn’t the only one.”  Another chuckle.  “Her brothers thought the sun rose and set with her.”

I could hear the interviewer say something and the woman started to respond, but then there was a loud scuffling noise.  A distant “I’m so sorry” and then more scuffling.  I surmised that something had happened to the microphone and the second scuffling noise was someone setting it back in place.

“I’m terribly sorry,” the woman said after a few moments.  “I guess I’m just not used to wearing one of these gadgets.  Now, I’m sorry, what was your question?”

The interviewer repeated the question.

“Oh, I suppose—I suppose so.  I don’t think there was any doubt we loved each other.  Not that we went around saying it all the time.  Didn’t feel the need.  Not like young people today.  That word falls out of people’s mouths so often it seems as if it’s lost some of its meaning.”

I was curious to know if the interviewer agreed.  I could hear that something was being said that sounded more like comment than question, but nothing intelligible came through.  I realized that the interviewer was a female and I wondered that I hadn’t registered that before.

“You’re very kind, dear.  Sometimes we old folks get afraid that our opinions don’t mean much to you, anymore.”

It sounded like another extended comment was being offered.

“You know, I couldn’t agree more.  So much we could learn from each other.”

This time I was pretty sure another question was being asked after a very brief comment.  And the response was a full out hearty laugh that sounded much like her chuckle but with an open mouth.

“Did some school teach you how to write these questions?” the woman asked while still laughing softly.  “My goodness.  I don’t have any idea how to answer you.”

Another question that elicited another hearty laugh.

“No, I’m afraid that doesn’t help much at all.  Let me see.  Let me think about this for a moment.”

In the short silence that followed, I could hear the woman continue to laugh quietly to herself.

“My mother used to make cookie bars that were filled with caramel, I honestly don’t remember what they were called, and they were chewy on the outside but with that oozey caramel on the inside.  At least that’s how they were when she made them.  That’s what I would pick.  Tough on the outside but just an old softy on the inside.”  She returned to her little closed-mouth chuckle and I could hear the interviewer join her before she said something.

“Just one more?  Oh, that’s a shame.  I’ve rather enjoyed talking with you.”  Her comment was tinged with melancholy.  “Okay, I’m ready.  Go.”

The last question was asked.

“I’m a little surprised at that one.  It’s so...normal.”  The woman and the interviewer laughed in unison.

“I always tried to make sure my children thought about what they said before a word came out of their mouths.  I mean really thought.  And not just composing their words carefully but giving thought to how what they said would be taken in by the other person.”

I could hear the interviewer say something and then ask another question.

“No, no, I realize that.  I’m not saying that we have any control over how anyone will react.  But many’s the time I think misunderstandings could be avoided if we stopped and put ourselves in someone else’s place and thought about how we would feel if they said what we were about to say to us.”  A slight pause.  “Did that make any sense?  I’m sorry, I’m sort of rambling off the top of my head.  I just mean that before I speak, I always try to ask myself, ‘How would you feel if someone said that to you?’  And if the answer is, ‘Not too good,’ then I just keep my mouth shut.”

The interviewer made some kind of response to which the woman made sounds of agreement.  Then there was another brief statement.

“Why, thank you.  It’s truly been my pleasure.  I don’t really know why you chose me, but I do thank you.  Thank you.”

There was an audible clicking sound and the button on top of the device I was listening to popped back to its original position.  I sighed and thought about what I’d just heard.  Whoever this woman was, she sounded like...like the perfect grandma.  Filled with a longing to put a face to the voice, I started scanning the gently twirling photographs, but I couldn’t seem to find what I was looking for.  Nothing seemed to match, and eventually I gave up.  Maybe I wasn’t meant to see her face.  Maybe it was enough to have heard her kind voice and jolly chuckle.