I wove through the thick patchwork of people, looking very much an outsider with my head propped back and my eyes wide with amazement. “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Dolgeville anymore,” I told my friends, mimicking Dorothy’s awe and trepidation to express my own. New York City! It hardly seemed possible that it was only four hours away from my tiny village hidden in the foothills of the Adirondacks. The skyscrapers stood taller than the sun, casting evening shadows in the middle of the afternoon. Billboards blinked and flashed, their neon lights racing back and forth and up and down over storefronts and the shiny facades of skyscrapers, and beeping taxis veered in and out of lines of BMWs and SUVs with the haphazard precision of a lucky drunk.   

People were everywhere. Beneath me, above me, and around me, pushing in on all sides. I started humming, “Sea of Faces” by Kutless and pictured the masses of people swirling around the buildings like currents and eddies, my body only a tiny ripple in one of Manhattan’s many waterways. I began to feel anxious. I was exposed to so many strangers who I knew were untrusting and untrustworthy. Cities have always scared me; even though I marvel at their enormity, their depravity sobers and frightens me.

After a few hours of walking through the city, familiarity began to dim the initial grandeur of the skyscrapers and lights, and I thought that sadness and fear would soon replace my wonder. To my surprise, the opposite occurred. Awe, more real and complete than my initial amazement, began to bubble within me, rising with every passing face. In Central Park, it spilled out as laughter as I joined a circle of observers to watch an older man wearing a headband and cape introduce himself as “Turtle Man” – the only one capable of performing incredible feats with a pair of common turtles. The awe rippled through me with joy as I paused near a cluster of musicians and dancers moving in unison to the rhythms of Glen Miller, and it nearly brought me to my knees with wonder at the sight of a group of children climbing over tarnished statues. When I sat down near a lady with stooped shoulders and hollow eyes on the subway it warmed me, and in Times Square it formed my mouth into a smile as my eyes caught with the sparkling eyes of a street vendor.

“Glory! Glory! Glory! Glory!” The voice was almost startling, ringing out like a church bell above the noisy crowds pushing down the sidewalk. I slipped to the edge of the sidewalk to see who was shouting. He was standing on the corner with his right hand raised in the air. Even though it was August, he was wearing several layers of mismatched and worn clothing. People rushed by, refusing to even acknowledge him with the slightest glance or pause, but he didn’t seem to mind. He stood tall and straight, every muscle poised to deliver his simple message. As a town crier, he had to proclaim The News, regardless of who listened. “Glory!” He cried, “Glory! Glory! Glory!” Over and over the same word fell from his lips, relentlessly, persistently, triumphantly. Somehow, I knew that his one-word proclamation was enough. It told The News; it said it all.

I looked around. A well-dressed man clutching a leather briefcase scurried by, his determined gait falling in time with the rhythmic proclamation…. “Glory! Glory! Glory!”…. A street vendor straightened a few photographs, relaxed his shoulders, and sighed in unison with the crier’s message….“Glory!”…. A teen, adorned with gold chains and headphone wires sauntered down the street. I glanced in his eyes…. “Glory! Glory!”…. I thought of “Turtle Man,” the swing dancers, the children, and the woman on the subway…. “Glory!” Suddenly I understood. My awe and the town crier’s news collided inside of me and burst open, and I could feel my heart beating, “Glory, glory, glory.”

I choked back tears. I laughed. “Glory!” I spoke into the noise around me. I wanted to grab the shoulders of one of the people on the sidewalk, look into their eyes, and exclaim, “God made you! God’s in you! God’s with you!” I could feel God’s presence everywhere. Above me, below me, and around me, pushing in on all sides. Every face reflected the glory of the Creator – each person a different facet of His Being. Fallen and broken, humanity still bore the imprint of the Maker, and the Maker still breathed life into humanity.

I crossed the street, the town crier’s voice fading into an echo behind me. To my right, a giant stone cathedral reached for the sky. Pausing to admire its stained-glass windows, I was startled by movement on its steps. A newspaper slipped, revealing a tousle of gray hair. The man shifted, pulled the newspaper back into place, and settled back into the fetal position. “Glory,” I whispered with a wordless prayer of love, “glory.” 

                                                            ~

            In the corner of my room, directly above my bed, there is a small closet. It contains my childhood – yearbooks, school projects, diaries, favorite dolls. I call it my “Special Closet.” Occasionally I like to open it and explore its nearly forgotten contents, letting them release a flood of old thoughts and feelings.

Dozens of drawings remind me of how I used to love drawing pictures of rainbows, flowers, and people. My imagination would saddle a sharp-pointed crayon and joyously wander with each dash of color. I was always a conscientious artist, obedient to the rules of replication and accuracy as I understood them; my suns were never green and my people were never purple. Houses always had chimneys, and trees always had a hole in the trunk for the squirrels and chipmunks. I took my responsibility as an artist especially seriously when drawing pictures of Jesus.

Whether He was playing with children, walking on water, or standing under a rainbow, Jesus always had to be tall and neat, wearing a pure white robe with a bright blue sash draped across His shoulder. I would draw Him often, imagining myself as one of the children in my Children’s Bible who got to hear Him, see Him, and crawl onto His lap with His clean white robe falling around them. How lucky those children in Bible times were! I sent prayers and songs up to an invisible Jesus in Heaven, but they got to see Him and touch Him on earth. I couldn’t wait until I was in Heaven so I could see Jesus too.

                                                            ~

Closing my ears and eyes to the worship band and the people around me, I tried to picture my hand outstretched toward Christ. “Lord, please…. Please let me touch the hem of Your garment. I need to be healed.”

Two years earlier, depression had wreaked havoc on my mind and heart. Though I was no longer sick, painful memories lingered, and the wounds of the past were easily reopened. The recent rejection of some of my closest friends had broken places I thought had healed. I felt like the lady in the Bible with the bleeding disorder. The hurt just didn’t stop.

I needed to touch God so that the power of His Being could course through my veins as it had the woman of Christ’s day.  Focused on the image of my hand straining towards Him, open-palmed in expectation for a miracle, I waited. But nothing happened.

Opening my eyes, I scanned the congregation in search of God. Where was He?  He must have heard my prayer, but He wasn’t answering. I wiped my eyes and leaned back in my seat.  To my right, a friend was sitting with her head bowed. She was crying. God didn’t seem to be answering her either. 

Resuming my prayers, I bowed my head and tried to focus my eyes on Jesus so I could continue to reach for His robe. “Lord, please…” I whispered into my lap, “Let me touch You.” I waited for His response, but once again felt nothing; I was too distracted by the tears of my friend a few seats down. “Pray for her,” I heard in my thoughts. “But, Lord,” I protested, “I’m the one who needs prayer. Why are you asking me to give?” I sighed and half-heartedly changed my prayers from “heal me” to “touch her,” hoping it was enough to appease Him.

But He continued to nudge me to go to my friend’s side and pray for her. “Okay, Lord,” I whispered, “If You give me an opportunity to do it without having to draw attention to either of us, I will pray for her. Even though I’m the one who asked for prayer.” A few songs later, she moved to the back of the chapel. “There you go,” I felt God answer.

I slipped out of my seat and walked to where my friend was sitting. “Would you mind if I prayed with you?” I asked as I gently tapped her shoulder.

 She looked up, her eyes red, “Oh Amy, I would love that. I have been asking God for the last twenty minutes to send somebody to pray for me.” I smiled. Twenty minutes ago I had changed my prayers from “let me touch You” to “please touch Sarah.” I embraced my friend and began to pray. Scriptures I hadn’t thought about in years flowed out in my stuttering prayers. Her shoulders shook with sobs. I thought of my own need for healing and my previous prayers, and then I realized that the hurt was gone. “Who touched Me?” I heard Christ ask.

Jesus told His disciples, “I was hungry and you gave Me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me….Inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me” (Matt. 25:35-37, 40). In the musical Les Miserables, Jean Valjean sings, “To love another person is to see the face of God,” and that is a miracle I cannot comprehend. But I know that when I asked to touch the hem of Christ’s garment so that I might be healed, He showed me a person in need. “Here I am,” He had whispered, “Now just reach out your hand and touch Me.”

                                                            ~

My friends call me a perfectionist. Annoyed classmates call me an overachiever. If I were to think of a descriptor of myself, it would be “not-enough.”

I’m not exactly sure why I strive, as my grandmother calls it. I know that I feel guilty if I don’t. Even though I know God loves me, it’s hard for me to picture Him pleased with me. I often envision Him as a disappointed schoolmaster and myself as the kid in the corner wearing a dunce cap. It’s awfully hard to talk to God and try to please Him with a dunce cap on, but I do. The hope of seeing delight in His eyes pushes me on. But despite all my efforts, I always seem to end up at the chalkboard writing “I will do better next time” over and over. This past semester was difficult, and I spent most of the time covered in chalk dust. I read my bible and prayed, but no amount of words could remove my guilt; I still could not picture anything but God’s disappointment. After six weeks of hopeless striving, I begged God to let me crawl onto His lap and look into His eyes. I needed to see that He was pleased with me.

I met Brandon at the beginning of the semester. He had active blue-gray eyes and was sliding around in his seat at the front of the fourth grade classroom where I was student teaching. “Brandon struggles in all of his subjects,” his teacher mentioned at the end of the first day. “He must have attention deficit disorder because he is very hard to keep on task. He’s behind in everything.” 

I worked with Brandon a lot over the following weeks. Though he often began with sincere intentions, he rarely completed what he set out to do. He would forget directions minutes after they were given, lose books and papers in his disorganized desk, roll under desks during small reading groups, and play games with the manipulatives during math. Each day was the same for Brandon – unfinished worksheets, missing folders, and frustrated peers. His inattention and shortcomings never frustrated or disappointed me, however; I enjoyed him and his cheerful imagination, willing heart, and content smile.

Towards the middle of the semester, I noticed that Brandon worked enthusiastically when I gave him a drawing assignment. Excited by his interest, I asked if he had other drawings that he would like to bring in and share. He nodded eagerly, and the following week brought a binder filled with notebook paper. As soon as he opened it, nearby classmates gathered around, grinning with expectation. “Miss Haas, Brandon can write a whole story without using any words!” Morgan boasted. “Yeah, Miss Haas!” Zack exclaimed, “Brandon is an awesome drawer – he can draw anything!”

I flipped through the binder, which was a comic book about the entanglements of two opposing spies. It was full of color and movement, and children exclaimed at each dynamic page. Brandon smiled contentedly, like a father delighted over his children’s Christmas pleasure. He enjoyed his drawings too.

 “Brandon, this is really amazing,” I exclaimed, “Thank you so much for sharing it with me!”

“Yup,” he replied with the always-content smile I loved. He seemed pleased with my enjoyment, but his demeanor hadn’t changed. It was no different than when I was redirecting him back to his schoolwork, as if he knew that I delighted in him no matter what, just because he was my student and I was his teacher.

For the first time in years, I felt the freedom of childhood. I remembered the simplicity of shared delight and the peace of being loved. Looking into Brandon’s eyes, I finally understood what endless words had failed to show me.

God loved me, and my life brought Him joy and pleasure.

                                                            ~

This past summer I volunteered at an inner-city outreach’s Vacation Bible School. I was assigned to a class of 4 to 6-year-old girls and given a brief outline of everything I was expected to teach: creation, the fall, salvation, faith, and the fruits of the Spirit. Determined to present the gospel message in a powerfully simple way, I spent hours gathering Bible verses, stories, and activities. I arrived the first day with a big red bag full of supplies and a detailed lesson plan; I felt ready and eager.

Accustomed to thoroughly Sunday-schooled middle-class children, I was completely unprepared for the unique needs of the girls in my classroom. Angry and hurting, they hit and kicked each other constantly, slid under tables in hysterics, and frequently ran out of the classroom. I tried to teach, using every item in my bag and every strategy I knew, but nothing worked. By the third day, I was out of ideas. After abandoning my lesson plan, I gave one final attempt to reach the girls. “Sit down,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, “We’re going to read a story!”

“You’re a piece of junk. And your momma is kitty litter,” a six-year-old shot back.

At the end of the day, I went home, threw out my lesson plans, recruited my sixteen-year-old brother, David, to help me the following morning, and prayed. “God, I need help. These are Your kids and I know how much You love them. Be big in me, God. Be so big that they see Your love when they look at me.”

The following morning my ride called and told me that her car battery was dead and she was going to be at least half an hour late. Because I didn’t have another way to get to the outreach, I would have to wait. I hung up the phone and plopped down on the sofa, remembering that I still didn’t have anything planned for that day. “Be big, God,” I breathed, “be big.”

“David! Get the white tray we used to use for play-dough. I have an idea!” I grabbed a pitcher and 10 cups and then stuffed them and a “salvation gift box” containing a clean white robe, a construction-paper heart, and a “child of God” birth certificate into my bag. “They’re your kids, God,” I prayed as my ride pulled into the driveway.   

The salvation box and water pitcher were a big hit. All of the girls wanted to wear the white robe and say, “Jesus makes me clean!” and nobody started crying or fighting when we talked about how God fills us up with Jesus like water in a cup. Five-year-old Courtney seemed especially engaged; every time I spoke about Jesus her eyes shone with fascination and watched me as if I were the only one in the room.

            “Does anybody want to pray and ask Jesus to make them clean and live in their heart?” I asked. It was as if every muscle in Courtney’s body had been poised, ready for my invitation. Even before I finished my sentence, she grinned, jumped up in her seat, and raised her hand. “Okay,” I smiled, “I would love to pray with you!” Because I wanted to pray with each student individually, I told the girls that I would pray with any of them that wanted me to out in the hall, while the rest of the class colored with David. Courtney and several of the other girls followed me into the hall, but before I could begin praying, two of the girls were lying on the ground in crying fits and a small war had broken out in the doorway. Disappointed, I postponed prayer until after class.

 Courtney eagerly stayed after class with me and my brother. We talked about what we had learned together, and then I led her in prayer. “Dear Jesus,” Courtney echoed, squeezing her eyes tightly shut until her nose crinkled up. “Thank you for making me. I’m sorry for all of the bad things that I have done. Thank you for dying on the cross and rising again because you love me so much. Please forgive me and make me clean. Please live inside my heart.”

As soon as we said “Amen” Courtney opened her eyes, leaped up, and threw her hands in the air. Her face was radiant. “I’m cleeeaaaan!” she squealed with delight.

            “Yes, you are!” I rejoiced, “And Jesus lives inside your heart!”

            Courtney gasped with wonder, smiled, and then threw her hands into the air again. “Jesus lives in my heart! Yaayyy!!” Her exclamation ended with a string of giggles so powerful and real that I felt as though I had just heard the laughter of God as he danced on His throne.

            A few weeks later, during my first week back at college, I received an E-mail from my brother David:

Well, you leaving marks the end of a perfect summer…. I saw a little girl ask Jesus into her heart. Who would have thought that to hear the words, "Lord Jesus, will You come into my heart," could mean so much. The words in Steven Curtis Chapman’s song, "I saw the face of Jesus in a little orphan girl," are true. Nothing can match the joy of her heart as she opened her heart to say, "He lives in me now," with such trust and hope. This is what makes and breaks a summer. This is what it is all about.

                                                            ~

It started as an echo. The worship band was singing, “Show Me Your Glory” by Third Day, and I was half-heartedly singing along. I didn’t feel much like worshipping, but the words were good, so I decided to turn them into a prayer. “Show me Your glory, God,” I whispered in between the lines of music, “Send down Your presence – I want to see Your face.”  

I felt a little foolish asking; I wasn’t even sure what God’s glory was. Was it the invisible presence that sometimes brings me to my knees during worship services? Was it the Shikenah glory that used to dwell between the gold cherubim in the Holy of Holies? I thought of Moses and how he had asked God to show him His glory. God had granted him his request by hiding him in the cleft of a rock, covering him with His hand, and then passing by, letting Moses catch a glimpse of His back. I didn’t think I wanted that. A single moment of awe is too brief and emotional; I wanted more than a glimpse of the Almighty. I wanted to look into God’s eyes, see deep into His being, hear His thoughts, and feel His emotions. “I want to know Your heart, God,” I prayed, “Show me Your heart.”

My prayer was no longer a hollow echo of the music. It now rose from deep inside of me; I could feel my core trembling. “Deep calls unto deep, God – let me know Your heart. Show me Your glory!”

And then at once I stopped praying. There were no more words left. All was still – the worship band and congregation had faded away, and it was just me, the darkness behind my closed eyes, and the silence of my heart. I was in the cleft of the rock.

All at once, my thoughts began to swirl. Sarah. Brandon. The homeless man in New York City. Courtney. I saw people, faces, eyes. I saw the students I had taught in inner-city Buffalo, the children I had supervised at the playground, and the residents of the nursing home where I worked. I saw my friends. I saw my enemies. Africa, Asia, North America – my mind raced through the continents, peering into the faces of every nation and tribe. Orphans, widows, the homeless, the ill. I saw into the eyes of the hurting and the broken – the children without parents and the people without hope. Then I saw laughter. Love, peace, and joy. I saw children dancing on the lawn, a bride and groom at their wedding celebration, and my family on Christmas morning. I saw newborn babies and silver-haired grandparents. People of all kinds, races, and tongues. Love and compassion spilled out of me and trickled down my cheeks. And then I heard God speak:

 “I will make all My goodness pass before you, and I will proclaim the name of the LORD before you....The LORD, the LORD God, merciful and gracious, longsuffering, and abounding in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin.”

I waited, breathless, and He removed His hand. I looked and saw shoulders, muscles, and skin – the back of a Man. He spoke again.

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory.”

A clean white robe and bright blue sash. I saw Jesus. He was in a manger, walking through a marketplace, and hanging on a cross. His back was scarred, criss-crossed with lines laid by whips and rods.

“Thus it was necessary for the Christ to suffer and to rise from the dead the third day, and that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in His name to all nations.... Behold, I send the Promise of My Father upon you.”

“I’m cleeaaan! JESUS lives in my heart!!” I saw Courtney, smiling and jumping up with delight. I heard her squeal with joy.  

“Oh the riches of the glory of this mystery… Christ in you, the hope of glory.”

            “Glory!” I remembered, “Glory! Glory! Glory!” I saw the man in rags on the streets of Manhattan with his hand raised in the air, shouting God’s great proclamation.   

“Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a Son, and shall call His name Immanuel.”

“God with us,” I whispered. Kneeling in awe, I imagined myself in the Holy of Holies. I looked where the gold cherubim should have been, but they were gone, and in their place were crowds and crowds of people. My heart pounded with a love that I knew was not my own, and I began to cry. Immersed in humanity, I had seen God’s glory. And in a sea of faces, I had felt God’s heart.