It was a rare unstructured moment in Sister Mary Catherine’s* second grade classroom. Our class had been asked to help at Mass that week and my friend Megan and I had been chosen to read the prayers. We stood next to Sister Mary Catherine’s desk, waiting for her to show us what we were reading while the other students read, drew and did worksheets. As she shuffled through her papers, I quickly looked over her shoulder to try and see what we would be reading.

Immediately, I felt my face flush. My first glimpse read, “Thank you, Lori,” and that was all I saw. My heart leapt within me, smiling as big as it ever had. For some reason, my teacher was going to thank me in front of the whole school. That must have been why she chose me to read. It was all a big surprise to honor me. I could feel my feet start to dance a little, in the most controlled way, of course.  I kept trying to make eye contact with Megan to see if she saw it, but I didn’t want to make a big deal since her name wasn’t mentioned. For whatever reason, I was important that day.

I just had to look at it again, so in my controlled dancing, I leaned toward the desk, just to feel that rush of excitement one more time. And that’s when I read the words that were ACTUALLY on the page.

“Thank you, Lord…”

It said “Thank you, LORD.” Not “Thank you, LORI.”

I felt my face flush again.

So many feelings in a 45 second moment.

I immediately felt great embarrassment—and relief that I hadn’t said anything to Megan.

Of course it said “Thank you, Lord.” We were reading the prayers at Mass.

I stopped dancing and shoved down all of those feelings that surfaced in that brief moment.

 

For some reason this memory popped into my head the other morning and I have been thinking about it ever since. It makes me laugh. Makes me cringe a little for my second-grade self. Makes me shake my head that I actually thought Sister Mary Catherine would have affirmed me in public.

I kind of want to go and hug that little 8-year-old and tell her that I see her. That she matters. That we all want to be recognized and noticed. That she doesn’t need to be embarrassed about that.

And yet, as I think back on this memory, and stand behind that little 8-year-old girl and read the words on that paper, I am reminded about what I missed then and what I so easily miss now.

Thank you, Lord.

Thank you, LORD.

I so often make everything about me. I strive to achieve and do things that make me feel significant. Things that remind me that I matter.

Jesus spent his whole ministry reminding people that they mattered. Read the gospels and you will see how he really saw people. He asked them questions. He called them by name. He touched them. He touched the people no one else would touch. And he did that over and over again.

He sees us. We don’t have to be striving all the time to be seen. The God of the universe sees us. He sees all of it. Our struggles, our doubts, our pain, our dreams. He sees it all and loves us no matter what.

And yet, I still try to make it about me. My name. My glory.

I think that process of taking our eyes off ourselves starts by changing our words to “Thank you, Lord.”

Acknowledging who He is and who I am not.

As we near thanksgiving, I offer my thanks to the Lord.

Thanks for His creation, His power, and most of all His grace.

Thank you, Lord, for how you loved that 8-year-old girl. How you saw her and still see her. How you patiently wait for all of us to turn our eyes away from ourselves and toward you instead.

 

 

*name has been changed