To look after typically means to care for, or to tend to; to take pains to keep someone comfortable who might be ill or elderly; or perhaps, to be diligent in meeting the needs of a child. The relationship assumed is typically one of a giver and a receiver, and often there is an asymmetry in the agency, capacity, and overall direction of care.
This phrase, however, is also remarkably simple and literal. To look after is to do what any one of us does when someone leaves us. When we can no longer reach out and touch the ones we love with an embrace, a shout, an arm raised high in blessing, we continue to reach out with the only means left to us: an openness, fierce and unfurrowed; wide eyes that grasp for the last wrinkles of figures that blur as the distance grows; hearts full of hope and pain and longing. To no seeming effect, we extend ourselves in the direction of those who move away from us. When shadows lengthen and gold grows gray we continue looking after the ones we have loved.
“I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.”
John 14:18
For some of us, it is a child dropped off at daycare, or new college dorm. We see her clutching a lovey, brow lifted in caution and uncertainty, lips rosy red and vulnerable. We see him standing and sweaty, clutching the last of his luggage in the August heat and bearing a nervous smile – or perhaps a nervous scowl – as the car pulls away. For some of us, it is a house that is too empty, a tiny hat that has not been worn, a lovey that we clutch ourselves.
Some of us look after airplanes, trains, trucks, or boats, bearing the dearest and costliest of cargo. We look across borders, over oceans, stare up at walls built high and strong. We look after the faces that we know, the hands we long to hold, the strong legs that slowly move through long, long lines. There are documents that must be handed over and filled out; questions that must be answered; impressions that must be made, and good ones; strangers that must be encountered; friends that must be found.
We look after wheelchairs, and ambulances, and hospital beds being wheeled away. We may look after a long aisle runner, christened with petals, soiled with footprints, and rumpled into waves by the sweeping of a long lace train. We look sideways, glancing across a room at a face that has become hard and vacant, its expression receding away. Perhaps we look out between steel bars, a window that is too small, and a door that is too thick.
In the breaking, then, our hearts leap and claw to reclaim nearness. In a final defiance against this death, this separation, we bundle up all of our concern and delight and fear and fiercely fling it after the ones we have lost. Even as we pray that our love might reach the heavens and become a testament in the sky, a proclamation written in the stars that pours out speech day after day, night after night, we also pray that these words might become more than just an outward guide. We pray that somehow, this message will take root and grow deep within the ones we love. A voice that reassures. A friend who stays. A father who comforts. A touch that calms. A promise that is kept.
some questions to hold
- Which parts of you feel orphaned?
- What would it look like for these parts to begin to acknowledge Jesus’ presence with them? What would they need to receive his care?
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– Amanda
connectinghope.art 