The Empty Box

I was probably fourteen or fifteen, sitting on the floor of my parents' living room on Christmas morning.

Our family had finished opening presents. We had gone around the room, one person at a time, so everyone could see what everyone else got. My grandparents lived in Florida, so their gifts usually came in a box in the mail. Now the box was empty, and I was helping my mom clean up, stuffing wrapping paper into a trash bag.

That's when I realized I hadn't gotten a gift from my grandmother.

I didn't say anything. I just kept busy.

And my first thought wasn't even, She doesn't care about me.

It was, Maybe she forgot. Maybe I missed something.
Maybe somehow, this was my fault.

Much later, when my mom and I were talking about my grandmother, she told me she'd noticed that morning. She knew I'd been hurt, even though I never said a word.

I thought I'd been invisible. I wasn't.

The Christmas gift wasn't the only time I felt the difference.

There were other moments over the years, especially when my grandmother was in town. I noticed the attention she gave my brother and sister, the things they were included in, the ways they seemed to fit more easily into her life. I noticed what I wasn't included in, too.

But I didn't know what to do with any of it. So mostly, I kept it to myself.

Then, in my early twenties, I finally asked.

My dad had died that October. My grandmother parked her fifth-wheel camper in my mom's driveway and lived there for months.

It was early spring, sometime in the late afternoon. I was home visiting, and the two of us were sitting on the covered front porch. It was one of those pretty days when the weather was warm enough to sit outside, and we were having a nice visit.

We talked about college and what I was going to do next. Nothing was tense. We were alone, and it felt like an opening.

So I found the courage to ask her what had happened between us.

I don't remember my exact words. I remember the way I asked, though. There wasn't an accusation behind it. I was hurt, and I wanted to understand.

Instead of answering, she started crying.

She said she would never treat her grandchildren differently and accused me of being ungrateful for everything she had ever done for me. She told me that bringing this up while she was still grieving my dad was incredibly insensitive.

And just like that, the question I'd carried for years became something else I had done wrong.

When she walked away, I went upstairs to my childhood bedroom.

I tried to make myself as small as possible so I wouldn't cause any more trouble.

I never asked her about it again.

Last Sunday, Pastor Isaac preached from Mark 10. As I listened, I started hearing some of my own old prayers in the story.

Just before the story of Bartimaeus, James and John come to Jesus with a request of their own. Jesus asks them, "What do you want me to do for you?"

Their answer is pretty clear. They want the good seats. They want position. They want to be close to Jesus when he comes into his kingdom.

Later in the same chapter, Jesus asks Bartimaeus the same question.

Bartimaeus doesn't ask for a better position. He asks to see.

The irony isn't lost on me. James and John could see perfectly well, but they didn't seem to know what they really needed. Bartimaeus couldn't see at all, and he did.

Pastor Isaac wondered what Bartimaeus might have asked for instead. Maybe a better spot to sit. Maybe a better cup for begging. He imagined Bartimaeus praying, "God, could you give me a better beggar's cup?"

I thought about some of the things I'd asked God for over the years.

Lord, I want her to treat me like she treats everyone else.
Lord, I want her to realize how much she has hurt me.

I don't think those prayers were wrong. I was hurt. I wanted to be understood. I wanted to know that I mattered.

But I was asking God to change her.

I hadn't yet asked God to help me see.

Long after that, I was sitting in Allison's office in Lexington. My grandmother had died by then.

Allison was the counselor I had started seeing during a season when I had a lot to work through. In our sessions, she would open in prayer, and we would ask God to bring to mind whatever he wanted us to look at that day. Sometimes it took one session. Sometimes it took a few.

That day, it was my grandmother.

The porch came back to me.

And everything came with it. The hurt. The shame. The confusion. I could feel what it had been like to sit there, ask a question I'd carried for years, and somehow walk away feeling like I was the one who had done something wrong.

So we worked through it.

At some point, I pictured Jesus holding a package.

It was about the size of a shoebox, wrapped up like a present. I didn't know what was inside. But the way Jesus was holding it made it seem precious, almost fragile, like it could break if he jostled it too much.

I knew it was mine.

The hurt was real. So were the resentment, confusion, and disappointment.

But I didn't have to keep holding them.

Jesus already was.

So I let go.

I still remember those things. I still know what happened. But they don't sting the way they once did.

This summer, I talked with my mom and my sister about some of those years, and I noticed something. The memories were there, but they weren't charged. They were simply things that happened.

They don't hold my worth anymore.

For years, I wanted my grandmother to see me.

To see what had happened. To see what had hurt. To understand me.

But while I was praying for her sight, God was giving me mine. Jesus was showing me that he had seen me all along.

Being misunderstood doesn't mean I am unseen.

I hear that question differently now when Jesus looks at Bartimaeus and says, "What do you want me to do for you?"

Maybe sometimes the answer begins with admitting that we don't see as clearly as we thought we did.

So now, when I hear that question, my prayer is different.

Lord, help me see what I am carrying.
Help me see what you are asking me to let go of.
Help me see you holding what I can't carry anymore.

At Christmas, so long ago, I was the girl looking around for a gift that wasn't there.

Then, in Allison's office, I pictured Jesus holding what I had been carrying for so long, wrapped up like a present.

He didn't ask me to pretend it hadn't hurt.

He just held it, and let me let go.

This Week
Think of one hurt you've been carrying for a while.

Not the person who needs to change. Not the conversation you wish you could have. Just the thing you're carrying.

Take ten quiet minutes this week. Sit somewhere you won't be interrupted, and ask Jesus:

Lord, help me see what I am carrying.

Then pay attention to what comes to mind.

You don't have to sort it all out at once. You don't have to figure out what to do with everything you remember. Just notice what Jesus is bringing into the light.

And if what comes up feels bigger than something you can work through on your own, tell someone safe. A pastor, a trusted friend, or a good counselor can help you walk through it.

You don't have to do it alone.

Prayer
Lord,

Thank you for seeing us, even when we feel unseen or misunderstood.

Teach us to bring you what we've been holding onto, trusting that you can hold it with more care than we ever could.

And as you give us clearer sight, help us notice the people around us, too. The ones we've overlooked. The ones we've misunderstood. The ones who may be carrying something we cannot see.

Give us the grace to see them with the same compassion you have shown us.

Amen.