Be Careful Little Eyes

It is a slow and peaceful weekday afternoon in Stockton, California. It should have been peaceful, anyway. Spring has settled in nicely, and I’m breathing in the sweet, fruit tree-laced air that has already become familiar and homey. The solid, suffocating heat of a Valley summer has yet to set in. I’m babysitting for the Waller family this afternoon. Sister Waller is taking her time getting ready for her date, so I go into Distract the Kids Mode. “You wanna build a tower, Buddy?! Come play! We are going to have so much fun together!” 

I am interning at the church where the Waller's pastor in downtown Stockton, wanting to learn more about the workings of an “inner city” church. The people who attend this congregation are the down-and-outs. They are the addicts, the single mothers hoping to find mentors for their fatherless children. We like to talk about how we even get the occasional slip-in from a prostitute - “probably a transvestite” we say.

I hear the familiar click-clack of heels on a hardwood floor, and I look up to see Sister Waller walk down the hall. She’s ready for her date, and her outfit is as on-point as ever. I don’t even try to hide the fact that I’m most interested in what she’s wearing, and my eyes immediately zero in on her attire. My hope of a future as a Pastor’s Wife is a weighty motivation toward perfecting my righteous, holy look. I know this dream hangs on my willingness to follow the rules. The Holiness Standards are most important to me because they please God, and they set me apart as being one of the few people who know the Truth.  My eyes study her as I take mental notes on how I should be putting together our required modest-but-effortlessly-stylish outfits. She makes it look so easy.  A cream skirt flows almost to the floor and hugs her petite frame in all the right places. A lacy, soft pink top sits just snug enough across her perky breasts. It’s the underlying but not overtly sexy look, and I need to learn to pull it off. Sister Waller clears her throat, and my attention shifts abruptly from her clothes to the rest of her.  I have to catch my breath as I realize she has no hair. 

I feel my body start to tingle as the heat rises, starting in my chest and rising until I am sure my apple-red face is the elephant in the room. 

“Have a good time!” I say, mustering enthusiasm. I physically have to reach up and touch my forehead so as to coax my eyebrows down from their furrow. I am terrified. I am embarrassed for this woman who no longer has hair.

Pastor and Sister Waller leave, and I gather some snacks to let the kids picnic on the front lawn grass. This is one of those typical, uniform middle class neighborhoods - the type of neighborhoods where every house is painted some predictable shade in between cream and taupe.  The perfectly spiky grass is itchy against my bare, skirted legs. The baby whines and I pull her to my chest. Her skin is buttery soft, and I relish in the smell of new life as I kiss her downy head. I start to let myself think, and as I do the shining day turns to an unfamiliar fog in my mind. I usually don’t let my thoughts wander this much. “Get thee behind me, Satan! In Jesus name! ” I whisper. This usually is enough to keep worldly thoughts at bay, but not now. 

I’ve known that Sister Waller was diagnosed with breast cancer, and that it is advanced. Her prognosis is not hopeful, but there are hundreds, if not thousands of faithful believers praying for this woman. I’ve had the faith that she would be healed, and my 19-year-old faith does not easily waiver. She is a faithful woman of God, after all. Except I just saw her for the first time since learning of her diagnosis, heading out for a date with her husband, bald head screaming of the sickness ravaging her dainty physique. I look down at my uncut, knee-length hair. The last five inches or so are frayed and thin, full of split ends.  I’ve always been proud of this. Our hair is our glory, after all, our protection from evil and a telltale sign of our commitment to God and obedience to the Church. Apparently, cancer doesn’t care. 

Slowly yet all at once, like a wave, confusion starts to linger in my mind. This is uncomfortable, yet I cannot escape it. The little boy stands, dumping the Tupperware container of watermelon on the grass. He giggles and smashes a grassy piece of melon with his bare feet, looking for a reaction. “Heeeeeeey you! What are you up to little man?” I ask playfully. I attempt to entertain him with a song - one we sing together often in Sunday school. 

Be careful little eyes what you see, 

Be careful little eyes what you see, 

There’s a Father up above 

And He’s looking down in love

So, be careful little eyes what you see.

The diversion works for a few minutes, for me and for the boy. I am proud to see he remembers the motions to the song, pointing to his eyes and then at the sky at the appropriate moments. I distract myself the best I can, but now all I can see are innocent children who’s worlds are about to crash into a mess of pieces and a lifetime of questions. The darkness of these thoughts close in on me. It is as if all that has been - or whoever has been - holding me steady, turns around and starts to back away. The baby cries and reaches for my hand. I hold her close and rock her against my chest, tears rolling down my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I whisper, wishing I could change the trajectory of her life. There is no God. The thought slips into my mind like a disgruntled churchgoer slips out of her pew, quiet yet glaringly conspicuous. Oh my god there is no god.

This is the last time I see Sister Waller. She dies two weeks later.