My daughter gave me her report card. While it was full of good marks, there was a single, solitary one that stood out.
“How am I doing, Mom?” she asked, a question that seemed too grown-up for the little girl with messy glasses perched on her nose. She pointed to the words beside the lonely check mark.
It said: “Distracted in large groups.” But I already knew. I’d known since she was a toddler, always observing the world.
After praising the good marks, I told her about the comment. She gave a small, hesitant smile and admitted, “I do look around a lot.”
Before she could feel bad, I knelt down and looked her in the eye. I wanted her to truly understand, so I said:
“Yes, you do. You noticed Sam with his scraped knee on the field trip, and you helped him.”
“You noticed Banjo’s runny nose, and the vet was glad we brought him in.”
“You noticed the waitress working hard and suggested a bigger tip. You noticed Grandpa walking slowly and waited for him.”
“You notice the view every time we cross the bridge.”
“And I never want you to stop, because that’s your gift to the world.”
Watching her light up with acceptance, I realized her way of seeing the world could make a difference.
We’re all waiting for someone to notice—our pain, our scars, our fears, our joys, our successes, our bravery.
And the one who notices is a precious gift.
