Managing Our Faces

Photo by Shubham Dhage on Unsplash

When was the last time you felt something deeply? And what was your immediate reaction? Did you let it out and experience it? Or did you stuff it back down in hopes it would stay out of sight? Did you quickly redirect and try to minimize it as much as possible? I know the idea of “feeling” is somewhat of an uncomfortable word. And sometimes we just don’t know how we are supposed to react to the idea of emotions. The reality is though that we all feel things. Quite often. Sometimes deeply. And we don’t always know what our relationship with our emotions is supposed to look like. I certainly don’t. But I am beginning to find the answer in a rather unlikely place—my five year old son.

Before you abandon ship, allow me to explain. Actually, let me step aside and let Dallas Willard set the table.

In the Divine Conspiracy, he writes:

’Growing up’ is largely a matter of learning to hide our spirit behind our face, eyes, and language so that we can evade and manage others to achieve what we want and avoid what we fear. By contrast, the child’s face is a constant epiphany because it doesn’t yet know how to do this. It cannot manage its face. This is also true of adults in moments of great feeling—which is one reason why feeling is greatly treasured and greatly feared.

I’m guessing many of us can spot this moment, either in ourselves (or in children). There came a time where you became self-conscious about your laugh, worried about what would happen if someone saw you cry, or felt guilty about an outburst of emotion. In other words, you learned to manage your face. You figured out how to hide your spirit. The outside no longer told the true story of what was happening on the inside. There was a sense in which who you really are in your spirit was a call that was no longer being answered by your face and body.

Please don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t take cues from a child about how to handle all of my emotions. There is a reason we call it ‘growing up.’ Maturity is a necessary friend. And there are certainly emotions we learn to manage because they are good for relationships and for the general public. We know this well because we have all witnessed the embarrassing rage of a customer who crushes an employee making minimum wage under the weight of their wrath. Red-faced, fire-breathing anger over an expired coupon or a pair of jeans that rings up for the wrong price? Certainly we would all benefit from this person learning to manage their face and body. Throwing a temper tantrum like a five year old because the barista added the wrong syrup is certainly not an emotion to emulate.

But what about joy and wonder?

Or being honest about fear?

True sadness or grief over loss?

For many of us, we feel these at times deep at the core of our very beings. And in those moments, sometimes in a split second, we must make a decision—is it worth it? What will happen if I truly show this part of me? Will I be accepted or rejected? The risk often seems like it outweighs the reward, so we hide our spirits and manage our faces. We experience joy, but can’t show joy. We’re afraid, but we put on a false smile. We are desperately sad, but if you ask me, well, “I’m fine.” A child has not learned to do this. Rather, what they are experiencing on the inside will make its way to the outside (for good or bad). Again, this would be dangerous if it defined all of our emotions, but there is something incredibly honest about this. And I know this is already how I stand before God, for he does not use my face as a gauge for what I am experiencing.

As the psalmist writes:

“You have searched me, Lord, and you know me.” (Psalm 139:1)

Last night, we sat with dear friends of ours around the table. It had been a while since we had been together, but they are the kind of friends where you can just pick back up no matter how much time has passed. As we shared stories and caught up on life, there were moments of true transparency as we discussed the challenges of work and life in the stages we find ourselves in. There were moments of true joy as we reminisced over stories of when our kids grew up together. There was a lot of laughter. Like, real loud laughter (sorry, neighbors). And what I can see now in hindsight is that no one was managing their face. No one was worried about their appearance. We were in the moment…together. Present. Alive.

Back to my son. We have five children, but my youngest (the five year old) is by far the youngest. He came along when our fourth was nine years old. This certainly changed a lot in our lives, but what I am most grateful for is the opportunity to relive many of the experiences we had with our other kids. To look at life through their eyes. To do this once again, in a different stage of my own life, has been an incredible gift. (And honestly, we can’t imagine life without this kid.) I thank God he has yet to learn to manage his face. There are times where he cannot help but let his smile out. The joy of the moment is just too much for his little body to contain his spirit. And I am learning from him in my stage of life, as I learned from my other children when they were young (and I was younger). When my heart grows anxious and the thorns of life wrap around my soul and begin to choke with all their might, I have a front row seat to a child who has a spirit that is “fierce and free” (in the words of G.K. Chesterton). And it makes me want to be childlike.

Willard continues:

Those who have attained considerable spiritual stature are frequently noted for their “childlikeness.” What this really means is that they don't use their face and body to hide their spiritual reality. In their body they are genuinely present to those around them. That is a great spiritual attainment or gift.

“Dad…check out this bug.”

Invitations like this are common around our house. And sometimes I am wise enough to accept them. And so, we watch the bug. It takes a moment for me to start because my mind is often so noisy inside. I have too many things on my to-do list, and “watch a bug” is not one of them. But as I settle in, I watch the bug. But more, I watch my son watch the bug. And I watch the wonder rise from a deep place within him and leak out of his eyes and beam across his face. And I begin to notice that it has spread to my face too—the face I work so hard to manage most of the time. For a moment, I am quiet inside. I’m watching a bug. I’m a child again, with my son.

The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.