A Reflection on Epiphany & a Prayer for Lent

I think I can count on two hands the number of people outside my family who have seen my entire face in person in the past 10 months. So here it is—not in person, but still. 

I miss seeing people’s whole faces. I miss smiles, dimples, interesting scars, weird moles, facial hair, and fun lipstick colors. 

I remember the first grocery trip after the pandemic hit when there were more people covering their faces than not. Everyone walked with heads down, keeping their distance—not with a spirit of neighborliness, but with fear that was palpable from deli to dairy. No one looked each other in the eyes. When I finally made it back to the car, I burst into tears. 

A few weeks ago, I was at that same grocery store, cobbling together a few items in hopes that they might add up to some measure of comfort for two of the people I love the most in the world who are hurting deeply right now. As I weaved the aisles and willed myself not to cry in the middle of the cereal aisle—a risk of the sacred privilege of bearing one another’s burdens—I was held together by the simple kindness of eye contact from a shopper here, a nod from apron-clad employee there. I like to imagine there was a smile under their masks too. 

We are made to find meaning from each other’s faces. My month-old daughter Jane’s eyes are constantly on the move these days, stopping only when they happen upon another set of eyes (or the ceiling fan—Girlfriend loves the ceiling fan). When her gaze locks in on my face, she finds reassurance of love, presence, belonging, and safety. We are made in his image to reflect his glory to one another, after all. 

This Epiphany, as we’ve soaked up the stories of the visit of the wise men, Jesus’s presentation at the temple, his baptism, miraculous healings, and his transfiguration, I have been so struck by the tangibility, the physicality of God’s glory and light revealed in Christ. It means something that Jesus has a face with actual eyes that people could actually look into to know that they are loved, safe, valued. And that God-made-man could also receive love from the faces of those who loved him.

I want to hold onto this as Epiphanytide comes to a close and gives way Lent. The physical and the transcendent glory of God meet in the stories we remember as we journey toward Easter—the temptation of Jesus, the washing of feet, the institution of the Lord’s Supper, his crucifixion. I want to pay attention to how deeply he entered into our brokenness, to consider the patterns of carving out for a more glorious filling, to notice how Jesus touched and allowed himself to be touched, to continue to follow Jesus’s gaze so I can learn to see with his eyes. 

Like a newborn searching for love, comfort, and belonging, I want my eyes to lock on his, the one whose face is not merely a reflection of God’s glory, but the very source of glory. I will pray with the psalmist:

“Restore us, O God; let your face shine, that we may be saved!” (Psalm 80:3)