The Gift of Being Seen: How slowing down to truly see our children (and others) becomes holy ground
Our children live in a world where their eyes are constantly drawn to glowing screens. But here’s what they need even more than the next notification: to be seen. Truly seen. By us, their mothers.
When we slow down long enough to look into their eyes—not with judgment or The Next Thing, but with love and curiosity—we give them a gift no device can deliver. We give them soil to grow in. And it is not just about our children. The way we choose to see our spouses, our daughters-in-law, our sons-in-law, our coworkers, and our friends has the power to change them—and it changes us, too.
David Brooks, in his beautiful book How to Know a Person, calls this ‘illuminating others.’ It’s the art of helping people feel seen, heard, and understood. And when we practice it, we step into something deeply spiritual: seeing others as God sees them.
One way we miss it is by seeing our children as we want them to be, offering our love only when they meet our expectations. A college-aged woman once shared this with me: she knew her parents loved her, but their praise came mainly when she did something spectacular. When she hit the winning shot in basketball, she was the hero in their eyes, and they bragged on her. It felt good—yet it also left her feeling unseen in the everyday moments of who she truly was.
Children don’t just want to be appreciated for what they do or how they look—they long to be seen for who they are. Try this: the next time you see your child, notice your instinctive reaction. What do you usually say? My own typical response is a list: brush your hair, change your clothes, take your laundry downstairs, pick up your shoes.
It’s easy to fall into this pattern. We’re busy, we’re rushed, we have things to get done. And yes, as our children go out and about, we want them to look presentable and have completed their chores.
But they also crave being truly noticed—for their struggles, their strengths, and the small, ordinary parts of who they are. When we make a habit of seeing our children where they really are, with open eyes and open hearts, they flourish—and our connection with them deepens.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately because our world tells us to PRODUCE. DO THE THINGS. And an idea of perfection is presented to us continually in reels, shorts, videos, posts. But in our heart, we don’t want to have to do the song and dance. We ache to be seen and loved for who we are.
How is this done? Brooks promises that if we project a different quality of attention, we call forth a different version of a person.
Our attention, though, is never neutral. It either calls forth life or it diminishes. When I slip into only pointing out my child’s “flaws” or prodding them through their to-do list, I become a diminisher. Brooks names several ways this shows up—egotism, anxiety, objectivism—but the one that stopped me in my tracks was what he calls “The Static Mindset.”
People change. They grow. They surprise us. Yet too often, we don’t update our model of who they are becoming. I’ve caught myself treating my adult children as if they were still in middle school—when in reality, they are adults now, with their own thoughts, wisdom, and sense of self. If I stay stuck in my outdated version of them, I miss who they actually are.
And that’s the danger of being a diminisher: it keeps people small.
The better way? To become an illuminator. I love this word. To illuminate is to shine light on the magnificently unique person in front of us—to see them not as they once were, not even as we wish them to be, but as they truly are. It is to see them as Jesus sees them.
When we do this—when we attend to our people with the gaze of faith—we move beyond surface-level observation and scrutiny. We begin to see with love. Or as Brooks beautifully names it, with “the grace-filled eye of perfect love” (34).
It’s not difficult to do; when you see your children, especially for the first time in the day, smile at them. Greet them warmly. Be open. Tender. Receptive. Don’t try to figure them out, just give them your light. Touch their shoulder, their arm, their hand. When they are open, ask good questions. Listen. Lean in.
The best part? Brooks helped me see that how I love my people, how I interact with them as well as the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, is an act of morality. This struck me as a big statement. Usually we think of morality as living with universal principles that will guide us in the dramatic moments of decision. Brooks is a St. Therese, introducing me to the Little Way of Seeing My People—being “a genius at the close at hand” (39).
You already know this: how we parent, how we show up for our children, is how they will experience God, at least at first. We put “skin” on God the Father. God sees us fully. He loves us unconditionally. When we see our people in this way, we reflect His Merciful Heart.
And friends, there are more gifts to be had. Let’s unwrap a couple.
First, when we have soft, tender eyes to see and welcome our spouse and children (and all of their people), something powerful happens in THEM. “No one can fully appreciate their own beauty and strengths unless those things are mirrored back to them in the mind of another. There is something in being seen that brings forth growth” (11).
How we see our people is how they will learn to see themselves. If we label them “messy”, they will think of themselves as messy. If we see their creativity, they will begin to see themselves as being creative.
Secondly, and perhaps most surprisingly (that sneaky, tender God), when we truly attend to others, something powerful awakens within us. Our own hearts grow. When we step out of ourselves to notice, listen, and love another, we receive in return—insights, joy, and a deeper sense of connection that makes life worth living.
All of this—the ideas of seeing, attending, illuminating—can sound beautiful in theory. But how does it actually show up in real life? The truth is, it’s rarely dramatic. It’s woven into the small, ordinary moments where we choose presence over distraction:
Greeting your teen with a smile and warm welcome when they come home from practice.
Looking at your spouse at the dinner table, truly seeing him, asking him good, thoughtful questions, not interrupting, but truly hearing him. Asking him to expand on any points.
Gazing at your children or grandchildren, noticing their freckles, their lopsided grin, their curls.
Taking time to ask a quiet coworker or friend at church about their life, listening deeply when they share.
Even these seemingly small acts are powerful—they ground us and bring life to the people around us. And sometimes, that power surprises you in ways you never expect. I experienced this firsthand a few weeks ago.
In early August, I was serving at The Lord’s Diner here in Wichita. My “job” that night was super fun and easy—helping those in wheelchairs with their trays. Once my duties slowed, I noticed an elderly woman sitting by herself. Remembering what I had just learned in David Brooks’ book, I decided to practice it: I sat down, softened my gaze, and smiled, telling her that I needed to get off my feet.
We exchanged names. She asked about my family, and I pointed to my youngest son, David, and my husband, Russ, over in the corner, washing trays. When I mentioned they were “engineering types,” somehow that sparked an instant connection—we were suddenly conspirators against all engineers. Then, with a twinkle in her eye, she told me about “the one that got away,” a mechanical engineer she once loved, until “California happened.” She went on to share her life as an artist, leaning in, looking me in the eye, and gleefully revealing far more than I had expected. As she regaled me with her stories, I laughed like I hadn’t in a long time—deep, belly laughter that caught me completely by surprise.
It was a marvelous, holy experience. I walked away filled with joy so pure it startled me.
And maybe that’s the point: seeing others doesn’t require a perfect script or hours of conversation. It requires presence. A tender gaze. A willingness to be surprised.
As mothers, we hold that power every single day—to see our children, the people they bring into our lives, our husbands, our friends.
When we do, we give them the soil to grow—and in this profoundly creative act, we are changed as well, touching the divine in every gaze, every moment of presence. In this way, we love as God loves.
P.S. In this YouTube video, I showcase how I am using this understanding in my wellness business.