A crying girl stood between me and the entrance to the toilet.
Her sobs came in loud bursts, the kind that takes over your whole body and makes you look funny. She couldn’t have been more than eight. Pink top, flared skirt, with cornrows that looked newly done. This little girl wasn’t just crying; she was wailing and frozen in place as something scary stood in her way.
In that moment, I followed her line of sight. A brown cow.
Massive, still, and tied to a pole just a few feet from the entrance.
The cow looked like a gift for Thanksgiving, kept at the back of the church grounds where the library was tucked away. Up close, it looked even bigger than it probably was with its thick neck and an occasional flick of the ear. It didn’t move toward us. In fact, it couldn’t because the rope held it firmly in place, but the girl didn’t see that. All she saw was danger.
I had stepped out of the library for a short break. It was one of those quiet afternoons where the sun feels gentle instead of harsh, and for once, I wasn’t rushing. Lately, I had been spending more time at this paid library, determined to get my money’s worth.
However, I didn’t expect to walk into fear that day.
“Hey, look at me,” I said, stepping closer.
She did not.
The little girl’s eyes stayed glued to this cow, as though looking away would somehow make it charge towards her.
“It’s okay,” I tried again, softer this time. “I’m here.”
She did not flinch.
So I moved in front of her, gently blocking her view. For a second, she resisted, trying to peek around me, desperate to keep the threat in sight. But eventually, her eyes met mine.
“Good,” I said quietly, but I was almost losing my patience. “Now stay with me.”
I reached for her hand and positioned myself between her and the cow. Step by step, I guided her towards the door.
Those moments felt longer than they were. Her grip was tight. Her breathing uneven. Every few seconds, she tried to look past me again.
“Eyes here, baby girl,” I reminded her.
One step. Then another.
And then we were outside.
The end was almost comical. The moment her feet crossed the threshold, the crying stopped. Like someone flipped a switch.
She sniffed once, adjusted her skirt, and walked off, as though the past few minutes hadn’t happened at all.
I stood there for a second, half-amused, half-amazed, wondering where all that fear went.
Later, I couldn’t stop thinking about her because, if I’m honest, I’ve been that girl more times than I’d like to admit.
Fixated. Stuck. Completely overwhelmed by something that looks like a threat even when it isn’t. Or at least, not as powerful as I imagine it to be.
Sometimes it’s my career. The uncertainty. The pressure to get things right. The quiet fear of falling behind.
Sometimes it’s decisions I haven’t made yet.
Sometimes, it’s nothing concrete at all, just a feeling that something could go wrong.
And like her, I lock my eyes on it. I study it. Magnify it. Let it grow until it fills my entire field of vision. All the while forgetting the One standing right in front of me.
I wonder sometimes if Jesus watches me the way I watched that little girl.
Patient.
Gently stepping into my line of sight. Not removing the “cow,” not always changing the situation, but offering me something else to focus on.
“Look at me,” He says.
And I don’t always listen. Sometimes I keep glancing back, convinced the “danger” deserves more of my attention than He does.
But when I actually fix my gaze where it should be, something shifts.
Maybe not the situation, but me.
The cow was always tied.
The only thing that changed was where she was looking.
And maybe that’s the point I’m still learning too.
PS: This piece was culled from my Substack. I loved how relatable it was with my newsletter community and believe that more people need the encouragement.
See you in the next post,
All my love!
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