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Everywhere I Look, I See Your Face

Everywhere I Look, I See Your Face

Last updated on: August 14, 2026 at 11:30 pm by Mary Pezzulo

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Everywhere I Look, I See Your Face 2026-08-14T23:30:27-04:00 Mary Pezzulo

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Children about Snow White and Rose Red's age, reading a book.

image via Pixabay

It was the busiest week of the year.

I was helping out at the back-to-school summer day camp for the church outreach near my house. Most of the time, I only volunteer there a few days a week. But this time, I spent every afternoon for five days zooming back and forth between classrooms, passing out play clay and scissors, presenting slide shows, reading stories. I showed videos on biology, ecology, and space travel. I organized the teenagers in a card castle contest and a quiz game for identifying local plants. I passed out far too many stickers and candy bribes for even the slightest attempts at good behavior. We all sang and danced to those children’s hymns that are only inspiring if you’re in elementary school, or if you’re so old that you don’t mind if people think you’re acting like an elementary schooler. “Waves of mercy, waves of grace! Everywhere I look, I see your face! Your love has captured me! Oh my Lord, this love, how can it be? La, la, la la la! La, la, la la la!”

This year, the Bible School was attended by my neighbors, the Baker Street Irregulars, including the Disabled One. She came into the combined preschool-Kindergarten room in her noise-canceling headphones, clinging to her younger sister who is a head taller. The older one is short, skinny, and ghostly pale, with dark hair and a tricky lack of social skills; the younger one is plump, blond, extroverted, and scrupulously polite. Sometimes I call them Snow White and Rose Red.

I explained to the little ones that we were going on a pretend trip to the zoo. I put a live video of the Pittsburgh Zoo’s animal enclosures on the projector screen, and then I passed out a stack of bird books and other lavishly illustrated books about animals, and some coloring sheets and crayons. “Draw your favorite animal! The books are for inspiration if you need it. Careful not to get any crayon on them!”

But Snow White did not want to color. She wanted to leaf through the bird book and enjoy the pictures. “Tell me the birds!” she demanded. “I can’t read them.”

I looked over her shoulder and read the names of the birds as she turned pages and pointed. Blue jay. American robin. Domestic goose. Mallard. Blue-footed booby. California condor. Snow White corrected me when she felt I’d not read the word correctly. “Not domestic goose, Miss Mary! Duck! Not mallard, Miss Mary! Duck! D-u-c-k duck!”

“My sister is autistic,” explained Rose Red, in a friendly way. “That’s why she acts the way she does.”

“Well, I’m autistic too,” I said. “Autistic girls can do whatever we want!”

The class went so smoothly that it felt like a little vacation. I got home that evening in a happy mood. Waves of mercy, waves of grace. Everywhere I look, I see your face. La, la, la la la. La, la, la la la.

The next day was not so pleasant.

Snow White has bad days, just as anybody does. On a bad day, if the slightest thing throws off her sense of order, she can begin to panic. Like many people on the spectrum, when she panics, she doesn’t look frightened. Instead, she looks defiant and starts acting impulsive. If you say “stop that!” or any words to that effect, it makes the panic worse, which makes her more defiant, and then all hell breaks loose. This time it was partly my fault.

“All right, Kindergarten!” I said. “Come with me! Time for another zoo trip!”

Snow White balked. ” I’m not in Kindergarten!”

“Oh, I meant… you’re supposed to be in this class, with Rose Red. You like to follow Rose Red around, don’t you? Come on, I’ll read to you about birds again!”

“But I’m NOT in KINDERGARTEN!” cried Snow White.

I ended up letting her tag along to several of my classes in a row. This was trouble, because my classes for the older children were noisy and she hates noise. The other volunteers did a wonderful job keeping her from acting out until the end of the day.

“I need to go to the bathroom!” said an overstimulated Snow White.

At that moment I was the only female volunteer available, so I took her downstairs to the girls’ room. Just at that moment, a tired mother who’d come to collect her children walked into the girls’ room to change her male toddler’s diaper.

“Not the boys’ room!” said Snow White.

“It’s not the boys’ room! I promise it’s the girls’ room!” but Snow White had run away and plowed into the boys’ room by the time I finished a sentence. I eventually got her into the right place. Then there was trouble, because she has an aversion to splashing water and refused to wash her hands. As I tried to negotiate for hygiene, I realized she’d left her backpack and one of my animal books in the stall, on the floor. And they were wet.

I honestly don’t know if what I uttered under my breath was an earnest prayer or a venial sin.

“Miss Mary, you said ‘God!'” scolded Snow White.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I should have said ‘gosh.'” And then I made the mistake of turning my back to grab Clorox wipes to save the book, at which point, Snow White bolted.

I found her in the art studio, which was already tidied up for the evening. The lights were out. It was nice and quiet, just the place for a child with sensory issues to relax after a hard time. There were all kinds of wonderful art supplies right at eye level.

“Turn the lights on, Miss Mary! I need to paint!”

“No, it’s not time to paint! Come on! The bus is getting ready to leave!”

“No, I’m painting!” Snow White helped herself to some play clay from the lower shelves. “Turn the lights on, Miss Mary! It’s time to paint!”

“Please, just get on the bus! They’re waiting for you! It’s time to go home!”

“It’s time to go home” was the wrong answer. Snow White escalated to a full blown meltdown.

She had knocked over her fourth or fifth chair by the time Rose Red came into the art room, with their mother and older sister in tow. With the help of another volunteer, they managed to bundle her safely to her destination. I cleaned up the art room with liberal use of those Clorox wipes. I even got the book clean.

When it was all over, I went out to the side yard and collapsed at a picnic bench.

Children were everywhere, tossing footballs, blowing bubbles, singing and dancing. Everywhere I looked there was play, music, fun, mess, a place for everyone, just as it ought to be, just as I suppose it will be in Heaven.

I thought again of that hymn. Waves of mercy, waves of grace. Everywhere I look, I see your face. La, la, la la la. La, la, la la la.

I saw His face in a hundred people all around me: Snow White, Rose Red, their sister and mother. Mothers and fathers coming to collect their children, stopping for a moment to play. Human beings of every age, ability, denomination, playing outdoors in the August sunlight. I saw His face again and again and again.

I saw His face all the way home.

Mary Pezzulo is the author of Meditations on the Way of the Cross, The Sorrows an d Joys of Mary, and Stumbling into Grace: How We Meet God in Tiny Works of Mercy.

Steel Magnificat operates almost entirely on tips. To tip the author, donate to “The Little Portion” on paypal or Mary Pezzulo on venmo

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