The other night, our family went out to a small Italian restaurant in our neighborhood—a rare pocket of calm in the full pace of life with work and three kids. We slid into our seats, placed our order, and without even noticing, my husband and I both reached for our phones. I couldn’t tell you whether we were answering a text, checking a football score, or mindlessly scrolling. What struck me later was how natural it felt to be distracted from the very people I love most in the world.
Thankfully, our ten-year-old son interrupted the drift. Insightful and emotionally intuitive, he announced that we were going to play a game called Get Closer. Using an app by the same name, he began asking questions that invited each of us to share. One question stopped us in our tracks: “Who was the teacher who impacted you most in your life?”
For the rest of the meal, we told stories, listened closely, and opened ourselves to one another. I was reminded how endlessly fascinating the people closest to me truly are—and how much there still is to discover when I am actually present. I also felt the sting of realizing how often I miss these moments because of distraction.
I know I’m not alone. We may be living in the most attention-challenged era in history. The phrase attention economydescribes the world we now inhabit—a world where our capacity to notice is monetized and manipulated. Most of us have experienced this: you pick up your phone to make a call, tap a notification, and suddenly twenty minutes have disappeared in a blur of scrolling. Researchers warn that our attention spans are shrinking under the weight of constant stimulation.
Yet in a time defined by distraction, attention has become a rare and radical gift. To be physically present but emotionally elsewhere has become normal. Which means that offering someone our full presence—truly seeing them—carries incredible weight.
Recently, I found myself returning to a familiar story in Mark 10. A rich young ruler approaches Jesus and asks what he must do to inherit eternal life. Jesus lists several commandments, and the young man eagerly responds that he has kept them all since his youth. Then comes a striking line from The Message: “Jesus looked him hard in the eye—and loved him.”
Before Jesus said anything challenging or invited the man into deeper freedom, He saw him—and loved him. This pattern appears throughout the Gospels. Jesus pays careful attention to children His disciples try to dismiss; to a woman dragged before Him in shame; to suffering outcasts pushed to the edges of community; to lepers; to Bartimaeus calling out from the roadside. At the height of His ministry—surrounded by demands, expectations, and crowds—Jesus consistently slows down for the one person in front of Him, especially the one society overlooks.
As a trauma practitioner, I sit each week with people carrying profound pain. I draw from years of training, but again and again I see that what many people long for most is simple: someone who will sit with them, listen without judgment, and offer compassionate presence. Many have gone most of their lives without that kind of attention from anyone. When it finally arrives, it often marks the beginning of deep healing.
In a world saturated with noise, those of us seeking to carry the heart of Christ are offered a meaningful opportunity. Our attention—limited and precious—is one of the most powerful gifts we can give. To offer attention is to offer presence. It looks like asking open-hearted questions, noticing both pain and joy, and honoring the stories entrusted to us. It means resisting the impulse to fix or evaluate and choosing instead to witness with compassion.
Perhaps it begins with the smallest of choices: putting the phone down at a restaurant table, looking into the eyes of the person across from us, and allowing ourselves to be surprised again by the wonder of another human soul.
Attention will never be effortless in a distracted world—but it is transformative. When we choose to see—truly see—we participate in the healing way of Jesus, who attends to the overlooked, the ordinary, and the beloved right in front of Him.
Maybe that is the invitation for us now: to reclaim the simple, sacred practice of paying attention. To be people who notice. People who linger. People who look one another in the eye—and love.
Beth Peake
