Noticer

by Brian Ritchie

October 2025

Story

Navigating quickly through a crowd is an art form. And its one that city dwellers think belong solely to them, having developed the ability through years of street school. But, I would argue that it is a genetic condition resulting from little bits of DNA code that have no patients for other code that just want to make people who are predisposed to leaving on time to get where they are going.

Whether or not it was by nature or nurture, I, personally, have always been that kid—now adult—that people pause to see if I’m still with them. I’m sorry, but when there is bustling going on, I’m just too easily distracted, and have to slow down so I can absorb all of the colors, movements, sounds, and—frightfully at times—the smells.

Now, unlike me, a skilled crowd carver doesn’t see a dense gathering of people as an experience to have but more of a challenge to overcome. My wife, for instance, can navigate a teaming school of agitated humans like a Whitetail doe bounding through an Appalachian forest. She works situations like a skilled chess master, making each move based on her prediction of the 8-10 moves any player in her path is going to make. Victorious, she will emerge from a herd of cattle untouched and exhilarated, only to become frustrated when she discovers I am nowhere to be seen.

I learned, for the first time, that I had this ‘deficiency’ many years ago. It was just after following my friend John through a crowd at the Dulles Airport terminal.

When I finally cleared the edge of the fray, he was waiting for me with that look on his face.

I ignored the attitude.

“Did you see that guy?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed. “We just walked by three hundred guys. No, I didn’t see “that guy.””

I took his air quote as a form of sarcasm.

“He had earrings in both ears,” I continued.

“So.”

“So, left means you like girls and right means, you know, you don’t. What does both mean?” I asked this with genuine curiosity. It was the 80s, and as far as I understood it, male ear piercing had strict rules which did not cover the scenario I had just encountered.

“You notice things nobody else does,” he said.

Then he turned and walked away.

I took that as the end of the conversation, but it was the beginning of something else. John, in his frustration with me, pointed out a quality that I hadn’t understood before, and from that moment, I had to start coping with the reality of being a noticer.

Non-noticers look at the world differently than us noticers. They are clinical and only bother with things like facts. Coldly, they journey through each day, storing their experiences based on the information that surrounds each sequential event. Then—and here’s the crazy part—they can recall dates, times, people’s names, weather conditions, car make and model, processes, and the best soil pH to grow asparagus. These people are suited to be historians, mathematicians, scientists, business people, engineers, mothers, doctors, cowboys, fathers, steel workers, farmers, and the like. They are also known as smart people.

Noticers, on the other hand, get caught up in emotional minutia. They are attracted to things like the the call and response of birds in the woods and how one of them seems to be ignored, and also how crummy that little guy must feel; they feel the cool breeze and smell the odd mix of mint and Circus Peanuts it carries; they feel the bead of sweat forging a path down their neck and into their cotton shirt which will now need washing; or they are the only ones who see the wax build up in their waiters’ ears. These people are aspiring writers, artists, and musicians, but can mostly be spotted behind the counter at Starbucks. They are also known as creatives.

A Tale of Two Minds

Here is how a non-noticer might retell an experience:

Ben parked his dark blue Toyota Camry on the concrete driveway. He noted that his oil change would be due in 523 miles.

He also noted that it was 8:52 pm and he would need to go to bed soon if he was going to get his recommended 8.5 hours of sleep.

He went up the six steps of his front porch and saw that his door was open 2 inches.

He took the 4 steps to the brown door and opened it fully so that he had an unobstructed view inside. It was too dark to make out any details, so he stepped in.

He said, “Hello.”

Something knocked over his $42 lamp and bent the green shade's metal rim, which would need replacing.

Then the something pushed past him and ran out the door.

Ben did not think it was human.

He stepped back outside to take a look, but the creature was no longer to be seen.

It was warm out, maybe 78 degrees, and rain was expected in an hour.

He thought about his experience and had a glass of water before bed.

And now, how a noticer would share the same event:

Brian tried a different angle into the newly poured driveway. The stupid city had recently replaced the apron after sewer work and had made the curb so severe that he hadn’t yet found the right angle and speed to hit it, which didn’t just about destroy the last of his Mercury Cougar’s suspension. The car was held together by duct tape, and the curb was beating it to death.

He left the car running for a moment and stared at the lit red oil can symbol on his instrument panel. He thought about giving her one more oil change for old times' sake. Maybe the good deed would buy him a few more months.

Exhausted, he pulled the key and closed his eyes just to alleviate the burn a little. It was well past midnight, and he would need to get up early for work. He mumbled the worn, familiar promise one more time that he would start taking better care of himself.

After a few minutes, he got moving and climbed the front steps. He hated those steps and was sure he was going to trip up them and bust a kneecap. They were too short and didn’t fit an adult foot. Other aspects of his house seemed catered to children as well, like the downstairs toilet that his rear end hung off of each side of.

At the top step, he paused. The door was cracked open, and he was almost certain he had closed it that morning. In fact, he knew he had, because he remembered a stiff, icy gust hitting him as he walked out, which almost jerked the slick, round, brass knob from his stiffened fingers. That knob was a tad small for a grown-up hand, too.

As gracefully and easily as he could, he tiptoed to the door. The floorboards creaked right where they always did, and he cursed in his head at them.

Slowly, he pushed the door, and it opened easily to his touch. Too easy. It was as if it was inviting him in, and was in collusion with whatever awaited him in the dark.

He squinted through the precipice, trying to make out any shapes he didn’t recognize. But the light was too dim, and the whole of his living room was in shadow.

Cautiously, he took the final step over the threshold.

There was a smell he didn’t recognize. It was like sweaty cheese and wet chihuahua on a summer afternoon. He gaged slightly.

Mustering bravery, he started to yell, “I’ve got you, you son-of-a…”

A loud crash startled him, and he braced himself for a struggle.

Then a form rushed toward him from the dark, and he wrapped and dropped it like a Free Safety, but it was slimy and cold to the touch. More cheese—aged sharp cheddar, to be specific—and more damp, little dog hit his nostrils.

What was it?

His gut wrenched as if to vomit, and he let the creature go.

It was out the door and running down the street when Brian jumped to the porch yelling, “You’d better run!”

Thoughts

Both Ben and Brian had the

same experience, and the real events were much closer to what Ben stored away in his memory, but Brian’s is a story.

Being a noticer means I see weird little details that may be irrelevant to the facts, but they are the seasoning in the potatoes. And, who wants to eat plain potatoes?

I guess I love the journey of a story and the excitement of the beautiful and ugly details. It’s in the sour flavors and puckered cheeks that I feel God’s joy. I can’t explain it any other way, and I think it’s the thing He blessed me to do. It’s the slice of his magnificent likeness that I got as a gift.

Genesis 1:27 says, “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.”

God is the greatest of all storytellers. He’s telling one right now in your life. No matter what you woke up to this morning and moved into, it was today’s act in the play that is your life, and God is the one painting the scenery, writing the script, directing the players, and if you listen to him, he’s got a killer finale prepared for you.

Prayer

Savior Jesus,

I am saved

I am saved

I am saved

Father God, let that be the finale of the great drama you have told me. But may it just be the opening line to an adventure, a thriller, a mystery, and most of all a love story.

Praise you Lord, for the incredible care you put into the details of our lives, and that every twist and turn is written by you for the glory of your kingdom and the edification of those that love you.

Bless this day, oh Lord, and give us eyes to see, and ears to hear.

In the name of Jesus,

Amen

Going Deeper

1. How might your own “noticing” — of small details, emotions, and people — be a way God invites you to see His presence in ordinary life?

   (Consider how being attentive to beauty, imperfection, or humor helps you recognize God’s fingerprints in daily moments.)

   
   

2. What story is God writing in your life right now that you might be too busy—or too distracted—to notice?

   (What details, emotions, or “small scenes” might He be using to reveal something deeper about Himself?)

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