One day, feeling truly disconnected from not only God but myself, I sent a text to a dear and wonderful friend who lives just far enough away that I couldn't say, "Hey, can I come over?" but who is sweet enough to 'talk' when I need to. I took a chance, and told her what was going on. Poured my heart out (as much as one can in a couple short text messages) and waited for a response. And waited. And waited. Just after I sent a followup text saying something along the lines of realizing there was likely now no basis for our friendship, she got back to me. Someone had come to the door and she couldn't respond right away. Relief doesn't begin to describe what washed over me. We chatted a bit, and I felt better, not only because of what she had to say, but also because I reached out. Past where I wanted or intended to. And the response was love.
Last weekend, there was a gospel in which Jesus' family thought he was a little nuts. Sipping coffee Saturday morning, I read the words from Mark, laughed right out loud, and told God that I could relate. I still imagine his relatives and their actions and reactions. I figure it was likely those on Mary's side -- the same crowd that had trouble with Zechariah and Elizabeth naming their son (Jesus' cousin) John, since it wasn't a family name. I can see Elizabeth rolling her eyes at them, and turning to Mary, shaking her head, both women knowing that Jesus was going to do whatever he needed to do. None of this is based on anything but my imagination, but it helps to make the image real sometimes, familiar. I poured my heart out about my doubts, my fears, my dreams, my questions. It felt really good, but I also felt funny about it, like it was somehow inappropriate, out of line. I had surprised myself with my honesty, and didn't know what to do about it. So, I did what I do when I figure I might be about to get in trouble: I told a person, and then another person.
What I found in each case was that no one was shocked. None of these people said they thought I was crazy, or wrong, or anything I expected. And neither did God. In fact, since then, he has methodically responded to each of my doubts and fears, to each of my frustrations, gently showing me that he was listening and hearing my cries. And that he appreciated my honesty -- finally.
The two experiences are connected, and closely so. The first time, I had this great pause before a response, and in that time, which was a gift, I was able to really experience what it felt like to be vulnerable in my faith. Frankly, it was really uncomfortable! But in all that time, not once did I second guess my feelings. I wondered if it had been wise to share them via text message rather than face to face, but I knew, no matter what the outcome, I had told the truth about myself: who I was, where I was, where I wished and hoped I could be. And my friend's response came out of love, and full of love. Tender love. Last week, I knew not only that I was being honest, but that I really had to share, to open myself to my own community, to allow my friends to be a part of my journey. The reason for that may become even clearer, but I do know that it's related to my tendency to turn in. I also know it's related to making magic happen.
Last fall, I went to a training related to my job, and a presenter was talking about taking risks in order to get our point across in dealing with teens. He drew a simple Venn diagram with two circles -- one very small, labeled 'comfort zone,' and the other larger and completely separate, labeled 'where the magic happens.' I brought it home, used it a couple of times in meetings, and gave then gave it to my pastor, who added a couple of points. The whole diagram now shows exactly what this whole sharing of myself thing felt like -- feels like, because it's not meant to end anytime soon. With God's grace, I can face the fear associated with vulnerability: with people, yes, but more importantly, with God himself.
This morning, I wondered in my prayer about sharing that which God already knows about me. He knows my heart, so why do I really need to tell him what's scaring me, frustrating me, irking me? It didn't take long for me to realize that sharing it with Him, as aloud as my praying happens to be [which depends on how alone I am in the room....] puts me in a place of being honest with myself. That's something that is harder than I had previously thought. It finally occurred to me what a bit of dying to self means. For me, right now, it means letting go of my self-judgments and allowing for my mistakes, my questions, and even my demands to be truly mine, which doesn't mean that I expect any kind of response or resolution. On the contrary, it means I don't need to expect anything at all -- I can voice them, and let them hang in the air between me and God, and what happens with them, happens. I can move forward, through the place where I am afraid, to where the miracles happen. And they happen every day, if we look for them. If we just show up where we are meant to be.
*none of whom were being actively ignored -- they had their own activities out of the house, so I was alone in all this isolating time. Hold the bus: I can't honestly say that about my friends. I must confess that I was not even trying to connect with them.
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