In Humanness

Two very dear friends came to visit me recently. It’s been more than three years since I’ve seen them, and pulling them close in a deep embrace, I was jolted by the feeling that I had been living with a profound relational void without their presence. 

On the surface, this lack of connectivity was inexcusable, given relative ease of transportation, and constant connectedness via social media. We live a meager three hours from one another. But as an introvert myself, I know that my willingness to open up to friends, even dear ones, in moments of vulnerability and deep personal uncertainty feels beyond communicable. ‘I’m just going to get through this, and when I’m “all right”  again, I’ll talk to people. ‘I just can’t right now.’ This thought pattern has been the soundtrack of my frailties, and replayed so many times in my own mind that I imagine it as a scratched record stuck on, “I just can’t, I just can’t I just can’t.”

But in moments when you can’t hide, and even if you could, it would feel disingenuous to those who knew you so well and truly do not care to hear your protective fluff that it’s time to pull up the needle of the record player and move past the repeating loop of personal misgivings.

I was apprehensive about our reuniting. How awkward would it be? Would it be as though we had never been apart? Would conversation be full of niceties and safe pleasantries? Three years can be no time, or a whole lot of time. How much had each of us grown? How much would time have affected us? 

And although I’m generally very hard on myself, I’ve come to value a strange relational co-mingling of my own creation; a bold, risky combination of vulnerability and confidence. It’s this willingness to be open and exposed that I’ve found to be quite rare. And perhaps for good reason. It would be foolish to spill your guts to every tom, dick, or harry just in the hopes of gaining their confidence to share in kind. You share with those whom you trust and know will be non-judgemental of your frailties. But so often it seems as though people desire others to open up to them without offering any sort of genuine personal honesty in return. But to be fair, this openness can be done with a manipulative motive, albeit non-malicious. 

Being aware of the pitfalls of both, I remain convinced however that true connectedness comes within the dynamic of reciprocal sharing.

And so, with my girlfriends sitting on my most recent imperfect adult purchase, a stylish yet stiff love-seat in my small Queens apartment, I decided to give them the complete red dot, “you are here” of the last three years. I wasn’t going to see this time frittered away in idle “how are you’s?” “Oh, good.” Because, if you’re a human living in the 21st century, the totality of your holistic life surely is not simply, “oh, good.” If it is, I will politely excuse myself from your dull, dishonest company, understanding that it is your complete right not to share. Equally however, I'm not inclined to pander to that kind of protectionist chatter, especially with dear friends, and even less so from myself.

I wanted to update them both in a spirit of honesty and vulnerability, and also set the tone of ease and safety if they wanted to share. But here I was, shooting from the hip as it were, telling these amazing, believing Christian women all about my core misgivings about faith, God, and the modern church. 

Heaven help this awkward, rambling woman named Grace.

I’ve been careful about who I’ve shared these recent revelations with, knowing that many are threatened by these kinds of skepticisms, and knowing myself all too capable of oversharing. 

I’ve found there to be a few typical kinds of responses. One: “Oh, I’ve been there too. You’ll get through it. It’s just a season.” Two: “You just have to do what’s right for you; follow your heart.” “It’s all relative truth anyway.” Or three: “Wow, this resonates. This is how I’ve felt for a really long time but never felt ok to admit it.” 

My one friend is incredibly thoughtful, discerning, and intelligent; not prone to emotional outbursts or negligent words. And when I finally shut up my ranting monologue, she began to give us, or rather me, some insight into her last three years. 

She and her husband have been struggling with infertility. My heart sank into my stomach.

Her honesty in admitting the challenge to reconcile her “unexplained infertility” with a kind and loving God struck a deep cord with me. We spoke about pain and disappointment; the inescapable frustration of it all. I believe we all sat as equals in that moment; all frail, all experienced in our respective stages of life, all honest about the sometimes brutal realities of living.

It was beautiful. It was inglorious. It was hopeful. It was love and honesty among friends.

There was no “God’s going to make everything alright.” “He knows what you’re going through and will make it all worth it in the end.” “He’s just testing you.” And the classic, “You just need to have more faith.”

Instead, it was, “I’m so sorry, this is shit.” “It’s cruel and its unkind.” “I love you.” “Let us know if there’s anything we can do.” They were the words and sentiments that we felt intrinsically; sincerely. For I’m convinced that there is no surer way to show someone that you’re not truly listening than to speak a platitude to them, no matter how well meaning.

A christianese banality only serves to give the illusion of comfort and assurance. It’s more for the speaker and much less for the hearer.

I believe that there is genuine hope expressed in the admittance of shit, because it resonates in the trueness of experience. And from that place of trueness can come humor, creativity, movement, calmness, hope; whatever outlet your spirit needs to cope with the pain of grief and disappointment.

I’m so proud of both these friends. Amazing women; full of hope, courage, and steadfastness. It takes some serious spunk to be open and vulnerable about your story in the midst of it. So many suffer in silence along the way, because honestly, the christianese platitudes hurt too much.

So let’s be genuine with one another, recognizing that there is hope, even in the admittance of shit.