We are not often permitted to tell the truth in everyday life. There is a small set of words and reactions and pleasantries we are allowed to say, like, “I’m fine, and you?” But we are not supposed to say much of anything else, especially how we are really doing. We find out early that telling the whole truth makes people uncomfortable and is certainly not ladylike or likely to make us popular, so we learn to lie sweetly so the we can be loved. And when we figure out this system, we are split in two: the public self, who says the right things in order to belong, and the secret self, who thinks other things.
Sometimes I get sick of listening to people drone on about little things and how fine they are. When the truth is that they are rarely fine. They are so far behind fine that their ‘fine’ couldn’t be found with binoculars. Or so far past fine that they expect the birds to notice their superhuman joy and start speaking to them.
What would it look like if we started to introduce our secret selves to other women we see at the coffee shop? The introduction might sound something like this:
“Hi, I’m Lyndsee. I’m recovering, and most recently I’ve been struggling with isolation and control and I’ve also been getting quite angry with my friends for no reason. I feel awful about these things. But Jesus is helping. Also deep breaths and my dog. How are you?”
If she answered honestly, great—new friend! And if she ran away, great too! At least we’d know right away that we didn’t match. I’d think it was a brilliant, efficient plan.
Yeah yeah, I know. Don’t do it. You’d probably love to explain to me that these types of things are not appropriate to share at the coffee shop even if they are true. That strangers trying to get a cup of coffee don’t necessarily want to hear about my anxiety and confusion. That sometimes it’s right to filter what we are really thinking to protect ourselves and families from utter humiliation and just to keep society running smoothly.
To whereas my response would be to ask you if “filter” meat “lie?” Some of you may be screaming, YES, definitely!
You might be right. I understand. But I still think it’s vital for a girl to share her truthful, secret self somewhere. In order to avoid going a little batshit crazy, she must have a place to say the things she is actually thinking when she is either saying appropriate things or saying nothing at all due to the filter/lying policy.
This goes for a child, too, because the split between the secret self and the public self happens early and hard. Every little girl is told at some point that the world does not want to see the ugly, afraid, secret version of her. Sometimes the people who tell her this are advertisers, sometimes they are people close to her, and sometimes they are just her own demons.
And so she must be told by someone she trusts that this hiding is both necessary and unnecessary.
She must be taught that, in fact, some people will want and need to hear about her secret self as badly as they need to inhale. Because reading her truth will make them less afraid of their own secret selves. And she must be taught that telling her truth will make her less afraid too. Because maybe her secret self is actually her own personal prophet.
She must also be warned that her truth will undoubtedly make some people uneasy and angry, so she’ll need to share it strategically, perhaps through art, which God offers as a safe way to express joy and madness. And she’ll need a trusted person to help her find a medium, so she won’t feel that she has to hide or hold her breath any longer. Because when she exhales, she’ll discover that she’s created the space to inhale again, and that will keep her going.
Friends, if you’re blessed enough to be someone’s person and you are called upon, keep being who you have always been. Do what you’ve always done. There is a reason your friend chose you for that role, so don’t freeze. Keep moving. Trust your instincts.
Go to her. Don’t call first, because she won’t know she wants you there until you arrive and sit down. Don’t ask, “What can I do?” She doesn’t know. Just do something. When you go to her house, bring a movie in case she doesn’t want to talk. If she does want to talk, avoid saying things to diminish or explain away her pain, like, “Everything happens for a reason,” or “Time heals all wounds,” or “God gives us only what we can handle.” These are things people say when they don’t know what else to say, and even if they are true, they are better left unsaid because they can be discovered only in retrospect.
When her pain is fresh and new, let her have it. Don’t try to take it away. Forgive yourself for not having that power. Grief and pain are like joy and peace; they are not things we should try to snatch from each other. They are sacred. They are part of each person’s journey. All we can do is offer relief from this fear: I am all alone. That’s the one fear you can alleviate. Offer your person your presence, your love, yourself, so she’ll understand that no matter how dark it gets, she’s not walking home alone. That is always enough to offer, thank God.
Grief is not something to be fixed. After real grief, we are reborn as people with wider and deeper vision and greater compassion for the pain of others. We know that. So through our friend’s grief, we maintain in our hearts the hope that in the end, good will come of it. But we don’t say that to our friend. We let our friend discover that on her own. Hope is a door each one must open for herself.
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” —Anais Nin
This season I’m in. It’s like Easter.
My pastor once said that for Christians, Easter means that people can rise from the dead, and that relationships can, too. That even the bush that looks withered and brittle and lifeless can bloom, if given enough time, enough tending, enough love. A new season will come. There is always hope. What looks like the end might just be the beginning.
Sunday might be right around the corner, but there is no fast forwarding through Friday and Saturday. The cross has to come before the resurrection. It’s the way of the world. And unless you bear witness to the truth, unless you face it head on and choose to open your heart to the pain, you won’t bear witness to the miracle either. If you run away from the crucifixion, you just might miss the resurrection.
But I’m learning that the pain, the struggle that comes before the resurrection, can be a long and excruciating process. At some point in my process, I had to stop deciding things. I am learning to listen to the still, small voice telling me not to run—and I am taking each day as it comes.
I remember what my pastor said about Easter. That even the shriveled, lifeless bush can bloom. That Easter Sunday comes after Saturday; the Resurrection after the Crucifixion.
I’m currently in the Saturday of my journey right now. I’ve started the hard work of healing and waiting and grieving and raging and holding on to others and allowing myself to be held. When I want to turn away or run away—I have to remind myself about what I love about life. One of my favorite things about life is transformations, and I don’t want to miss mine or any of my squadmates. This World Race thing, it’s been incredibly hard—but I want to see it through all the way to the end.
Healing is painful. Thankfully, when we turn away, God gives us lots and lots of tries. God is Forever Tries. God sends healing partners in all different forms. He sends sisters, girlfriends, strangers, authors, artists, teachers, therapists, musicians, and puppies until one or several stick. But if we want redemption, we have to let one stick. We have to sit through the pain long enough to rise again.
My teammates (past and present) and I have been brokenhearted in all the best ways. They have helped heal me, I have helped heal them, and we heal each other all over again, every single day. We are honored to be wounded healers. Good has come of it all.
So friends, when we sincerely ask one another, “How are you doing?” Don’t settle for I’m fine.
Friends, Easter is coming.
