Ever have something small at work shine a spotlight on something much bigger and important to you?
The other day at the library, I found myself talking to a woman sharing new research about a disease she had been beating the odds of for years--even while it exacted its cruel toll daily. She was passionately intense, hopeful and heartbroken at the same time. Why did she want to dive into the deep end with me, a stranger, about a difficult topic, possibly an uncomfortable one?
I'm not sure. But I think when people sit with ongoing grief or suffering, sometimes the broken bits can sit right on the surface like shards of glass--making them prickly and difficult-- or sometimes, blindingly beautiful. But one thing I've noticed, they don't waste a lot of time on small talk. And for that, I love them. People who share pain make me feel part of a larger story of our humanity: the way we all suffer, feel lost, betrayed, broken. The way we all long for redemption, beauty, belonging.
So there I was, completely engrossed. There weren't any other patrons in line, or even politely hovering in proximity-- waiting to be noticed but not wanting to commit to queuing up. There weren't any materials needing to be shelved. There was just this woman, our shared desk, and her profound wish to be heard. Oh, and then a phone ringing. How pesky. I looked around for my colleague to catch it since I was occupied, but she must have been busy too, because I couldn't see her anywhere.
The persistent ringing demanded my response so I picked up, preparing to ask the caller to wait a moment so I could properly conclude with the lady in front of me.
Instead, it was my colleague, calling from a back office with the equivalent of a "rescue call." She might have even used that word. Something about noticing I had been talking to this lady for awhile (five minutes? eight?!) and did I need to be rescued?
Did I need to be rescued?
From what?
Suddenly, strangely, I simply felt old. Like I had stepped out of the past and into our present pace and perspective I can no longer match. In a world where Facebook Likes (and sad faces, hearts and wow faces) is a standard form of connection, did my extended conversation seem like a lavish indulgence to my colleague? She had good intentions of helping me, but I wondered why she thought I was too meek or passive to wrap up the conversation in a gracious way.
Maybe it goes back to what I've already said about suffering and shards of glass. Maybe she just didn't want anything too messy at the workplace. It's a fair wish.
The other night I went to dinner with two friends. The food was secondary to getting a few hours of uninterrupted conversation. It was a late night, one that we knew we'd pay for in the morning. But we were investing in other important things. We might each have felt a little scratched up from spending so much time with two fellow sufferers, but if we did, I think even that was worth it. When I sit with true pain, it is hard. Well, it is painful. But when I stop trying to spin my life in best-case-scenario glimpses and show what a broken mess I really am, well, that's when the light gets in. Then that light bounces around all my broken bits and shines back to someone else who needs it, too. And quite remarkably, though nothing is fixed, or even better, three friends feel a little more hope. A little more love. A little more sense that God isn't finished with us yet.
I wasn't once hoping for a rescue text or call from all that.
Sometimes, when we shed the small talk in spaces large enough to hold what comes next, the beauty of Real is what we feared and needed all along.
