I have a text of Scripture taped to the sun visor in my car. It is a well-known one: "Before a word is on my tongue, you, O LORD, know it altogether" (Psalm 139:4). This morning, as on many mornings, as I was on my hour-long commute, with the car on cruise and the radio off, the import of those words struck me again.
You see, my head is a pretty noisy place. There is always something to think about, always something to notice, to wonder at, always a new path to explore. Some of those paths lead nowhere at all, but provide several hours of delightful wandering. Sometimes, I can grab hold of an idea that forms a logical path that leads to ideas that can be explained and shared. Sometimes, there is no discernible path, only a flash of insight that defies all explanation but that explains everything.
Living with that noise in my head means that I love my long lonely commutes, and that my radio is often off. I value the gift of silence. Noise, or even sound, sometimes feels like a physical barrier that imprisons me. It presses in on me, binds me tight like a straitjacket. The expectation of conversation can sometimes feel overwhelming. Silence sets me free. Silence is standing in the middle of a wide-open field, or on the top of a cliff, with an unobstructed view. In silence, my mind can soar, and I feel free.
So, this morning, in the silence, with my mind soaring, thinking I don't-even-know-what-all, my eyes fell on this text. "Before a word is on my tongue, you, O LORD, know it altogether." And in that moment, in that moment when all moments coalesce in one perfect, heart-stopping breath, I felt known. I felt seen. And I felt loved.
Known by a God who knows all those tangled, noisy thoughts better than I know them myself. Seen by a God who does not require me to translate my thoughts into spoken word. Loved by a God who is comfortable in the silence, who is quite willing to sit in the silence with me, and who does not find it odd.
"You have the gift of silence. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion."
And in that moment, for a moment, the noise in my head stopped, too.
And all was silent.
Known. Seen. Loved. Altogether.
And I breathed in peace.
Monday, 25 January 2016
Wednesday, 13 January 2016
About That Nail
There is a short video on YouTube called, It's Not About the Nail. It's about a woman, who is talking to a man, presumably her boyfriend or husband. She laments the pressure in her head, the throbbing pain, the fact that all her sweaters get snagged. When he tries to point out the nail she has sticking out of her head, she rips into him. "It's not about the nail!" She just wants him to listen, to empathise, to "hear" her. And so he tries to do that. And everyone laughs hysterically when they watch the video.
Can I be honest?
I didn't laugh. I don't really get why it's funny. I'm not really sure if it is making fun of women or making fun of men. It seems to be making fun of something or someone, but I don't get who or what. I understand that it's hyperbole, and that we're not talking about literal nails literally sticking out of people's heads. I understand that this sort of conversation is repeated probably by the minute in relationships all around the world. But I don't get why the video is funny.
In fact, the video makes me kind of mad.
Now, there are occasions when people have a metaphorical nail sticking out of their head, but they don't know the nail is there. As obvious as it is to others, they are unable to see it themselves. They can see the symptoms of the problem, but they cannot identify their source. I understand that. It's called denial, and it's a powerful force. I have fallen under its spell myself, many times, and, indeed, probably am still. We all have blind spots about our own character. I get that.
What I struggle to understand is this: if my symptoms are so severe as to warrant my complaining about them, would I not want to identify their source? Would I not want to solve the problem? I've been in the position of having a nail poking out of my forehead, and I will remain eternally grateful to the people in my life who said to me, "You've got a nail in your head." The prison doors opened that day. There was a problem, and it was solveable. It wasn't an easy solution. It was gut-wrenching. I cried buckets of tears in the weeks, months, and years that followed, as I struggled, by God's grace, and in his strength, to extricate that nail. But there was hope. For the first time, I could imagine a life free of headaches, free of pressure in my head, and free of snagged sweaters. I could see a life free of the problems that kept me from getting close to others. I could see a life beyond the nail.
Likewise, I will remain eternally grateful to those who listened, who heard, who saw me as I struggled to remove the nail. When I cried that it was painful, they cried with me. And reminded me that the nail had to go. When I bled as the nail was extricated, they staunched my wounds. And reminded me that the nail had to go. When I wanted to stop the process and just sit around moaning about snagged sweaters, they called me on my bull-hooey. And told me, without compromise, that the nail had to go. When the last bit of the nail was finally removed, they rejoiced with me. And reminded me that it was all worthwhile, because the nail had to go. There is certainly a place for tenderheartedness, for empathy, for affection and grace and really listening. But the nail has to go.
But this woman seems to want to learn to live with the nail.
I see people, both men and women, behave like that woman way too often. There is a glaring problem, a problem about which they are fully aware, but they do nothing to solve it. Instead, they spend all their time playing the victim, expecting others to "hear" them, to "empathise", to "care". No, no, don't tell me there's a problem. Don't try to fix the problem. In fact, I don't really want to solve the problem at all. I love the problem. I love being a victim. Poor me, I have a nail in my head. But when it is suggested that I could solve my problems by removing the nail, I argue that it's not about the nail. "I don't need you to solve it. I just need you to listen."
Can you imagine trying that with God? God, I feel so sinful. I feel so guilty. I have such shame. I feel so unworthy. I feel so unloved. And God says to us, "That's because you ARE sinful. You ARE guilty. You ARE unworthy. But I love you and I have a solution." And we say to God, "Come on, God, you just always try to FIX things! I don't need you to fix this. I just need you to listen. I just need you to care."
But that's just it. He does care. He cared enough to fix it. He cares enough to yank the nails out of my head.
And allow them to be hammered through the hands and feet of his Son.
Sometimes, it IS about the nail.
Can I be honest?
I didn't laugh. I don't really get why it's funny. I'm not really sure if it is making fun of women or making fun of men. It seems to be making fun of something or someone, but I don't get who or what. I understand that it's hyperbole, and that we're not talking about literal nails literally sticking out of people's heads. I understand that this sort of conversation is repeated probably by the minute in relationships all around the world. But I don't get why the video is funny.
In fact, the video makes me kind of mad.
Now, there are occasions when people have a metaphorical nail sticking out of their head, but they don't know the nail is there. As obvious as it is to others, they are unable to see it themselves. They can see the symptoms of the problem, but they cannot identify their source. I understand that. It's called denial, and it's a powerful force. I have fallen under its spell myself, many times, and, indeed, probably am still. We all have blind spots about our own character. I get that.
What I struggle to understand is this: if my symptoms are so severe as to warrant my complaining about them, would I not want to identify their source? Would I not want to solve the problem? I've been in the position of having a nail poking out of my forehead, and I will remain eternally grateful to the people in my life who said to me, "You've got a nail in your head." The prison doors opened that day. There was a problem, and it was solveable. It wasn't an easy solution. It was gut-wrenching. I cried buckets of tears in the weeks, months, and years that followed, as I struggled, by God's grace, and in his strength, to extricate that nail. But there was hope. For the first time, I could imagine a life free of headaches, free of pressure in my head, and free of snagged sweaters. I could see a life free of the problems that kept me from getting close to others. I could see a life beyond the nail.
Likewise, I will remain eternally grateful to those who listened, who heard, who saw me as I struggled to remove the nail. When I cried that it was painful, they cried with me. And reminded me that the nail had to go. When I bled as the nail was extricated, they staunched my wounds. And reminded me that the nail had to go. When I wanted to stop the process and just sit around moaning about snagged sweaters, they called me on my bull-hooey. And told me, without compromise, that the nail had to go. When the last bit of the nail was finally removed, they rejoiced with me. And reminded me that it was all worthwhile, because the nail had to go. There is certainly a place for tenderheartedness, for empathy, for affection and grace and really listening. But the nail has to go.
But this woman seems to want to learn to live with the nail.
I see people, both men and women, behave like that woman way too often. There is a glaring problem, a problem about which they are fully aware, but they do nothing to solve it. Instead, they spend all their time playing the victim, expecting others to "hear" them, to "empathise", to "care". No, no, don't tell me there's a problem. Don't try to fix the problem. In fact, I don't really want to solve the problem at all. I love the problem. I love being a victim. Poor me, I have a nail in my head. But when it is suggested that I could solve my problems by removing the nail, I argue that it's not about the nail. "I don't need you to solve it. I just need you to listen."
Can you imagine trying that with God? God, I feel so sinful. I feel so guilty. I have such shame. I feel so unworthy. I feel so unloved. And God says to us, "That's because you ARE sinful. You ARE guilty. You ARE unworthy. But I love you and I have a solution." And we say to God, "Come on, God, you just always try to FIX things! I don't need you to fix this. I just need you to listen. I just need you to care."
But that's just it. He does care. He cared enough to fix it. He cares enough to yank the nails out of my head.
And allow them to be hammered through the hands and feet of his Son.
Sometimes, it IS about the nail.
Wednesday, 6 January 2016
The Game of Life
Have you ever watched a sport about which you know nothing? It is utterly baffling. Take football, for example. There are a bunch of men wearing a lot of bulky clothing, and they throw around an oddly-shaped ball, and they all jump on each other in an apparent attempt to kill each other, and it somehow involves a pool, but there is no water in sight. Yeah. What a great game. Should I happen to find myself sitting in front of a football game (which happens only very rarely, and usually by accident) I stay on the fringes and watch the people watching football because watching the people playing football makes no sense to me.
I feel like that about life in general a fair bit of time, actually. Interacting with people often feels like a sport about which I know nothing. It feels like an elaborate game that I just don't get. There are rules (spoken and unspoken) and players and an objective, but I never quite understand the rules, I'm not sure what the objective is, and mostly I feel like I can't communicate with the other players very well.
I'm odd. I know it. I'm somewhat good at pretending I'm fairly normal for periods of time, but inside, I know it's an illusion. I'm fairly eccentric, with a veneer of normal covering the lot of oddness inside, and the longer someone knows me, the more my eccentricity is going to leak out. I know I'm odd.
I know it, because on the occasions that I try to explain the things that I think about, the people with whom I'm talking look at me like I'm slightly mad. Not barking mad, perhaps, but definitely slightly mad. They have a look on their faces that says, "Who even thinks about stuff like that?" Sometimes they say it out loud, suggesting that I'm joking about what I've told them, that I'm saying it to be funny or outrageous, and that I don't really think about the things that I say I think about. Well, I do. All the time. All. The. Time.
I know it because, when I talk about things I find fascinating, the people with whom I'm talking glaze over, and the conversation dries up quickly. Worse, they suggest that I'm acting like a show-off or a know-it-all, or trying to be clever, or using some useless information to avoid talking about other truly important stuff - whatever that might be. But it wasn't useless information to me. It was information I cared enough about to spend time learning about. It was information that I found fascinating, I was hoping against hope that others might find it interesting, too, and I trusted enough the people with whom I was talking to actually share that bit of information and believe it wouldn't be met with a blank gaze or an eye-roll or misunderstanding.
And the thing of it is that, as much as I hate the feeling that I don't get the game of life, as much as I hate that people sometimes look at me like I've said something bizarre, as deeply as it hurts when the people I love most deeply still seem to misunderstand me despite my best efforts to explain what is going on, deep down, I love the world inside my head. It's a delightful, exciting, wonder-filled, worship-filled space, filled with endless fascinations and intriguing possibilities. And that inside world is critically important and precious to me - far too precious to allow it to be knocked about by those who prefer to think it at best uninteresting and at worst as madness and folly.
So I learn to cope. On good days, I do my best to navigate this game called Life. Sometimes, I manage a couple of good passes. For a step or two, I can sidestep the pack of other players about to bury me. When I drop the ball or get buried under the other players, I can even admit my oddness out loud, make a joke of it, and carry on. I have learned to laugh at myself. With a very small handful of people indeed, I dare to reveal a bit more of the eccentric and wonderful world inside my head. But invariably, what feels like a gross misfit begins to rub too hard. I fumble more than I pass. I get crushed under a pile of odd looks faster than I can sidestep them. Learning to laugh at myself, and being laughed at by others are two quite different things. I simply must step away from the game. I must go back to my books, back to my thoughts, back to the high-definition world of wonder that remains inside the boundaries of my skull.
Back into the arms of the One who created me in all my mad glory, who knows my every thought even before I do, who loves me fully, who delights in my eccentricities.
With him, there is perfect understanding.
With him, I belong.
I feel like that about life in general a fair bit of time, actually. Interacting with people often feels like a sport about which I know nothing. It feels like an elaborate game that I just don't get. There are rules (spoken and unspoken) and players and an objective, but I never quite understand the rules, I'm not sure what the objective is, and mostly I feel like I can't communicate with the other players very well.
I'm odd. I know it. I'm somewhat good at pretending I'm fairly normal for periods of time, but inside, I know it's an illusion. I'm fairly eccentric, with a veneer of normal covering the lot of oddness inside, and the longer someone knows me, the more my eccentricity is going to leak out. I know I'm odd.
I know it, because on the occasions that I try to explain the things that I think about, the people with whom I'm talking look at me like I'm slightly mad. Not barking mad, perhaps, but definitely slightly mad. They have a look on their faces that says, "Who even thinks about stuff like that?" Sometimes they say it out loud, suggesting that I'm joking about what I've told them, that I'm saying it to be funny or outrageous, and that I don't really think about the things that I say I think about. Well, I do. All the time. All. The. Time.
I know it because, when I talk about things I find fascinating, the people with whom I'm talking glaze over, and the conversation dries up quickly. Worse, they suggest that I'm acting like a show-off or a know-it-all, or trying to be clever, or using some useless information to avoid talking about other truly important stuff - whatever that might be. But it wasn't useless information to me. It was information I cared enough about to spend time learning about. It was information that I found fascinating, I was hoping against hope that others might find it interesting, too, and I trusted enough the people with whom I was talking to actually share that bit of information and believe it wouldn't be met with a blank gaze or an eye-roll or misunderstanding.
I know it because, when I listen to many of the things other people talk about, I feel like I have no idea what they're talking about. I feel like I'm listening to a foreign language sometimes. I feel like there's a subtext that I'm just too dumb to grasp. I feel the same way I do when I hear people talking about football. Is that even English? And if it is English, why is it that everyone else seems to understand what is being said, but I don't? I know I'm odd because when I listen to other people's conversations, very often, I feel like a complete fool. I feel like I should sit on the sidelines watching other people play an elaborate game they clearly understand, and the best I can do is watch, because I don't have a clue what's going on. So many times, judging by people's reactions, when I've tried to join in, I've said the wrong thing, acted the wrong way, or generally done something that is perceived as inappropriate or awkward, and I don't know what I did or said that was so odd.
Quite honestly, I feel slightly panicky much of the time I'm with people. Ask me a question, a question that, for most people appears totally innocuous, and the thought process might go something like this:
"So, what did you do this weekend?"
(Why are you asking me this? Are you asking because you really want to know, or are you simply making small talk? Because if you're asking to make small talk, I really don't understand why you're asking at all. Why would you ask me something you don't really care to know the answer to? But if you're asking because you really want to know, and I tell you the truth, how will you react? If I tell you what I did this weekend, what if you think I'm mad? What can I tell you about what I did this weekend that will sound relatively normal? What sort of person are you? What sort of things will you think are normal and interesting things to do on a weekend? How well do I know you? How much do I care if you think I'm mad? How well do you know me? Do you already think I'm crazy, so what I tell you won't make much of a difference? What to say, what to say, what to say?) "Nothing much. I spent some time doing stuff around the house." (Stuff like, you know, reading about William Pitt the Younger, an interest which was triggered by something else I read, and which led me on an exploration of familial mental illness, gout, alcoholism, the American War of Independence, the Napoleonic Wars between France and Britain, William Wilberforce, and the abolition of slavery. I wonder, was William Pitt the Younger really mentally ill, or was he just a product of his upbringing? But if I tell you all of that, I know you'll think I'm crazy. Hopefully, you'll think I spent my weekend vacuuming, which, while perhaps boring, is a fairly normal thing to do, unlike spending an afternoon reading about a British prime minister from the 1700's. But what a fascinating man he was . . . .)
No, really, you don't think all of that! Do you? Yes, really, I do. In the seconds between someone asking me a question and me coming up with an answer, I think all of that. And more. And nine times out of ten, the words and ideas and feelings that are in my head crowd so furiously that the mere thought of trying to sort them into comprehensible and socially acceptable words feels overwhelming. I can do it if I am well-rested. I can do it if I feel safe. I can do it if I feel like you're understanding of my eccentricities. I can do it if I have had enough time to sort through my thoughts and feelings, to unravel them and organise them neatly ahead of time (which probably explains my affinity for writing). I'll dare to try it if I think the person might share my interests. I'll dare to try it if I trust the person enough. But catch me when I'm tired, or stressed, or feeling unsafe, or feeling under pressure to meet unspoken expectations (that subtext that I simply cannot comprehend, no matter how many times it is explained to me), and what comes out will be something either utterly noncommittal or utterly uncensored. Not because I'm trying to hedge, nor because I'm actually a rude and nasty person (although perhaps I am), but because the effort of trying to find suitable words, placed in a socially-acceptable delivery pattern, to describe the cacophony inside my head requires far more energy than I possess in the moment.
"So, what did you do this weekend?"
(Why are you asking me this? Are you asking because you really want to know, or are you simply making small talk? Because if you're asking to make small talk, I really don't understand why you're asking at all. Why would you ask me something you don't really care to know the answer to? But if you're asking because you really want to know, and I tell you the truth, how will you react? If I tell you what I did this weekend, what if you think I'm mad? What can I tell you about what I did this weekend that will sound relatively normal? What sort of person are you? What sort of things will you think are normal and interesting things to do on a weekend? How well do I know you? How much do I care if you think I'm mad? How well do you know me? Do you already think I'm crazy, so what I tell you won't make much of a difference? What to say, what to say, what to say?) "Nothing much. I spent some time doing stuff around the house." (Stuff like, you know, reading about William Pitt the Younger, an interest which was triggered by something else I read, and which led me on an exploration of familial mental illness, gout, alcoholism, the American War of Independence, the Napoleonic Wars between France and Britain, William Wilberforce, and the abolition of slavery. I wonder, was William Pitt the Younger really mentally ill, or was he just a product of his upbringing? But if I tell you all of that, I know you'll think I'm crazy. Hopefully, you'll think I spent my weekend vacuuming, which, while perhaps boring, is a fairly normal thing to do, unlike spending an afternoon reading about a British prime minister from the 1700's. But what a fascinating man he was . . . .)
No, really, you don't think all of that! Do you? Yes, really, I do. In the seconds between someone asking me a question and me coming up with an answer, I think all of that. And more. And nine times out of ten, the words and ideas and feelings that are in my head crowd so furiously that the mere thought of trying to sort them into comprehensible and socially acceptable words feels overwhelming. I can do it if I am well-rested. I can do it if I feel safe. I can do it if I feel like you're understanding of my eccentricities. I can do it if I have had enough time to sort through my thoughts and feelings, to unravel them and organise them neatly ahead of time (which probably explains my affinity for writing). I'll dare to try it if I think the person might share my interests. I'll dare to try it if I trust the person enough. But catch me when I'm tired, or stressed, or feeling unsafe, or feeling under pressure to meet unspoken expectations (that subtext that I simply cannot comprehend, no matter how many times it is explained to me), and what comes out will be something either utterly noncommittal or utterly uncensored. Not because I'm trying to hedge, nor because I'm actually a rude and nasty person (although perhaps I am), but because the effort of trying to find suitable words, placed in a socially-acceptable delivery pattern, to describe the cacophony inside my head requires far more energy than I possess in the moment.
And the thing of it is that, as much as I hate the feeling that I don't get the game of life, as much as I hate that people sometimes look at me like I've said something bizarre, as deeply as it hurts when the people I love most deeply still seem to misunderstand me despite my best efforts to explain what is going on, deep down, I love the world inside my head. It's a delightful, exciting, wonder-filled, worship-filled space, filled with endless fascinations and intriguing possibilities. And that inside world is critically important and precious to me - far too precious to allow it to be knocked about by those who prefer to think it at best uninteresting and at worst as madness and folly.
So I learn to cope. On good days, I do my best to navigate this game called Life. Sometimes, I manage a couple of good passes. For a step or two, I can sidestep the pack of other players about to bury me. When I drop the ball or get buried under the other players, I can even admit my oddness out loud, make a joke of it, and carry on. I have learned to laugh at myself. With a very small handful of people indeed, I dare to reveal a bit more of the eccentric and wonderful world inside my head. But invariably, what feels like a gross misfit begins to rub too hard. I fumble more than I pass. I get crushed under a pile of odd looks faster than I can sidestep them. Learning to laugh at myself, and being laughed at by others are two quite different things. I simply must step away from the game. I must go back to my books, back to my thoughts, back to the high-definition world of wonder that remains inside the boundaries of my skull.
Back into the arms of the One who created me in all my mad glory, who knows my every thought even before I do, who loves me fully, who delights in my eccentricities.
With him, there is perfect understanding.
With him, I belong.
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