Jess had her birthday this week, and I was invited over to dinner and to meet some of her and Amber's friends.
Because they were "fresh imports," their social circle mostly revolved around folks in the Wesleyan Church--most of whom were young, female, single ministers. The INFJ in me kicked in almost immediately as I tried to make sense of my new environment.
Before the ice finally broke between the old friends and the new people, Amber came over at one point and simply said, "You know, I'm outgoing and happy to be with people when I'm at work. But when I'm in certain social settings, I just kinda get really awkward."
The lady beside me whose name I don't remember because I'm a terrible person said, "Yeah, I'm just really not very good at making small talk, and I HATE talking about the weather."
I don't remember how or if I responded to either of them. But I remember thinking, God be praised, I'm not the only one feeling completely awkward because I'm the newbie in the crowd. Put me in a work environment and I'm happy to play the networking games with new people. But this wasn't a work environment and I'm still trying to figure out how to not pull out my phone every few seconds to pretend to respond to a text when inside I'm freaking out, going through the list of questions the INFJ had created previously to avoid awkwardness in settings like these.
On the drive home, Annie read to me from "Plan B" where she talked about David, a guy born with a birth defect who, after years of being embarrassed by his birth defect, finally decided to embrace the beauty of awkwardness and simply start sharing his story.
It made me wonder about all my friends in ministry. How many of us deal with those awkward moments where we should know the right things to say or ask so that we can keep up the warm, fuzzy "we are ministers so we really know how to put people at ease" appearance? When inside, our stomachs are going crazy with having gone through the entire life cycle of a butterfly several times over in the span of those 12 seconds of awkward silence. (My friend Allison once told me a gay baby is formed every time that happens, and while it's probably not true, you're going to start counting to 12 think of the gay baby now every time there's an awkward silence. You're welcome.)
By the time Annie was done telling David's story, I finally realised I needed to continue writing. Good stories, embarrassing moments, and the grace that carries us through all that and everything in-between. I realised that back when I decided to start collecting stories, I also made the decisions to protect them and share them when necessary. And I realise that a lot of my stories were much like David's. They happened so I can share them with others so that we all feel a little less alone in our human experiences.
I realised too, today, that part of what makes me tick is the simple awareness that I'm just as human as the one next to me. I worry about the life-cycles of the butterflies in my stomach, and if the caterpillars were the cause of how it seems like no matter how much I eat, I struggle to maintain a healthy body mass. Don't even start giving me the, "You don't know how lucky you are to not have to worry about your weight" because you're making the assumption that I don't actually do that. The reality is if I don't keep enough body mass on, I can have horrible cramps because my body doesn't know what to do with my reproductive system. Or you know, I just faint from time to time; no big deal. The fact that I have little interest in consuming food doesn't help. (I do LOVE cooking, but I love it even more if there are other people who are eating the food I make). It's no REAL cause for worry, right?
And I screw up. I screw things up and then screw even more things up when I get angry or frustrated about having screwed up the first thing. I get angry. I make stupid decisions. Like the number of times I've skipped a few meals here and there just to get other things done, fully aware I function better if I didn't have to recover from passing out. I finally believe God loves me regardless of my stupidity and screwed-up-ness but instead of gratefulness, I throw it all out and choose to push limits, knowing God's going to let me back in anyway because the only one I'm really hurting in the process is myself. I guess (s)he'll probably get a little upset about my choices, but I think even my most stupid decisions are too small because (s)he is awesome like that. And then God's going to shake his/her head, roll his/her eyes and say, "You finally happy now? Come on in, it's time for dinner." And again, I would drag my feet along, ashamed of myself, but thankful God lets me in anyway in spite of knowing I had more interest in new recipes and new friends than in the feast itself. As Annie would say, God is such a show-off.
So I keep collecting those stories and keep telling my own. Because it makes me realise how human I am and that I'm no better than David with his birth defect, or Annie with her binge-eating, or my other friends involved in things the world say are wrong but couldn't actually be bothered to take time to understand.
And then I feel a little bit better about the butterflies and their life-cycles, and all the other times I could/should have done better.
Grace. Eventually.
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