Blake does this thing sometimes.
Every few sundays, when we are sitting in church, the speaker will give some historical example to support point number 3 (subset A). I’ll look to the side and squint, the physical symptom of my brain flipping through my inner Rolodex of books, lectures, and podcast episodes, shuffling through the cards of interpretation. It’s an unnecessary practice that generally belabors the point in question, but despite this, Blake will lean over and whisper; “is that true?”
The reason why is significant...but complicated.
When we did our premarital study, a point was made about halfway through that everyone has a “vow.” The speaker giving the study pointed to his suit as an example. Growing up, his family experienced extreme poverty—the “never enough to eat, didn’t come home every night, shoes never fit and need to wear clothes until they turned into actual rags” variety. He wasn’t able to afford decent threads until he was an adult. Once he arrived, he promised God and everyone he would never go back. Nice clothes were a non-negotiable item in his closet. Shoes must be shined, and ties must be straight. It made sense, until that mentality evolved into a divisive agent in his marriage. It wasn’t the clothing, but the “never again” that became an idol that—thanks to prolonged trauma—became easy to use as a fence instead of a bridge. His warning to couples was to acknowledge your “vow” now, and to never put it before your partner.
We had a long discussion about it, and I'm glad we had the talk sooner rather than later. We practiced an imperative vulnerability rooted in practical matters, and I’m hoping it’s something we can hold onto when we are at year 50. A couple of tears were also shed that night, because I was in the middle of learning to come to terms with my crippling insecurity when it comes to intellect.
My “vow” was to never, ever let anyone treat me like I’m stupid again.
When people treat me like I’m dumb, I can’t handle it...and it happens all the time, in ways I take far too personally. When superiors talk down to me at work. When my problems, professional or otherwise, are taken for granted. When I have to say the same thing 5 different times in 5 different ways before someone believes me. When I start getting excited about some psychology thing, or some biblical canon thing, or some history thing, and people give me this skeptical look. When I say anything and it’s flippantly dismissed. When it even happens in the “nice ways”—a tsk tsk followed by “well, she’ll see eventually.”
I feel like I’ve spent my life fighting twice as hard to be taken seriously, and I hate it.
My logical brain knows that it is irrational, and I’m sure I have a couple causes I could point to. The fact is that I’m not sure which one is correct and they don’t really matter any more. Right now the importance is in the navigation, and boy am I bad at steering ships. Just this morning I had to physically stop myself from giving seven different disclaimers when asking questions at the veterinary office.
I’m doing the work. It’s just taking a while.
So sometimes, on Sundays, Blake will lean over to me and softly ask, “is that true?”
He’s asking because he wants to know, but he’s also saying, “I love you.”
...Insecurity is a thorn. My point is this: sometimes thorns are followed by a bloom.
I know. I’m not the person who throws out the philosophical turds like “everything happens for a reason.” Thorns hurt, sometimes life sucks, and nothing has made me more certain of the doctrine of total depravity than driving on 435 every day. But sometimes...thorns have blooms.
I don’t know how else to say it, so I will say it like this: struggling with this has given me a gift in the art of listening. That’s not a brag. In so many conversations my flesh struggles not to correct, ask sensitive questions, or vomit information that may or may not be relevant. I can be judgy, hyper focused, and opinionated. But I have this supernatural ability to get people to open up. On more than one occasion we’ve left a store and Blake has commented “I didn’t think that cashier would ever stop talking.”
Perhaps, sometimes, maybe, I hope that it’s the work of Redemption turning the Vow into something new.
People tell me things. I try to ask questions that help them feel safe. Mysteriously, the thing they need to hear comes out of my mouth. I always manage to find the pressure release. I look out for the pockets of fresh air in need of harnessing. I help someone feel heard, because the thorn aches every now and then and I don’t ever want anyone else to feel like that.
I promise to stand up for myself.
I promise to use my powers for good.
Truly.
If we are being honest, it isn’t even the bloom I wanted. I wish things were different. I still have a lot of work to do. How I carry it is between me and Jesus. But it’s a bloom, nonetheless. One that will look quite nice on my table, opening under the sun and thriving in a glass.
I hope your bloom is in sight and within reach. I hope you find it soon. I hope the petals smell sweet, and the colors are vibrant. If it opens, let’s get lunch. I’m told I’m a pretty good listener.
