I get this look sometimes.
It was 2007. I sat in the bleachers at a basketball game, slightly miffed but present. The gym was invaded by loud thumps and abrasive buzzers, announcing various changes as they progressed. We were ahead, if I remember right. I was there against my will. My roommate (one of the best people, honestly) was tasked with rousing me out of bed and trying to get me to exit our room after a brutal depressive relapse that left me sleeping most of the time. In the process, she was convinced she could get me to be a person that goes to basketball games on purpose, which is how I ended up watching girl’s junior varsity on a Friday night. That’s when the conversation behind us caught my ear:
“Yea I actually really, really want to intern there. I think I’m going to apply.”
I turned around, butting in but polite about it, giving a small wave—
“Are you talking about Texas?”
The girl turned to me with an eyebrow raised. I knew her from mutual friends and some shared classes, so we weren’t strangers. Recognizing me, she replied, “I am, how did you know?”
“I know the team lead for interns. I’d be glad to put a word in for you if you want.”
And then it happened. The look. The look I get every time I say anything with any kind of confidence. The unmistakable look, that says very clearly:
“Who do you think you are?”
Who did I think I was? No one special, not someone who pulled strings or leveraged contacts on a regular basis. But I did know the team lead, he was a kind person who had put up with a decent amount of my teenage nonsense for the last couple of years as he volunteered with the youth group. When he moved to Texas, he managed quite a few of my friends during the exact program she was talking about. We weren’t even remotely close but we did have the kind of relationship where I could point out a name on a resumé for thirty seconds. I wouldn’t make something like that up just to sound impressive, that would be weird.
She was hired that summer. Go figure.
It was 2014. I was at a friend’s house for a gathering to welcome a new church staff member. I sat down next to my friend Alyson with my plate of various finger foods and munched as conversation about various topics commenced. ‘What neighborhoods are you interested in?” “What do you like to do in your free time?” “What’s important to you in your new role?” Minor chit chat flowed easily between bites of food. I looked down to scrape up the last bite of a mozzarella stick when I heard the new guy say something I couldn’t ignore:
“Anyway, so we are actually kind of interested in getting a teacup pig.”
I dropped my fork, abandoning my fried cheese and blurted “oh please do not do that.”
It was quick this time. Cocked head. Conversation lull. A slight eye squint.
Who do you think you are?
Here’s who I think I am—someone who just shared a house with a teacup pig. The only people who should have teacup pigs are people who have hobby farms, and zero other people. Their little hooves are not meant to walk on tile or carpeted floors. They are smart enough to be incredible escape artists—and when they are big enough, to break into the fridge. They scream at three in the morning in decibels that rival fire engines. They eat their food—and the plate. And worst of all, they bite your ankles when you are trying to do laundry. I have only kicked one animal in my life, and it’s when I lived with a teacup pig (he wasn’t even fazed). Most aren’t even true teacups, they are cheaply, irresponsibly crossbred and sold under false pretenses, so unknowing buyers are left with a no less than 60 pound animal with significant problems and terrible reproductive behavior walking around their house that they can’t get rid of. I am telling you, I will die on this hill, do not get one.
He didn’t get one, so I consider at least one family saved.
It was 2015. A friend of mine had just gone on a camping trip with the boys. He was showing around photos from the weekend when a picture surfaced that I recognized immediately. Angry bites trailing the entirety of someone’s leg, dotting in and out. He asked if anyone knew what the bites were and I piped up:
“Those are chiggers.”
He rolled his eyes. “They aren’t chiggers.”
“I will bet you money, those are chigger bites.”
You know the drill. Frown. Scoff. Head tilt.
Who do you think you are?
Look, am I a bug expert? No. I never said I was. But I am someone who worked summer camps for the past four summers. And within those summers—because we are in the Midwest, after all—an inevitable mud fight would commence, and I wish I didn’t have the pictures to prove it. On one such occasion I was caught off guard, sopping wet and eyes on the wrong enemy line, when a student snuck behind me and poured an entire bucket of mud down my back. Turning to chase him, I slipped in the muck and immediately ate it in a giant puddle. I stayed there, void of dignity and gasping for air because I was laughing so hard. It was no surprise that 4 hours later I was sitting outside the shower room, legs slathered in hair gel, waiting for everything to dry out and subsequently suffocate the nasty burrowing grass-mongers that made their home in my legs in identical, angry bites. I had no less than fifty bites. I still want to barf just thinking about it.
So, sure. you can waste time asking me who I think I am, or you could listen for five seconds so I can tell you how to get rid of chigger bites for less than 3 dollars. I’m wrong about a lot of things but chigger bites aren’t one of them. And also, what a weird thing to be annoyed about.*
I’ve learned some things since then (…boundaries, for one). And there’s something to be said for approach, saving room to decipher who you do and don’t accept input from. I can’t say, on the flip side, I would have listened to me all the time either. Most of the time, I am choosy about when to speak. Am I saying that to get you on my side? Yes. Yes I am. But I’m also saying it because I’m a big fan of nuance, and as someone who’s learning what unsolicited opinions feel like, I get it.
But also…
I’ve noticed a running theme in my life, whether I’m the talker or the listener, and it’s this—the truth we tell is only as good as the truth we receive.
I’ve been in enough situations where input was requested, and then rejected, to notice that truth tellers tend to be the worst truth receivers. It’s usually the type who pride themselves on “telling it like it is” or being “always right.” I distrust people with self-claimed gifts of discernment the most. They are generally easy to recognize, as they often only show up in my comments section when they are annoyed. And if you’re like me—nodding your head, thinking “so-and-so really needs to understand this”—maybe so-and-so isn’t the problem.
It doesn’t even have to be about differences of opinion. Too often the truth in question revolves around legitimate concern. I’ve witnessed firsthand the dire consequences of closed ears and an open mouth. It usually sounds something like:
“If you don’t find a way to slow down, you’re going to burn out.”
“I really need you to make me a priority in this.”
“What happened to me was real, I didn’t make it up.”
“This person has just communicated that they are sensitive to this topic, so maybe it isn’t time for your opinion.”
“I’m trying to make this work but I need to know what you actually need from me.”
“I’m trying to make this work, but this is what I need from you.”
“I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but you’re hurting people who care about you.”
And, possibly the MOST true: “No, the musical Cats will never be good.”
I’m kind of over the Matt Walsh look alikes. I’ve learned to look for the listeners, the doers, the people who show up. It’s them who leave room for context, and take their words off of pedestals they were never meant to be on. They take the time to ask themselves if their words are inspired, necessary, noble, or holy—or if they just sound good. The pastors who have sat in the background of weddings and funerals have had richer things to say to me than the once a week variety in the pulpit. It’s teachers who gave me the gift of patience who made the most impact. Genuinely, one of the great universal human experiences is finding out our assumptions are wrong. How exciting!
There’s a season for everything; for truth telling or forbearance. And if you’re wondering, I’m not advocating for withholding truth.***
It’s just that, maybe it isn’t really about telling it like it is. Maybe it’s about letting words run unharnessed.
Or, more specifically…
Untamed.
Imagine that.
Notes:
*In fairness, this person probably had some reason not to listen to me. That reason being that once he posed the question, “what’s the difference between Bheetoven and Mozart” and I answered him in twenty three successive texts. Please save your cringes for the end of the post.**
**On second thought, I’m not sorry. Don’t ask me what the difference is between Bheetoven and Mozart if you don’t want the answer.
***You always have to say that for the Baptists in the room.
