The Way
Today is the third day of a new decade.
Yeah, yeah, yeah to all those people that say the new decade doesn’t begin till 2021. We’re not being mathematically literal here (which I’m sure comes as a real SHOCK to those that know me). This is one of those things that ‘everyone knows’ and in this case ‘everyone’ is right. Math can calm down.
I’m at the starting line of the fourth decade I’ll live in. I’ll turn 40 in this one. So will my husband. All my kids will become teenagers in it. Hopefully I’ll have a book (or two!) published in it. My father will retire in it. As will my mother-in-law. (If you don’t, no biggie. But I think all your kids would be surprised. <3)
There are a ton of things I cannot plan on. The one I can is that the Lord will continue to shape me. My heart, my mind, my life, all of it. In fact, there was just enough time in 2019 for me to be reminded of these inescapable lessons.
The five of us were in Texas with my husband’s family for Christmas and went to church. I had the activity bag packed for my 7 and 5 year olds because they would be hanging out with us in the service, which can be especially trying at a church that isn’t theirs.
We got settled and were quite cozy in our little pew. I was sitting next to Twin A and he started to complain about not have enough room to color. I explained that that was just how it was going to be and helped him get situated and he kept complaining. I kept reassuring him that he was fine, trying to push through that “child upset” to “child understanding and realization” that everything was in fact fine. He kept complaining. Complaining to the point of tears. It wasn’t until he actually picked up the marker to color that I got it.
The other two kids were fine. They had pushed through and were now coloring contentedly between me and their Nannie. Just like I knew they would be. I would’ve been fine in that situation. My husband would have too. But we all have something in common. Something that it had never occurred to me could make it difficult to color in a tight space.
We’re all right handed.
Twin A is left handed. He didn’t have an easy spot for his colors. He couldn’t use the weight of his other hand to hold the book open. He couldn’t even easily reach the page he has trying to color. He wasn’t being overly sensitive. It was legitimately harder for him to color in that tight space than it was for his brothers.
Was I a bad mom because this hadn’t occurred to me? NO. But I would’ve been a bad mom if I had made the realization and done nothing about it. If I had kept demanding that he was ‘fine’ because his brothers were fine. Because I would’ve been fine. That would’ve been bad parenting, horrible parenting in fact.
We figured it out and I helped him. And when I tried something to help him, I asked if that actually helped him. And he got to be occupied and color a picture of Spider-Man.
I wasn’t pandering to him. It was his reality, and my lack of compassion or lack of understanding or lack of experience or even belief that things were how I perceived them to be… did nothing to change his reality. BUT I 100% had the ability to make his life harder through my lack of understanding, my lack of experience, my lack of compassion, or my lack of even believing a difference existed. I could’ve demanded that he switch hands, to make his reality closer to mine.
But that’s stupid. Any human with a heart will immediately recognize that as stupid. He didn’t need to change. I did. My thinking had to switch.
Why do we do this? Because we do. We do it all the freakin’ time. By now, you can tell where this little not-assuming-that-everyone’s-life-experience-is-the-same anecdote is going. And it’s sweet and easy to follow. And people will think about it.
But it’s not terribly “real”. I mean it is, because it really happened. It really made me stop and think and spend the rest of the sermon typing notes on my phone about this essay. But it’s an easy example to swallow. What about a tougher one?
And unfortunately, I have one of those too.
When I was 22 I was teaching theatre in Mesquite, TX. It was my first job out of college. I had my own apartment (totally by myself, no roommates), I was paying my own bills, I had my own gym membership, I was planning lessons and entering grades. I was an ADULT. I knew everything I needed to know.
I was also directing the school’s production of Rumors by Neil Simon. All the characters are adults, so a couple of the actors needed to be aged a bit. Fortunately, I was trained in that and knew everything there was to know about aging makeup too.
We were doing a makeup test on one of the actors and I was starting to apply silver hair color to her temples. She stopped me and asked, “Is this going to be okay on my hair?” I assured her it would be and even thought it was a strange question to ask.
It was not okay on her hair. She was African-American. And in my ignorance, my “everything is how I’ve experienced life”-ness, I severely damaged her hair. It had never even occurred to me that my hair would be different than someone else’s.
But it should have. Because as an adult, as a director, as a teacher, I should’ve researched. I should’ve paid attention, I should’ve taken a moment to consider that the very fact she asked the question might mean that something was different. But I didn’t. Instead I ignored her concern and pushed forward with my knowledge. My experience. My way.
Her hair broke off down to the scalp where I applied the color. Not only did I cost her family some serious money to try to repair the damage, and to help her try to save face at school, I caused emotional damage too.
She had to go to school with bare patches on her scalp. She had to go to Prom with her hair not looking how she wanted it to look because she was missing hair. And I know that in her memory, I’m that white woman that ignored her situation. Ignored her race. Ignored her.
Shame on me.
Before someone comes rushing to my defense, I want you to imagine yourself in that situation. Imagine having two bare patches above your ears that you can’t cover without spending several hundred dollars.
Not quite as sweet an anecdote. But still real life.
So why do we do it? Why do we assume that our way, our experiences, our life is the ‘real’ one and that everyone will match it? Why did I do it?
Reason 1? We don’t know any different.
People are terrified of the word ‘ignorant’. Of everything it implies. It is not a pretty word. Even onomatopoetically speaking, it’s ugly. But it’s also real. And needed. Finding out you’re ignorant about something doesn’t make you a bad person. It’s harsh to say but that’s determined by what you do with that information.
Reason 2? Fear.
It is safe and so easy to never look outside of your sphere. To never venture into someone else’s. To never feel out of place. Or feel uncomfortable. To risk the fact that we might be wrong about something. That we might not know everything. That we might be ignorant.
It’s scary to admit that you don’t know something. We think that that fear is childish and we automatically grow out of it. But that’s not true. Admitting that you don’t know something is still scary. Because it means being vulnerable. And open to the idea that your reality isn’t THE reality. Or that you might be wrong.
Because once you are confronted with being wrong, you can only respond three ways.
1. Ignore it. Live in a place of denial. Pile so much on top of the truth that you just might forget it.
2. Refuse it. Ignore truth, ignore the pain of others, and embrace a form of narcissism where only you are right and cannot possibly be wrong. That your way is the truth. Other people need to change to fit your world, your experiences, your life.
3. See it. Hear it. Acknowledge it. Learn from it. And allow it to change you. It will not be easy. And it will be uncomfortable. But it’s worth it.
I would’ve been a real piece of work if after ruining a young woman’s hair, I learned nothing. I would’ve been a monster if I had just dismissed it as an ‘over-reaction’ and somehow her fault because my hair wouldn’t have done that.
This is why we need Jesus.
Jesus is our common experience. Jesus is the standard we can all rally around, no matter our life history. Jesus is right. Jesus is the way.
Not our interpretation of the way. THE WAY. If you love Jesus, being proved ‘wrong’ or ‘ignorant’ in an area isn’t a death sentence. Didn’t our Lord deal with this on a daily basis? The Apostles didn’t all become the same person, with the same life experiences and lack of biases.
They were still human. With human failings. And human ignorance. And human bigotry. But because they all loved Jesus and served Jesus and wanted to do it JESUS’ way, not their own, they changed. They admitted when they were wrong. They even celebrated it. “I know this is what we thought but I was wrong! Praise God that He opened my eyes!”
A pretty great lesson to end 2019 with.
Like I already said, I know the Lord will continue to shape me. I know that the work on my soul and my heart isn’t complete yet.
And praise God for that. Praise the Lord that this ISN’T as good as it can get. That I’m not as good as I can get. And neither are you.
May the next decade be the decade of going outside our sphere. Of being bold enough in Christ to be uncomfortable. Of trusting the love and supremacy of the Lord so that we THINK and consider and then pray for guidance in that love. Of seeing that the world isn’t always the most comfortable for our left-handed loved ones. Then choosing to walk THE WAY. And maybe holding their coloring book for them.
