Talking

So I’m back.  I know, you’re like, what, I don’t hear from you for months and now you’re going on a tear?  I can’t help it, people.  When I gots to get it out, I gots to get it OUT.

Some people tell me I don’t talk very much; others tell me I’m a chatty cathy.  I think it depends on what I’m railing on about, frankly.  I have got LOTS to say about Jenny right now, for instance, because she is a total jerk.  (Jenny is the dog, not a person.  This may color your perspective of the following description.)  While she’s earning points in the cuddle department by wanting to be beside me constantly, she’s also tanking most righteously in the chewing arena.  Oh. My. Gosh.  She will pick up anything just to feel it in her mouth.  It can be a stick, a toy, a leaf, a wad of paper, a shoe, a pencil, a dryer sheet… she doesn’t care.  She is equal opportunity and she will pick up ANYTHING.  It’s like living with a toddler again.  “How in the world did you get that?”  “What does that go to?”  “Drop it!”  “Ewwwww.”  “Oh my gosh could you just STOP?!”  She doesn’t intentionally destroy things, she just wants to chew on something – but God forbid we chew on the rawhide PURCHASED AND MADE SPECIFICALLY for this purpose, these chewies that are covered in chicken-flavored-dog-crack or whatever the People At The Store said she would love.  No.  She does not want THAT, that foul-smelling, moist and sticky abomination I just stepped on that was slathered in a glorious mixture of pretend chicken-flavor and dog spit.  No.  She wants whatever she just saw out of the corner of her eye as she came careening around the corner at lightning speed, right before she crashed into the wall.  It’s a shoe, or a sock, or a book, or some other useful item – but good grief, it’s not the dog treat SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO HER.  Lord save me from the puppy energy, because this girl’s got it.  Bless her heart, she’s a doll, but I cannot WAIT till the chewy thing is over.

I got distracted.  See?  I can talk.  I could tell you all about this little bundle of energy who is sleeping so soundly beside me right now, recharging her puppy-batteries and getting all stocked up for another day of playing Let’s-See-What-I-Can-Drag-Out-of-the-Recycle-Bin-and-Chew-Into-Tiny-Bits-and-Strew-Around-the-Yard.  Yes.  Or let me talk to you about the bread I made the other day.  You know, the bread I made in the bread machine with the recipe that sounded like it had a lot of yeast in it?  Yeah, that one, the one that smelled heavenly but apparently kept rising right out of the little bucket, reaching its little doughy self right down onto the sides of the bucket and all over the inside of the bread machine, before being baked and burned into a groping semblance of a loaf.  THAT one.  But I’m not going to tell you about that.  I’m going to tell you about talking.

This reminds me of Polonius in Hamlet, when he asks Hamlet what he’s reading.  “Words.  Words.  Words.”  A lot of words.  Words can be just that, innocuous little things when put in a story or a poem or a recipe.  They serve a function by conveying meaning, so what?  Oh let me tell you, words can be sneaky little bastards.  They can be like little irritable Chihuahuas with razor sharp teeth, ready to tear and destroy and rip the hearer apart; or they can be soft and comforting, like laying your head on your mom’s lap while you lie on the couch on a beautiful day when the windows are open and the breeze is coming in.  Words can build and words can destroy in a matter of seconds.  Think of it, how many times does the Bible talk about watching your tongue?  A lot.  (Here’s where being a pastor would be helpful but I’m not one so you’re going to have to google it yourself.)  All I’m saying, is that you would think that we’d watch these little buggers closer than we do, knowing their propensity to sink ships, destroy livelihoods, create euphoria, and everything in between. 

But I’m not talking about watching what you say lest you injure someone with your poorly chosen words.   I’m talking about really talking with people.  Investing in the people you know and love and making an effort to communicate about feelings, emotions, hurts, joys.   We waste so many of our words every day with mindless talking, and yet we don’t SAY the things that truly need to be said.  “How are you?” “Fine.”  Geez, how many times a day do I say that?  Not that I’m suggesting you unleash a torrent of feelings and emotions on the cashier at the Daily’s who just asked you that while she was ringing up your caffeine hit.  “Well, I was FINE until he put dish soap in the dishwasher last night and I woke up to a kitchen knee-deep in bubbles.  But now I’m NOT fine, and now I’m gonna WHACK him.”  I’m not saying that.  I’m saying, let’s think about the way we talk to our families, our close relationships, the people who mean the most to us. These are the very ones we hurt the most, either with the words we speak or the words we DON’T speak, and they’re the ones who love us best!  How messed up is that?!  But it works that way; how many movies have you watched where some little misunderstanding gets blown into epic proportions, and she believed this and he thought that, because the characters didn’t communicate?  That’s pretty much the plot line of every Fred Astaire movie, like ever.  (Just so you know, and now you don’t have to watch them.)  

I’m bringing this up because I royally suck at communicating things that make me uncomfortable, touch me deeply, embarrass me, or hurt me, or basically involve any strong emotion.  Yes; I was born a robot.  Pretty much anything meaningful I have a hard time expressing in words, at least to your face.  Dallas has gradually worn this part of me down over the years, and I’ve gotten to the point that I’m able to talk to him about stuff that bothers me, as well as HEAR stuff that bothers him about me without taking his head off.  The boy has the scars to prove it, I’m sure, but he has the patience of Job.  Kudos to his parents for developing this part of him, because the good Lord knew I’d need remedial training in this area, I guess.  I’m learning to tell the other special people in my life how much they mean to me and to take constructive criticism – something I may actually be able to do before I die.  Maybe.  You know me, and you know I’m awful at it, but I continue to pray for divine intervention.  And because I royally suck at communication, how many of you also may have this problem, and might I be your horrible warning for the day?

Do you notice how people tend to avoid the hard conversations, the awkward confrontations, the uncomfortable topics in life?  I know it’s not just me with this problem.  It can’t be.  Please tell me it’s not.  Believe me; I want to avoid any slimy sentences that explain some ugly truth and I DON'T want to be the one that has to tell you your skirt's tucked up into your underwear.  But I’ve also avoided the heartfelt, the touching, and the dear conversations that would heal and mend, if only I had the bravery to say them out loud.   What is this, that we avoid the extremes of emotion in our daily lives?  Are we so concerned with how we’ll be perceived if we’re honest and open with each other, that we’ll forgo being either one, in order to maintain some imaginary vision of peace?   If we just spoke the truth in love, wouldn’t it be uncomfortable in the short term but far better in the long term?

Here’s a prime example.  When I was about 14 or so – aaaand that tells you all you really need to know, right?  Teenage girl -- angsty, hormonal, emo -- whatever word you have for that divine stretch of adolescence where your ordinarily delightful child oscillates between snarky and sullen, immature and steadfast, garrulous one minute and as lively as a glop of vanilla pudding the next.  Yes, whatever you call that wonderful time.  I’m really looking forward to it with my own teenagers.  Anyhow, when I was that age, Mom and Dad and I spent a weekend camping.  I’d asked Dad to take me fishing, and we went out on a short boat with a couple of reels and a bucket of worms.  I thought we could talk while we fished, not like big-important-stuff-talk, but maybe quiet-tones-like-we’re-in-the-library kind of talk.  I knew you had to be quiet when you fished, like, don’t yell and announce to the fish that WE ARE HERE TO ABDUCT YOU but, I mean, fish don’t even have ears.  Never mind the absolute absurdity of the thought that a MAN would TALK.  I didn’t even know about THAT.  (Ladies, when you ask him what he’s thinking and he says, “Nothing,” he really means that.  There are no thoughts there, just wiiiide empty space.)   However, in my very teenage, very female mind, I misunderstood Dad’s silence.  I thought he wasn’t interested in me, or I’d probably done something wrong.  I thought I was ridiculous, making him come all the way out here just to sit in a boat and watch the water, because we sure weren’t catching any fish.  Here he probably had an entire weekend of something else he needed to do and I was wasting his time.

Yes, that’s asinine, but I didn’t know then that you don’t talk while you fish, and that men don’t think like women.  Seriously, folks, I did not figure this out till YEARS later.  Those are two VERY IMPORTANT points that would have made that day go a whole lot differently had I known.  But I, in my self-absorbed teenage girliness, was CLUELESS, and I got all mad at myself and embarrassed, and “got in a mood” and didn’t talk to him all the way back home.  Which, of course, he was completely baffled by.  “What the heck, we just went fishing.  She was fine and now she’s not fine and I have no idea what just happened.  Girls are weird.  Why do I have so many of them?”  But of course it’s all about me.  So I go in to the camper with my Attitude and Mom lets me have it – I’M the one who wanted to go fishing, remember?  And now I’M the one who’s all out of sorts about it.  So now I’m mad at her too, ‘cause she’s mad at me, and I know Dad’s totally confused about the whole thing and is sincerely lamenting the grievous lack of Y chromosomes in his environment right about now.

Instead of saying, “Are you upset with me?  Because you’re not talking to me and I’m confused,” I thought I knew what was going on.  It would have made me too vulnerable to be direct – because what if he WAS upset over something I’d done?  Then I’d have to admit I was wrong and feel guilty.  Or look like a fool.  Better not to bring it up at all, so I don’t have to feel that way.  Self-preservation at its finest.

And in so doing, I hurt him terribly.  My self-preservation was at his expense.  Then, by not discussing my feelings with Mom, she was left to her own devices to figure out what in the world had set me off this time.   But none of us talked; she went her way, I went mine, and Dad went his.  We all got over ourselves separately and came back together later, forgiven and forgotten and moved on, ready to start over. 

But oh, wouldn’t that have turned out differently if I’d just said what was on my heart?  Wouldn’t that day have gone so much better if I’d just asked why he wasn’t talking to me, and he could have just said, “Because I already used up all my words for today?”  What if I’d talked to Mom about my insecurities and fears, instead of leaving her to fill in the blanks with whatever might fit?  What if I admitted that I was confused, unsure, and also possibly a little mental?  She could have consoled me and advised me and helped me through my awkward weirdness.  Instead I shut her out.  Granted, this is an example from YEARS ago, before God, time, motherhood, wifelihood, and good sense had a chance to work on me, but is this not ridiculous?  Yes, it is, but how often since then have I missed the boat on saying something that could have bridged a gap?    

It took YEARS of me being a daughter, and a mother, and a wife, before I could understand how simply being willing to bare myself to another could be so freeing, or help them so much.  How being willing to admit that you messed up, that you DON’T have it all together, that you CAN’T do it all, that you ARE scared – how that can be the one thing that truly allows us to know and love one another. 

It’s tough to put yourself out there, to take the risk that you won’t be understood, might feel ridiculous, or might be wasting words on someone who won’t listen.  What if, by speaking up, you revealed how broken you are, how messed up you are?  That you don’t have it all together?  Guess what, we’re all messed up.  (BTW, I’m more messed up than you, as has clearly been revealed by this blog, so take comfort in that.)  So why don’t we allow each other to be broken, if we all know we are, and just be broken together?  (There’s a reason that song sounds so good.)  Let’s allow each other to see our failures, our fears, our insecurities, our doubts, if that’s what’s going to heal our relationships.  Why are we so afraid to hear that we’ve been wrong?   It takes courage to speak up, and it takes courage to hear.  But it also takes practice.  These are the people who are supposed to love you best – why shouldn’t we give them the opportunity to do that?

It’s hard to trust that by being honest about your feelings, that it will be well-received.  What if he won’t talk back, or she makes fun of you, or you feel like a fool?  All of those are probably going to happen at some point.  But I’ve learned that when I put myself out there, it shores up a relationship worth having and it proves out a relationship that isn’t going to work.  If you can’t be who you are with the person who’s supposed to love you best, what’s the point?  Who are they loving, then, if they don’t know you?  Who are you loving, if you don’t know them?  If I can’t hear what I’m doing that’s bothering them, how can I possibly fix it?  Friendships that stand the test of time are those that are based on honesty and caring, and knowing you can depend on one another.  Friendships based on superficialities are acquaintances.

How awesome would it be if we came along side each other and said, or heard, “I’ve been through that, and I know how awful it is.”  Or “I’ve never been through that; please tell me what I can do to help you.”  If you’re a mentor to a young person, “That happened to me when I was younger, and I felt like this.”  Yes, it makes you have to open up, to admit that you didn’t make the best choice, or you got embarrassed, or were hurt, and it will probably hurt again -- but how much could it help them through what they’re facing?  If someone’s hurt you, should you not give them the opportunity to apologize and realize what they’ve done?  What if they don’t care, or don’t respond, or hurt you again?  You’ve done your best.  You’ve held up your end of the relationship.  And you can decide whether to move forward with it or let it go. 

But oh, what if you wore them down, like Dallas wore me down?  What if by admitting your frailties, they had the courage to admit theirs?  What if they’re scared too?  What if you learned something that helped you understand their perspective better?  But I’ll have to admit something I don’t want to.  I’ll have to be vulnerable, and take a risk.  It’ll make me look weak.  OR, it could bring you closer together.  It could show you a relationship worth saving, or one that isn’t worth your pain and suffering any more. 

But I’ve MADE the effort, and I’m talking to a WALL!  How long am I supposed to DO this?  It’s easier if you’re a Christian, you can ask for help and it’ll come.  You can pray for guidance, or wisdom, or a change of heart.  You have Someone who’s going to guide you through this for as long as it takes.  If you’re not a Christian, well, I guess you have to figure that part out on your own and do the best you can. 

When we come to Jesus, he takes us just as we are; shouldn't we offer each other the same comfort?   You don’t have to “clean up your act” so Jesus will save you, or stop sinning so you can go to Heaven.  He already knows everything you’ve done or ever will do, and He knows exactly what you are because He made you that way.  He KNOWS you’re messed up.  He KNOWS I’m more messed up than you are, and that she’s more messed up than me, and that the guy over there is a straight up train wreck.  He KNOWS we’re all broken, that we’re sinners.  It’s not news.

So let’s also allow each other to be broken, to have bad days, and insecurities.  Let’s care for each other and give each other a safe place.  Well, that’s all well and good, but I can’t be the first one.  I can’t speak up first.  I can’t get through to her.  Then stick her in front of this blog and say “read this.”  Just throw it out there and see if it gets caught.  Resolve to be the kind one in this relationship, the one who made the effort, the one who keeps trying. 

I’ve come a long way since that weekend fishing, but how long has it taken?  How many baby steps did it take to get where I am, and how much further have I got to go?  A long long way.   But Dallas is everlastingly patient with me, and I pray for help.  Thankfully I have people in my life who are bigger than me and keep forgiving me when I’m a total arse.  I’m eternally grateful for that.  If you’re not a Christian then you kinda have to wing it, like I used to.  Knowing Jesus is infinitely better, I have to say; it just makes everything make more sense.   But even if you’re not, don’t let that stop you from really loving the ones who know you best and letting them love you.  It’s a risk, but it’s so worth it.