I’m always struck by how many people at The Dale can read me like a book. There are days when I am internally churning and think I’m hiding it well. Then I am greeted by concerned looks, words of encouragement and strong hugs from longtime friends and even people I know more peripherally. It is not rare for relative strangers to  approach me and proceed to speak the exact words I need to hear. It’s pretty amazing.

One of the things that I am repeatedly taught at The Dale is how to strip myself of masks, especially on those days when I’m trying to look okay while being anything but. I don’t think it’s that people expect me to lay bare everything going on in my heart. It’s more an invitation to be open about the fact that my struggles are real.

I have the opportunity to be very close to the pain of a lot of people. Yesterday I sat with a friend whose wounds are so bare they almost took my breath away. I realize that in this context I sometimes try to dismiss the weight of my own challenges: what are my struggles in comparison? But then my friend shifts the conversation to me and asks with sincerity about how I’m managing because “Erinn, you have a lot going on”, and I’m reminded: sharing our stuff matters. We both left feeling less alone.

Daring to remove our masks can be a daunting task. What will someone think if I admit x,y, and z? I suppose I wonder if people will love me if I reveal how messed up I am. I can attest to the freedom experienced when I confess my hurts and failures. Space is created for healing and a deep hope. I am grateful to be surrounded by people who routinely call me back when I am trying to hide. While it isn’t comfortable to be read like a book, it turns out it is good.

“He came looking for me just to see how I was. He didn’t even want anything from me. He just wanted to care about me. It was like a little miracle.”

These words out of my dear friend’s mouth reminded me of the importance of being present. Her little miracle was that someone simply wanted to check on her, no strings attached. As she went on to describe this interaction, I was struck by how moved she was by it. At one point she threw her teared stained head back and said, “it felt SO good”.

I imagine we can all relate. I know how important it is to have a friend reach out to ask how I am, and how lonely it can be if no one does. We have an innate need to connect as creatures built for community. I think about relational poverty a lot, and am more convinced than ever that material poverty will never be eradicated unless we look at the holistic needs of people.

Years ago a relative newcomer to The Dale angrily disappeared for a number of weeks. We were worried about him and so three of us went to his place, knocked on the door repeatedly, and finally resorted to throwing rocks at his third floor window. We didn’t find him that day, but he caught wind of our effort and to this day talks about it. I’m certain it was the turning point in our relationship. He began to trust he was valued and has since grown in so many different ways as a result.

Being present is not always easy. I often fail at it. And sometimes because of my own insecurities I retreat, making being present even more difficult. But I’m aware that the moments of deepest connection come when I take a risk and ask someone how they really are, and conversely when someone asks me how I really am and I dare to tell them. Like my two friends I’ve described here, it’s enough to make me feel valued and as though I can grow and change. It feels “so good”.

Some days are harder than others.

I won’t go into detail, except to say I was recently witness to a relational meltdown. It was loud, ridden with expletives, and incredibly sad. At times I stood between my two friends. Near the end we found ourselves seated, one crying, another staring into space and me, quietly and painfully aware of having no idea what to do or say.

I wanted to help. I hoped to calm the tension. I desired to speak the kind of words that might shift the conversation into being constructive versus destructive. I opened my mouth a few times, but not much came out. Instead I ended up listening. I heard things that made my heart hurt, and they weren’t even directed at me. I started to silently and repeatedly pray four words: “wisdom, safety, healing, peace…God give us wisdom, safety, healing, peace”.

Some days all I can do is lament.

On Sunday we sang a song that includes the lyric, “how long before the weeping turns to songs of joy?” That’s what I want to know. That’s what I’ve been asking since my friends and I parted ways, each in a different direction. That’s what I pray for in my own life when things are just heavy and hurtful and hard. I suspect that many of you can relate.

I sometimes fear lament. I wonder if I’m a failure at gratitude if I lean toward despair. But somehow I think the two go hand in hand. And on a day like the one I’ve described here, lament seemed the only thing I could do. Having been tongue-tied through most of the situation, I was able to weep and whisper to each of them about how sorry I was for their pain. Nothing was fixed. My four word prayer hung heavily in the air.

Like I said, some days are harder than others. Some days call for lament. And some day, I hope the weeping really will turn to joy.