I think that every time I write, I say that I, in that moment, realized how much I love writing. and how much i miss it.
Let’s talk vulnerability.
In high school, I had this obsession with being mysterious. I wanted to have secrets and believed that somehow made me attractive. I wanted to believe that by
being unknown, people were captivated. They longed to know me. Their desire grew so large that it took control and my doorstep was crawling with people trying to get in so
they could learn about me. (pride, man.) But really, i mean, read any romantic book or movie and tell me that the main girl doesn’t have that special mysterious something about her. And then try and tell me that she doesnt get the guy every time. It seemed like a pretty flawless plan honestly. and the introvert i was could totally handle it.
I told no one anything. I had a private journal and a public blog. I would take excerpts from my journal and strip them down to nothing before posting them on my blog. I had a line and i never ever crossed it.
Coming on the world race, they push you to be vulnerable and to share. they tell you that it’s safe and that it’s okay. having the intense personality type that i do, after hearing that my way wasn’t right, i immediately did exactly the opposite. i told everyone…everything. i didn’t understand how to set up boundaries and have inner circles and outer circles and how you can’t exactly be known in and out by everyone around you and expect intimacy to come out of it. authors who write self-help books and other things of that nature usually say that they don’t write about anything that they are currently going through – only about things that they’ve already processed. it has to do with being in too vulnerable of a state to be able to accept feedback, positive or negative, for what they’ve just shared with the world in a healthy way.
I love to blog and i’m totally a blog person (obviously). Some of the bloggers i respect the most are the ones that have nothing to hide. They’re raw on paper (or on the internet…i hate the way that sounds. Curse the language of the media age.) and i dig it. Perhaps it’s not all their insides that they share, but as long as they say (type. ugh.) that it is, we’ll never know if it’s not. I don’t necessarily have a problem anymore with sharing my life with the world in the mess of living it and the end results of having lived it.
Sometimes i wonder (bear with me here…) what will i have left for the person who comes to love me if i share everything i am with the world? Won’t there be anything left
for me to share with him and only him and create that intimacy? Sure, we can create those memories that we will only have for ourselves, but if you love someone, you want to know their deepest parts and if they’ve already given all of those away to the world, doesn’t it make it less special? For real, i could never be famous. God bless this brutally ordinary life.
Sometimes i wonder if its by wanting to know the deepest parts of their ordinary that you know you love someone. By knowing their deepest secrets and loving them for it, but loving them equally for the way they tie their tennis shoes in a bow instead of a double knot. the way they pour in sugar little by little and take a taste each time until their coffee is no less than perfect. The way they overthink everything and are the most indecisive person you’ve ever met. The way they always apologize first.
I think that’s how i know i love Jesus. If the Bible is His life story, then it shows him at 12 and then again at 30. that’s a lot of missed time. I long to know who he was during those 18 years of obscurity. I imagine which part of the classroom he sat in during school. I sit at his doorstep and try to get in so i can learn more about Him. I’m his biggest fan.
And you know, He’s mine too. I watched a sermon by Judah Smith called He Loves You So Much. Jesus just can’t even help himself but love me. I think that’s just the coolest thing. what if i walked around everyday like i not only knew I was His favorite, but really truly believed that. He wants to know what happened to us between 12 and 30 or 8 and 14 or 20 and 25 when we weren’t letting Him in on things. He loves us for the things we choose to tell people and the things we choose to keep secret. He loves us on the dragging, boring Tuesday night sitting at home reading the newspaper. He loves us when we choose Him and just as much when we don’t.
He gives us a relationship that no human can ever fill the place of. With Him, there is no need to wonder what will be left if we tell the world everything or what we’ll do with all the secrets that we’ve been holding on to for 29 years. There is always something new. Always a different way that He shows His love for us.