Monday, April 23, 2012

Broken and together

"Courage" comes from the Latin word "cor", meaning "heart". When it first came into the English language, courage essentially meant "to tell your whole story with your whole heart".

There is a courage needed to be imperfect, to be human.

The people with the most healthy relationships are those who are authentic. They may fear vulnerability, but are not stopped by it. They view transparency as an opportunity to delve deeper into the relationship, not a guarantee of destruction.

Vulnerability is meant to be beautiful.

I have been talking a lot this week with a sweet friend of mine. She has been coming to me for advice on things that, ironically, I need counsel on too. I find myself time and time again saying things that I so desperately need to hear and follow.

I find myself dropping little one-liners like "You're a broken person living with broken people." Yet somehow I think my junk is less tolerable than anyone else's.

I tell her "Jesus didn't die so you could look like you have it all together. He died so that you can admit that you don't, and yet still be redeemed." Yet I refuse to let others see my own depravity.

I tell her she's allowed to say she's not okay, but never expect me to admit I'm having a bad day.

I say things like "You're made to live in community, to be with people, to share a life together that is hard but ultimately beautiful." Yet I doubt that I will ever be able to properly live with other people.

I am going through this season where I don't want people to know about my life back home. I don't want to be the odd girl out, the girl who must come with a lot of baggage. I'm tired of being the charity on Christmas and Thanksgiving. There is nothing that scares people off more than essentially saying "Hi, I was a foster kid. I have crazy parents. I'm going to get jealous of your family, even if they are dysfunctional. I'm going to fall off the face of the earth on holidays. I'm going to have days that are really hard for no apparent reason. I'm going to be homesick for a place I don't miss. I won't understand your life and you won't understand mine. Can we be friends?"

So I dance around the issue. I refer to half a dozen couples as "mom" and "dad", allowing the people around me to assume that I am talking about my biological parents. I give names like "aunt", "cousin", "sister" to people I have no relation to, and often don't speak to very often. I play the part of your average American teenager quite well.

Yet when I intentionally do this, I leave out an entire chunk of who I am. I refuse to allow a person to love me properly. I expect their full availability, yet wall off the places I am not willing to let them into. I stagnate both my personal development and our relationship.

I lack courage.
I lack the courage to be authentic, to be broken, to be human.

And I don't say this in a "poor miserable me" way. I say this because I am humbled and because I am trying to take a history of jacked up relationships and make a Dani that functions, breathes, loves, and gives.

I give people a Dani that eats butterflies and poops rainbows because I am convinced that any other Dani is not worthy of love. I am convinced that people who know too much are a danger - or possibly more accurately, I feel that I am a danger to them.

So here I am, entering my ninth month in my new life on the other side of the country and I still have professors telling me "It's okay to not be perfect, Dani." I still have mentors asking me the same hard questions over and over again. I still have friends wondering why I do things the way I do.

Praise the Lord, they all seem to be still sticking around.
They've realized that it's better to be broken together than it is to be broken alone.

"Vulnerability... is the core of shame and fear and our struggle for worthiness. But it appears that it is also the birthplace of joy, of creativity, of belonging, of love." -- Brene Brown

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