It Was Quiet

It had been a rough week, and this day was the most turbulent of all. They talked and they talked. The waitress looked at them in a way that reassured her, like they were lucky. She came to inform them the restaurant was closing, then on their way out, she said to him, "She's beautiful." "Yes, she is," he answered.

They moved to the parking lot and talked some more on the still warm hood of her car. It was dusk. He made many promises. He was the kind of affectionate of which she had always dreamed. They knew each other well and had always had a way of working through every situation, but this one terrified her for all the possibilities that it could turn out to be. She loved him, she wanted him, and she never needed him more than she did in that moment.

Friday came, and she told him she just wanted to relax. She was tired of drowning; tired of tears and worry and too many emotions to bear. She just wanted him near. So, he suggested they go for a drive. He held her hand. Somewhere along a dark road she said, "I'm really thankful for you... I'm thankful we've made it this far," to which he gently replied, "Me too," and lifted her hand to his tender kiss. She needed him, she loved him, and she never wanted him more than she did in that profound moment.

There was something safe about being with him that night. Though unsure of the future, she felt secure in his presence. The past was simply a record, the future a mere wish. His steadiness in the present was all that she had.

It was quiet.

She whispered breathlessly; he leaned in and embraced her.

She wanted him, she needed him, and she never loved him more than she did in that quiet, honest, vulnerable moment.

To Grieve or To Grace

Sundays are my self-care days. They're my grocery days, or my movie days, or my sit-outside-and-talk-to-my-neighbors days, or my eat-chocolate-cake-for-no-reason days. Whatever it may be, as an introvert, I devote Sundays to recharge, and that often involves not spending time with lots of people.

Yesterday evening, I chose to take myself out to eat. It's one of my favorite things. This is not unusual for me, nor should it be considered unusual at all for a single woman to be eating alone. However, as I sat there on the outside patio of a local restaurant, two men walked by and thought it necessary to comment.

"He was wrong for leaving you there."

"He could do better."

My initial reaction was disbelief, and even mortification to some degree. Certainly not humor, if that's what they were going for. Part of me felt- but only for a moment- the lies in their messages: You are unwanted. You are not good enough.

People can be so quick to judge.

I had to fight my initial reaction, and I had to think fast. I had to think in terms of grace, mostly for myself. These men didn't know me. They didn't know my story. I may have been sitting alone, but that doesn't mean I wasn't sitting with something. A heart can hold a lot within its walls.

I recently had to rumble with another lie someone perceived about me as well; another someone who didn't know me, didn't know my story, and didn't know at the time what was weighing me down. I believe there is nothing that someone who doesn't love you or have your best interest in mind can tell you honestly about who you are. The people who don't only see what they see without any kind of compassionate perspective, and compassion is necessary for understanding. I realize that I am just as guilty of this. There have been countless times that I've assumed the worst about people and then discovered something of their story to change my point of view. Nothing is more humbling.

My point is that every time you interact with another human, you have the choice to either grieve that person or offer grace to that person. Perhaps what grace looks like is choosing to see people as doing the best that they can. (Thank you, Brene Brown, for this insight.) Consider that your perceptions may be wrong before you speak. And if you are spoken to in a hurtful way, have the grace to see the both of you in your immeasurable worth, and forgive.