I followed through on a plan I'd made weeks ago. I attended an (in)RL Meet-up. I get regular emails from (in)courage. Sometimes I read them. Other times I just hit delete, but when the reminder of (in)RL came up I went and searched for a local meet-up.
I must have been feeling brave that day because the only local meet-up I found looked like it was intended for moms of young kids. I signed up anyway and warned them I was older with grown children. (It's funny how I find myself almost apologizing for that, as if having survived those years means my life is over!)
I received a warm email in response assuring me that all were welcome.
I wrote the information on my calendar so I wouldn't conveniently forget about it. And when Saturday rolled around, I got dressed and drove to a place I'd never been before to meet a bunch of ladies I'd never met before . . . all by myself.
We worshipped. We prayed. We watched a video. We ate. And then it happened. Share your story. Whatever you want to share. No pressure. I began to practice my relaxation breathing and considered taking some meds. I had an internal conversation with myself about what I should or shouldn't say. I weighed my story against the others being shared. They were telling stories of dreams, of "that thing", of adoption, of blogging, of changes, and families and hopes and sweetness. Beautiful sharing and accepting with a few tears and some laughter.
Suddenly it was my turn and I'd been so busy listening (connecting?) that I'd forgotten to plan what I would say. And the words just started tumbling out. My interior voice kept telling me I wasn't do this right. I hadn't started well. I needed to shut up. I used those terms -- chronic PTSD and survivor of childhood sexual abuse -- but I stopped short of the 2 rapes as an adult, because I worried I was babbling.
And when I stopped, the woman on my left slid toward me and hugged me. She thanked me for sharing my story. The other women began to voice appreciation -- could they hug me? Could they pray over me? And I began to panic.
This wasn't my intent. I didn't mean to seek attention. I clearly had over shared. I told them it was fine that they didn't need to do anything. I hadn't meant to make this about me. I was sorry.
Why is it so hard to believe that they reacted as compassionate witnesses because they wanted to?
They told me it wasn't about me. It was about God using me. Using all of us to connect. To teach and learn hospitality. To see our worth and value as God's hands and feet and voices.
We shared contact information -- email, blogs, phone numbers. We all agreed we should meet again soon. One woman asked if I'd like to walk sometime. We live in the same neighborhood.
I drove home with the roof down, singing along with my iPod. And I thought a lot about what I'd said and what they'd said. About what God was leading me into.
I'm still struggling in my heart with the idea that I didn't do anything wrong. But in my head I know -- I KNOW -- this is what real life is about. Real life is about being real with other people. And that includes taking risks.
linking up with (in)RL
