Since I wrote Sunday’s blog post about my recent experiences taking Cosentyx, I’ve heard remorse humming through my being. I mean, why do I always have to go ahead and say it all? Why can’t I stop saying EVERYTHING.
A few weeks ago we were at a family reunion and one of my nephews sat down next to me with his son and a paper plate covered in various colored cubes of finger jello. Because I love his son, and him, I said, “Mmmmm, jello!”
My nephew, who with his son was consuming bite after bite of the jiggly treat, said to me, “Yes, but you don’t like jello, do you, Aunt Kristin?”
“No, I am not a fan.” I answered truthfully, as I seem always compelled to do.
My nephew grinned as he recalled a time, some years ago, when he said I had gone off on a ‘rant’ about how jello has “no nutritional value whatsoever.” As he said it, I could hear myself on just one of my many diatribes. He, and another of my nephews, also now a father, watched me for a reaction. When I said, “Man, sometimes I wish I could just shut my mouth,” they both laughed out loud.
I am that aunt. Ok, let’s get real. I am that human.
I am compelled — yes, driven — to fill in the empty spaces with (so many) words. And, guys, it can be embarrassing.
How many times riding home from an event with my husband have I said, “did I talk too much? did I say anything offensive or that I need to apologize for?” In recent years, my husband has answered with a kindness, “Kristin, just be you.”
I, in case you don’t know me, am a person for whom no number of words, it seems, is ever too many words. I love to read them, listen to them, write them, and speak them. This week, the first in my self-imposed month-long preparation for fall classes, I have read literally thousands of words every day. I have jotted notes to myself on stickies. I have listened to podcasts. I have had multiple conversations, both virtual and in person, about language and pedagogy. I’ve asked questions, made lists, and edited syllabi. At the end of these long text-filled days, you would think I would be ready for a break. Nope. This word-nerd then watches Wheel-of-Fortune and Jeopardy, plays Words with Friends, and then reads for pleasure for an hour or two before sleeping.
I guess the fact that I love words and language so much is a blessing since I have made the teaching of English, especially writing, my career. However, sometimes my compulsion to put so many words — particularly those that expose my struggles — on public display, causes me to feel anxious, regretful, and downright insecure. Why can’t I be one of those people that moves through social situations with a calm reserve? Why can’t I listen to the conversations of others replying simply, “Oh, that’s interesting.”
More to the point of this blog, why can’t I stick to topics that are uplifting, that celebrate God’s faithfulness, that don’t expose my struggle, my weakness, my — gasp — troubles? This mantra, this hum, has been trying to distract me all week.
“Write a follow-up. Write a retraction. Go back and edit.”
Be quiet, I say. Can’t you see I’m trying to plan my courses? Can’t you see I’m trying to focus on best practices for teaching others how to write?
“Yeah, why don’t you go ahead and teach them since you’re so good at it?” the snide voice replies.
And then, this morning in the middle of a text on writing theory, I saw this:
“Trouble is the engine of the narrative.”*
I stopped in my tracks. Wait, who said that? Jerome Bruner, noted educational psychologist, and apparently also, for me, a voice calling out in the wilderness of text.
“The trouble is a violation of the legitimate, the expectable, the appropriate. and the outcome of the story depends upon seeing legitimacy maintained, restored, or redefined.” *
Suddenly, in the middle of my study and preparation, I felt like I was in church. Indeed, all of life is a grappling with the “violation of the legitimate” and the longing to see “legitimacy restored or redefined.”
The legitimate, expectable, and appropriate of my life — and surely yours — has been violated time and again — sometimes by circumstance, sometimes by others, often by my own doing. My story includes troubles such as divorce, eating disorder, chronic illness, and myriad poor choices and betrayals. Yours might include any of a variety of other troubles. Together, we are all walking through troubles of many kinds, and as Ann Vosskamp says,
“More than anything, [we] don’t want to feel all alone in [our] unspoken broken.”**
And that, I have to confess, is what compels my incessant need to share. I hate to admit that this self-proclaimed soldier longs to feel connection with others who are also struggling — who also have troubles. But I do. I long for it. And I do experience it.
Sometimes I am able to find that connection over a cup of tea with a girlfriend. We share our troubles and our victories. We are honest, and in that honesty, we find community, support, connection. Other times, I need the luxury of words in print — the time that it takes me to type each letter, think through each sentence, and delete two or three false starts. I need to process the trouble through text; that’s just who I am.
Its an unexpected bonus that sometimes my need to type out my troubles results in a forged bond with someone with whom my words resonated — a person who also, more than anything, doesn’t want to feel alone.
We are not alone. We are all broken. We are all longing for restoration, and when we see it, we celebrate it. As we wait for it, if we are willing to expose our wounds, our brokenness, we are often surprised by the blessing of connection with other wounded broken souls.
Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.
*as cited in Graham, Steve, Charles A. Mac Arthur, and Jill Fitzgerald. Best Practices in Writing Instruction. The Guilford Press, 2013.
**Vosskamp, Ann. The Broken Way. Zondervan, 2016.