Jasmine Ruigrok

"Look into the mirror, what do I see? All the imperfections that define me." — Unspoken

I used to think once I was a grown up I would have answers to things. That being adult would magically grant me the wisdom to understand people and circumstances, and give me the ability to know exactly what to do. I thought I would know exactly who I was, and exactly how to live. It was a fantasy. So far I’ve found becoming an adult is a lesson in unlearning childish expectations and unravelling lies I subconsciously picked up along the way. In short, discovering (and becoming) who I truly am.

Let’s face it, who can really know themselves? Both Job and Jeremiah confessed their inability. “I do not know myself,” Job 9:21 admits, while Jeremiah 17:9 ominously states, “the heart is deceitful above all things, who can know it?” Scripture aside, a poll on Facebook asking people how they would answer the question: “who are you when you aren’t doing anything and/or when no one needs you?” quickly showed me that either a) we’d rather joke about the concept to cover up the fact we don’t know or b) give answers that lack a deep level of confidence and certainty. And whilst I would never mean to say our actions are completely divorced from our identities, I cannot assume that our sole value is derived from our deeds. Which begs the question: who are we without them? Or, if we are doing them, why? In what ways do our identities motivate our actions?

Much of what I do has come from accumulated patterns over the years. Though my identity may be more than merely my habits, I am coming to recognise some things that have become part of my modus operandi simply because of the experiences I’ve processed through an acquired perspective. I believe—in a way—we are all born with a particular set of blinders which keeps us from seeing ourselves clearly. It’s why we can empathise with a bad character in a movie if we understand his backstory, and how we hate him if we only see him painted as a villain. Likewise, we know our own backstories so well that we over-empathise to the point we are blind to our true motives. Yet God’s truth in Proverbs says “the spirit of a man is the lamp of the Lord, searching all the inner depths of the heart”, and lately I have been clumsily allowing the Holy Spirit within me to illuminate those dark areas of my soul that humanly I cannot understand.

It is so easy for me to feel useless, even worthless when I am not meeting people’s needs. It is so innate for me to run towards loving people, giving them everything they desire that is within my power to give. My goal in life is to love others just as Christ loves me, Yet even within that seemingly selfless desire, I can find selfishness. In being needed, I feel loved. Therefore if I'm not careful, loving others can be scratching an itch, and subconsciously drawing a sense of identity from my deeds of loving you. The realisation is sickening to me; that I could somehow be using God’s beautiful command to shore up my own ego. Just as Westley’s statement of “as you wish” from The Princess Bride was his confession of love, so I can sell myself for a proverbial bowl of soup—pleasing your every whim in the desperate hope I am loved in return. Or as in the tale of the Giving Tree, where every sacrifice it made on behalf of the boy made it “happy”, so my love can take on a martyr-like quality that is neither asked for, nor honestly extended. Love given in the hopes of love in return is not real love.

"I know the golden rule, treat another like you want to be treated too, but lately I've been hating on myself, it's true: beat up my heart 'til it's black and blue."

Even in the times I do extend my love selflessly, experiences of over-investing in a person to the point where the loss of that investment feels like losing a limb will leave me disillusioned. I am meant to love like Christ. To give of myself. To pour myself out for another. How can I tell the difference between my selfish motives to be seen, accepted and loved in return, and the pure, Christlike love I’m meant to be giving? There have been so many times I have poured out my time and my heart for the sake of another, only to wind up used, empty, and alone. The last such experience gave me a firmer resolve: I will never do this again.

Which leads to the breakdown of who I am: is this who I am? Am I doomed to be a sucker for the rest of my life, where people use me and abuse me by taking advantage of me, where I ceaselessly and tirelessly overextend myself only to be abandoned, left to pick up the pieces of my heart, and then repeat the pattern over again? No. I have a choice. One of the most empowering things in this life is our ability to choose. Two happenstances may occur to two different people yet it will refine one, and destroy the other, the only difference being the choices they made. So, I resolve to make better choices, against what my natural inclination might be.

The only trouble is, the pendulum can never seem to land in the middle. When that hurt pierced my soul and ripped a gaping hole in the most vulnerable part of my heart, steel entered my veins. Like frost slowly creeping up the window panes, I could feel walls (that had both risen and fallen in times past) slowly being built up around my heart. It would not happen again. I would not be so foolish. I would be wise, and be discerning. I would not just toss my heart to anyone who looked like they needed loving. I would wait to be asked. Wait to be invited in. Wait to be needed, and then be careful before I said “yes” to anything. I was pounding out firm boundaries that had never really existed before, and the chill seeping through the cracks of my broken heart probably disturbed or disgruntled some people who were used to my benevolence. I became emotionally distant, standing behind the walls I thought could keep me safe. Not endeavouring to reach out to people in my normal, friendly, welcoming way. I justified it: “I’m being wise, being discerning; not throwing my pearl before swine. I’m learning from my mistakes.” Which I was, but perhaps not the lessons God intended.

"Normal conversation seems to get harder; I try to hold my tongue 'cause it's been getting sharper. I'd open up the gate but I can't find the key, maybe I'm afraid, afraid of what You'll see."

I’ve been hyper aware of guarding my heart since I was 16, and—in recent years—being careful with whom I shared my vulnerability. The trouble is, I freely gave away my vulnerability without even knowing it. How did I do that? What is it that truly makes us feel vulnerable? What is vulnerability? What is that deepest, core part of our heart? I’d always thought it was a universal definition: our most personal stories, our dreams, hopes, secrets, past experiences, regrets or pains. But in an epiphany during a conversation with a friend, it dawned on me what my vulnerability is: meeting needs. How painfully obvious that must be to the people who know me, yet it's something I was completely blind to. When I am meeting someone’s need, being a listener, counsellor, comforter, teacher, encourager, challenger, or friend, I am giving of the most vulnerable part of myself. I LOVE to be needed! It is my most personal trait. When I am meeting a need, I am giving you the most valuable and cherished part of me. It’s not just a chore, or a duty. It’s my lifeblood, my greatest virtue, my most highly-prized gift. Serving you is the best part of me. It’s probably why the concept of not doing and simply being is daunting to me: how will God love me if I’m not useful to Him?

"How can I love, can I love, can I love You if I can't even love myself? I try to hide that I don't feel worthy, but the truth it will always tell."

Isn’t it ironic that the finished work of Jesus Christ on the cross trumps all of my “doings”, yet I still feel like I must add to it? I was recently made aware of Hebrews 10:18 which states that where there is forgiveness of sins, there is no longer need for sacrifice. Yet here I am: still throwing my heart to the wolves and thinking I appease God. Sacrificing myself on the altar of loving people was never God's requirement of me. Even in the Old Testament God said that to obey is better than sacrifice. “To love the Lord my God with all my heart, all my soul, all my mind, and all my strength and to love my neighbour as myself.” I disobey half of the greatest commandment when I fail to love myself, and it certainly isn’t loving to become a slave of meeting needs I was never able to satisfy in the first place.

Because I can’t. I am literally incapable of meeting the needs I recognise in others. Maybe it’s my ego again, but there’s always this faint hope that I can do it. That I can save a life. Rescue a heart. Redeem a soul. While I know we all have a part to play in reaching the lost, there is a difference between humbly presenting a truth when it’s asked for, and a saviour complex. Though my love may come from the purest motives at times, the fact remains that my love alone is not enough. The desire to meet needs only Jesus can meet must itself, too, be surrendered. My heart—AND it’s desires—must bow before its Maker. I may recognise a genuine need in a person, but it’s not in my power to meet it. And when that desire tries to pull my heart into the fray, I must learn to lead that desire—and whatever its motives are for being found worthy of love in return—to the feet of Jesus. It’s not about me. It’s about Christ.

And I guess that’s where I so often lose focus on this journey of becoming who I’m meant to be. Everything I need is found in Him. Everything you need is found in Him. When I take my eyes off Him, His love ceases to be an overflow in my life, and instead I become a beggar baiting my hook with my human love in order to catch yours to feed my starving identity. What a poor way to live—enslaved to the pursuit of my own transformation without Christ's empowerment. Sometimes I can become my own idol without realising it, and I don’t want to be that person. I cannot find my satisfaction in loving you without first being loved myself, and I cannot love myself on my own. Though it may mean I need to withdraw from time to time to re-calibrate myself and focus on Who He is to be filled again, it’s better that I use my boundaries to protect my connection to Christ rather than to defend my heart against you. I’ve seen glimpses of what it means to overflow with the love only God can give. It’s a love that has empowered me to stay true in the face of many lies, great deceit, betrayal, abusiveness and pain. Recognising however when I’m nearing empty has not been something I have consciously paid attention to. Another lesson to learn.

"What you carry always shows, what you bury it still grows. How can I love, can I love, can I love You if I can't even love myself?"

For someone who can know seemingly telepathically the needs of others, I've discovered I'm woefully out of touch with my own. I can swallow a gut full before I even notice I'm drowning under a wave of repressed needs that I convinced myself I didn't have. Part of my becoming is unbecoming the strong one. It's inexplicable the relief that is often chased down by shame when I dare to utter to another soul, "I can't do this," or "I need help." So I've started trying to say it. The words feel unfamiliar on my tongue, but if no one can do this life alone, that includes me. Allowing myself to be weak in God's hands and the eyes of my people is a new practise, but if it's all about Him and not about me, what have I to be afraid of? If I cannot bring my needs to the One who is more than enough, how can I tell you He will meet yours? He loves me for who I am, not for what I do for Him. Can I live like I believe that? It's one thing to preach, entirely another to practise what one preaches. I'm so thankful that as I stumble through this process, grace covers my tracks.

I’ve realised that there is often a quiet, hidden third option I ignore. As I’m growing, I want to pay attention to it more. I don’t have to be an ingratiating, needy, people-pleasing, sucker. I also don’t have to be a cold, distant, cynical cow. I can be a tenderhearted, humble, submitted, obedient daughter. While at a conference in Yass this year we had an exercise of listening to what the Holy Spirit was saying to us. We wrote down the lies or hindrances we believed were holding us back, and on the flip side, wrote down what we believed God's answer to us was. I wrote: “I am critical and cynical” (I didn’t add: cold, distant, hurt, distrusting, defensive, and heartless, but I was thinking it). As I reached this point on the answers, I felt God whisper: “you have eyes of compassion, and a heart for My truth. I will teach you how to use both.” It all starts with Him. He comes first. He is the answer to every question. I can’t use compassion, nor truth if I don’t first know Him. I don’t think I would end up in half the messes I make for myself if my first thought was always, “what does the Lord require of me?” And then obeyed. It’s really way simpler than lying awake every night torturing myself with over-analysing everything, wondering “what if” and “if only”, hashing out every possible hypothetical outcome to difficult situations, and regretting my every past decision because of the pain I can’t see through.

"I need you to pray for me, need you to stay here with me; though I've pushed you away from me, don't turn away from me."

So, by grace alone, I am becoming. I've lost count of how many people I have ever been, but praise God that He has loved every one of them. I’m not becoming who I was destined to be due to my own efforts (contrary to my own opinion), and I'm learning to be okay with the time it takes; not to berate myself for not arriving yet. In the profound words of a new friend, “thinking I know the state of my own soul’s affairs better than He… now THAT is pride.” It doesn’t start with me, because it’s not about me.

It’s not about how well I love, but how well He loves me.

It’s not about my meeting other people’s needs, but about Christ meeting mine AND their needs.

It’s about me pointing to Christ as the source, not pridefully believing I am the source, so that I can gain some kind of credit or appreciation for loving you.

It’s about finding my identity in Him, not in the love you give me.

It’s about being obedient when He calls me to vulnerability, and being obedient when He doesn’t.

It’s all about Him.

And I am becoming more like Him.

~

Further listening:
"Order, Disorder, Reorder", Jason Gray
"Becoming", Jason Gray
"Can't Even Love Myself", Unspoken

"There is a time to mourn in silence, but justice aches to hear you speak." — John Lucas

I talk a lot.

It comes naturally. I talked all the time as a child. As the oldest, even for the brief period of time I was an only child, I could talk the leg off a chair. I talked to myself. I read books out loud to the cat (I couldn’t read). As I got older I’m sure I pestered prospective friends with my talkativeness. I’m sure I still pester long-standing friends to this day.

In homeschool circles, the verse about having a “meek and quiet spirit” was idolized as the epitome of the perfect woman, and so I would often have this sense of guilt or dread after leaving a homeschool event because I was quite frequently the very opposite of this verse. I was boisterous and loud. Everything had a funny side (which I still find loudly hilarious), but a lot of people didn’t get my sense of humour. Most probably still don’t.

I fell in love with writing all the words that I wished I could speak very early on. When that progressed to chatrooms, I fell in love with suddenly looking so much more articulate than I was in “real life”. I almost sounded like I knew what I was talking about when I was given a keyboard (plus my 100WPM typing speed). I spent so much time talking with friends online that I was no surprise to them when we finally met in person. I was just as talkative.

As a lover of writing, I tried to wrap words around everything. I wrote short stories, attempted novels, loved poems and six-word stories. As time progressed, I grew to love curating my thoughts on my blog through lengthy articles expounding on this or that topic, or counselling sessions with friends where I would burrow to the heart of a matter and see them find enlightenment. That was always my favourite part; problem solving for others. Spinning words into the perfect web to capture thoughts and pin down meanings. When I think about how the Word of God is living and active, I get a sense of that aliveness whenever I actively use words for the good of others.

Until lately.

Over the years, I have talked so much. I have used so many words, pouring them endlessly into other people’s hearts in the hope of providing enough anchor points for them to triangulate the truth off. I’ve used words like a blanket to wrap around the wounded, or as bandages to stop the bleeding. I’ve used words like a scalpel to peel back the skin and slice close to the bone of painful issues. I’ve used words to stitch up torn open souls, and to ease troubled minds. I’ve used words as lenses to view circumstances and scenarios from different angles and points of views in order for them to be better understood. In some cases, I’ve seen fruit from my extensive efforts through the sharing of words, but most others, I’ve seen the same patterns repeating over and over again; my words becoming meaningless background noise for the opening of the same wounds I tried to patch, the same brokenness I tried to mend. And I’m tired.

These days when I think of opening my mouth, I feel a welling sense of despair in my soul. “What is the point? Why waste your time? What difference does it make?” and I feel the words inside me sink back beneath the surface and disappear into the depths of my soul. Coming to terms with the fact that I am incapable of making changes or fixing people on my own has made me recognise (rightly or wrongly) how meaningless my words truly are. They are not the Living Word of Truth. They may communicate it, but even that communication is pointless if the heart is not ready to receive. I cannot fabricate revelation for a person. I cannot change a heart. Only God can do that. So what’s the point of saying anything? What use could my words have?

Part of my mind is telling me it’s a lie from the enemy to keep me silent. Those whispers that say, “you’re wasting your time, you’re making no difference, ash and dust, that’s all your words are” do sound a lot like lies, but I can’t help but wonder if they’re true. Has everything I’ve spoken and shared; the pouring out of my heart and soul to people in the form of words truly been wasted? If there is nothing to show for all I’ve given, have I been casting my pearls before swine, or is to even call my words “pearls” a stretch? I always thought words were powerful, but now I’m not so sure.

I’ve been lied to and deceived by people so many times in my life. They used words. I hear people’s words now and am discouraged that my first response is usually doubt. How can I believe what you’re saying, when I have been spun so many lies so convincingly over time? When people can talk the talk so effectively yet be walking a walk completely different, I can’t help but be skeptical. Are my words as worthless as yours, I wonder, even if I know mine are as true as I can be sure?

I know my words are not as powerful as God’s Word. I’ve never really thought so, but perhaps I conned myself into thinking that if I was speaking God’s truth it would be as effective as God’s Word itself. Just because I communicate truth however, does not mean it’s the truth that changes a heart. The vessel is not what it contains, it merely pours it out. Perhaps I had more faith in my pouring abilities than I did in the Truth I claimed to be containing.

The irony, I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, is that I am using words to articulate all of this. Though I may be quieter than usual on the outside, the words still exist. They swirl like a brooding cyclone in my mind, wreaking havoc upon me by headaches and poor sleep. Swirling words I’m still trying to grab and wrap around concepts that were never meant to be worked out mentally. Mortal words will never fix spiritual problems. I guess that’s why it’s easy to see what I have to say as worthless; my words will never be the Living Word. I can’t fix a broken heart, so why even try? What can my fruitless words do?

But words still exist as a lifeblood for me. To line up the right letters into the right sentences; to translate my feelings and wrestlings into rows of words is cathartic for me. As if I release the pressure built up in my soul into a gushing torrent of writing; my pounding fingers upon the keyboard giving me blessed relief, as though bleeding out onto the page. I cannot fix anyone with my words, but I can express them for myself. Words may not help anyone else, but they help me. The Living Word may not choose to use my words to change a life, but I can still allow them to change mine. God’s loving arms reach out to me not only through His own words, but through the words I write. The words I sing. The words I read. The words I share. Maybe the releasing of words into the atmosphere has all been for me; that maybe, somewhere down the road they’ll all come back to me and whisper the truths I need to hear.

I need to believe my words amount to something. Anything. Yet, even when my words fail—and they will fail—my life is held together by truer words, spoken by the Almighty Word Himself.

And maybe, if I am silent, I will get to hear Him speak.

At least now the dying man looked better.

When I found him, the desert had shown him the worst it had to offer. Bleeding and cracked lips, hair thick with sand, his face chafed, dark from dust and sweat, I had stumbled over him in the gathering shadows on my way to the spring. He became conscious enough to aid me in getting him to his feet, whereupon I was able to help him mount the camel I was leading. Slowly, we arrived at the small wadi before the dusk deepened into evening.

Pulling him carefully down, I let him lie on a rug spread comfortably in a sandy hollow. I took a moment to gather a few sticks and light a quick fire by which to see. The man seemed to have slipped into a restless sleep, so as he dozed, I drew water from the well, and bathed his face and chapped hands, letting the water trickle through his hair and washing away some of the sand. His face no longer looked as dark and burnt as it had, and though his lips were still badly scarred, the blood had stopped flowing. Noticing his ragged clothing, I pulled a robe from my saddlebag. Knowing how cold the desert could get at night, it was a wonder he hadn’t already frozen to death with the bare threads he was wearing. Wrapping him up as well as I could while he was still unconscious, he was much more friendlier on the eye. However I knew it wasn’t his outward appearance that needed revitalising, it was the inside.

Pulling a cup from my stash, I tipped the bucket I had drawn from the well to one side, letting the cold, clear water trickle into the smaller vessel. With one hand, I tenderly lifted the man’s head and with the other, held the cup to his lips. As the liquid entered his partially opened mouth, his eyes flew open and his gaze rested upon me instantly. With a choking spasm, his arm flew out and knocked the cup away from him and sent it spinning out of my hand; the precious water wasted upon the sand.

“Let me alone!” He rasped. “I need no one’s help.”

My anger flamed. “You were dying out there!” I spat. “When was the last time you had a drink?”

“I’ll drink when I choose to!” The man shot back, ignoring the question. “I didn’t ask you for water!”

With that, he clumsily attempted to rise to his feet. I held him back. “You are in no shape to go anywhere,” I said firmly. “Can’t you see you need help?”

“I don’t want your help!” I ducked his flailing arm, and pinned it to the rug he had lain quite peacefully upon just moments before.

“You need to drink.” My tone brooked no argument. With his one arm pinned under my hand, I reached for the cup and dunked it in the bucket, bringing it full again to his lips. I was surprised by his strength for someone so clearly weakened. As I held the cup to his mouth, water spilling down his chest, he clenched his teeth tightly, lips sealed against the life-giving liquid I was desperate to administer. He began to thrash beneath me.

“Drink, you fool!” I gasped, struggling. “Drink, or you will surely die!”

Still he refused. In fact, he held his lips so tight that the cracks reopened, and blood was coursing from the wounds, mingling with the water as it was shaken from my unsteady hand. With great effort, he managed to roll over and pull himself from my grip, and I fell against the ground in the place he had been, cup slamming into the sand next to me; shattering into pieces. My stunned gaze lingered on it for a while, until I realise the man had left my small camp, stumbling off into the darkness; away from the campfire light, and the well.

“Wait!” I cried, a note of desperation creeping into my voice. I could not have this man’s life on my conscience. Not when I had the means to keep him alive. “You won’t survive out there!”

Quickly coming to my feet, I ran after him. In my fervent haste, I would’ve all but bodily picked him up as I approached, but a glint in the darkness made my feet falter a moment. A knife had appeared in his hand. I'd had no idea that it'd been hidden on his person anywhere.

“Come near me,” his voice rasped in anger, “and I will kill you.”

“Why?” I cried. “I mean only to save your life!”

“I will save my own life, for it is mine. Not yours!” He growled and swiped at me with the dagger, and I stepped back hastily.

“This is the only well for miles. I know, for I too, was a seeker like yourself once.” My focus flicked briefly to the distant horizon fading into the deep black and purple of twilight; a horizon broken by hundreds of undulating sand dunes.

“So you say, but I will find my own. If I don’t, I’d rather die than let it be known I owed my life to someone other than myself.”

It was then he turned, and disappeared suddenly into the black oblivion of the desert, the sound of his shuffling footsteps fading into the night.

I stood there watchfully a good while, listening to the silence long after his ragged breathing and the shifting sand beneath him ceased to be audible. My heart broke within me, and grief overflowed; in tears for this soul I did not even know. Words fail as to why it affected me so, but I will never forget the anguish I felt standing there in the desert, alone, weeping for the fact that someone in their pride could choose to keep searching the expanse of the desert for water after discovering its only well.

"Jesus stood and cried out, saying, 'If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water'."
(John 7:37-38)

"The Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says to the people, 'Come back and quietly trust in me. Then you will be strong and secure.' But you refuse to do it."
(Isaiah 30:15)

"Different faces, different fears / Different failures lead us here / Show us how we're all the same." — Tenth Avenue North

I love throwing parties.

From birthdays to hangouts of no greater purpose than to just chill and play board-games, I love drawing people together. Not much brings me greater joy than filling a house with friends and family and seeing that everyone is well fed, has a full cup of tea or coffee, and are partaking in blessed fellowship: no one left out, no one lonely, the sweet hum of voices a testament of the comforting truth that everyone belongs. To be amongst people I love can make my heart want to burst with happiness. I circulate the room, joining conversations, meeting people’s needs, making them laugh, confiding in friends, or teaming up to best others in a game. As the night goes on, subdued conversation about the deeper things of life are punctuated by sleep-deprived laughter over the randomest things, and by the time everyone departs, we are already planning the next social event. There are so many adventures to be had, and beautiful people to have them with. I love being with people.

Yet at the same time, I can hate it.

In fact, I can dread throwing parties. Even though I may have a thriving relationship with every single person I invite, there is a selfish gremlin buried in my soul that just wants to curl up in bed and have no one but the cat for company. Maybe not even the cat. I frequently ask myself hours before an event: “Whose idea even was this?” The awkward moments when the first people arrive are a struggle (“What do I do with them? Do they want to sit down? Where? Should we play a game right away? Chat about nothing until everyone else turns up? Awkwardly stand in the kitchen and stare at the cupboards? Offer them tea or coffee, or is it too early before food? Snacks? How was your week, even though I saw you two days ago? Why am I sitting on the floor? How did I spill that on my shirt? Everyone thinks I’m a slob, I’m a terrible host when-can-this-be-over-Iamsodoneplzhelp”).

Once everyone does turn up, the house is full of voices. LOUD voices, all mingling and cutting each other off and escalating to become its own obnoxious white noise that makes it difficult for me to think above. The sudden pressure of being a good host and responsible entertainer weighs down on me and I become preoccupied with wiping down counters and preparing snacks to give my hands something to do. The fear I am leaving someone out can make me randomly cut off some conversations in order to join others, but honestly I do that in part to opt out of deeper subject matter that my cowardly heart doesn’t want to get entangled in this early in the night. Small talk, on the flip side, doesn’t make things any easier. With my brain somehow checked out and at a loss as to landing on an appropriate topic, I make do with self-deprecating stories that will draw laughter from people, which hopefully eases the mild social tension.

As the night winds down, I find myself feeling calmer, yet at the same time, my tongue gets looser and I find myself saying things in my delirious tiredness that I probably shouldn’t say. I worry that I’m being too this or that, yet I also stress about making sure I’m being real, so that by the time everyone goes home, I feel like I probably overshared my heart and now one of those things I miscommunicated will come back to bite me later. I fall asleep thanking God it’s over, with my exhausted social tank reading well below empty.

While this is an exaggeration of some of my worst attitudes and experiences, it would be inauthentic of me to act like they never occur. The reason why I share it is because I’ve realised that there are so many lies we believe about ourselves—and others—when it comes to social interactions precisely because we don’t share these experiences.

For example, what most people see and assume of me when I’m being social is that I am a natural extrovert. As I described in my first paragraph, they watch the way I interact with people, the way I laugh, how I am interested in others or make conversation and think that these interactions are effortless; that my extroversion connects readily with others and puts them at ease (as if being an extrovert is just some magical gift that causes people to like you and laugh at your jokes). This however is an inaccurate assumption. The truth is that I am quite an introvert. I have always hated—and still do—the first moments of arriving at a party where I don’t know everyone. I detest small talk. I feel awkward and out of place. If there is someone there I do know, I feel too clingy. I want to approach new people, but am often afraid to open up a conversation and I can’t even really tell you why (it’s not like people bite; you’re not saying “Hi, what’s your name?” to a shark). If possible, I will even ask others to order my food for me because I hate being put on the spot talking to a stranger about what I want. Though I have improved in many of these areas, I’d be lying if I didn’t say it still wasn’t often a largely invisible struggle I deal with.

So why do my actions appear to be so far removed from what’s going on inside me, you ask? I credit much of my social adeptness to the way I was raised. I was told to always look people in the eye when you speak to them. To shake hands firmly. To be interested in the other person by asking good questions. To read body language. To discern the difference between intelligent conversation and drivel (learnt the hard way by trial and error, let me tell you). To do what was difficult because it was right (like apologising for speaking said drivel and asking forgiveness). To practise thoughtfulness and hospitality. To listen well. To be patient. To be compassionate. To show genuine interest. While these many valuable lessons have served me well in my dealings with people, it does not mean that they all come easy. Far from it. Most of these good habits are still difficult for me to practise.

Which is exactly where it becomes easy to believe lies about ourselves and others:

“I will never fit in the same way they do.”

“If I were more like them/more popular/charming/charismatic, perhaps this would be easier.”

“I’m awkward and don’t belong. No one else feels this way.”

“I’m a social misfit because I don’t like being around people.”

"I can never change, this is how it will always be.”

“I’m an introvert, which means I’ll never be able to interact with people in a healthy way.”

“I’m an extrovert, which means I’ll always overwhelm and annoy people.”

“I’m the only one who hates small talk.”

“I can never make friends.”

The list could go on and on. But as someone who may be seen as one of the people who have social interaction nailed, don’t be fooled. We don’t have it all together, and you don’t have it all wrong. We are all people just trying to get along with one another; billions of us completely unique and different, yet at the core, desperate to be known, understood and loved in the same way. We all want to belong, and while there may be those who find socialising a piece of cake (or they just have a rad mask), most of us are fumbling our way through it the best we know how: putting up a flashy front and hoping to goodness no one discovers just what a fraud we are. So allow me to debunk some of those lies, and tell you the truth about yourself, along with some tips on how to better navigate social situations:

You are not a failure. I don’t care who told you; if it was your parents, your school frenemies, a girlfriend/boyfriend, or peer group. You aren’t a failure if you don’t feel like you fit in. Most of us don’t. We all know deep down our insecurities, quirks, imperfections and junk we carry. That knowledge can separate us from feeling like we belong. But don’t fret! You may not see it, but the next person is just as jacked up as you are. You are not a failure if you struggle, and you’re not a failure if you struggle with people. You’re human. Just like the rest of us. Don't buy the lie that being socially adept is the be all, end all. You are more than your social skills.
You are allowed to be—and laugh at!—yourself. In fact, the sooner you learn this, the happier you’ll be and the more success you’ll find in social interactions. Be yourself, and learn to laugh at yourself. Since we are all just as deeply flawed, learning to laugh at your flaws can give people the chance to laugh at their own. Being real about the ways we are imperfect, and the fact that that’s totally okay will take the pressure off those who have their people-pleasing masks in place, and they will feel free to let down their walls. Being yourself makes other people feel safe, which makes it easier to connect with them. It’s a win-win, because if some people don’t like you for who you really are, then they aren’t real friends. Go find some new ones who love you as you are!
You can learn. Just because social interaction can be exceedingly taxing and difficult, it doesn’t mean you’re incapable. Often in the very midst of social hangouts or spending time with heaps of people, I will go to the bathroom just to have a time out to refocus, breathe, and pray before re-entering the fray. Don’t believe the lie that good social skills are impossible for you. You CAN learn new skills and new ways to help you cope and interact with others better. Though it may never cease being difficult or challenging, it can become more effective. Give yourself grace, but don’t be afraid to show up and continue practising the messy art of peopleing. It’s worth it!
You can choose your focus. One of the biggest cripplers of successful social interaction is a preoccupation with self. My worst moments in social settings are when I am hyper-aware of how uncomfortable I am, or how much I don’t like the circumstance. However when I shift my focus to other people, things are often vastly different. If you want a challenging, but easy out, simply ask other people questions! “What do you do? How do you know [this] person? Where are you from? Where did you go to school? What are your hobbies? How do you spend your free time if you’re not working? What would you study if you could? Do you like music or movies? What would be your superpower? Do you have a favourite subject to debate?” You can even google icebreaker questions if need be. Honestly there is no better connection builder than genuine interest. Find a person’s favourite point of interest and then run with it, shooting as many questions as you can to exhaust the topic. Bonus, you never know what you could learn by listening well!
You are not boring. A lot of people believe that an inability to engage in small talk makes them a boring person. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Operating on a different plane of conversation does not make you boring! Along the same lines as focus, if you wait for other people to be interested in you, you will undoubtedly be disappointed. Give your interest to others first, and eventually you will get the chance to share from your own heart. Wherever you have picked up the lie that you are not interesting, you have nothing to say and you’re not enough, kick it out of your head. You have a voice, a story, and a point of view that is worthy to be heard. Don't base what you believe about yourself on small-minded people who can’t see you for who you are based on five minutes of awkward small-talk.
You can be honest. At the end of the day, tracking your way through the maze of social interactions can be a mixed bag of joy, exhaustion, fun, disappointment, insight, or end up leaving you with more questions and doubts than answers that buoy you with confidence. You don’t have to pretend that everything is fine all the time. You have the freedom to be honest about how you feel. One of the defining moments in the formation of one of my closest friends came when we were chatting at a party and I randomly admitted in the middle of the conversation, “Sorry can you repeat that? I just completely zoned out and didn’t hear a thing you said.” She appreciated my honesty so much that it led to a deeper conversation about being authentic with one another, and it added another layer to the trust we were building between us. Sometimes it pays to just be up-front with people: “I’m actually really tired and am having trouble paying attention. I’m sorry, I just don’t feel like people today, thankyou for being patient with me. I may not talk much tonight because I’m a bit out of it.” Let me say it again: You. Are. Allowed. To. Be. Honest!
You are not alone. Lastly, even if your attempts at connecting with people crash and burn with spectacular failure, don’t lose heart. You are not alone. Even Jesus who invested Himself into His friends with perfection and was the standard of social interaction was abandoned by those closest to Him in His greatest hour of need. While there will always be things about ourselves that the rest of the world simply won’t get, God does. God’s love for us is enough to cover the gaps left by our failures, and the failures of others. You don’t have to despair. Tomorrow is always a new day, and God’s mercies are there for you to guide you and grow you further than you were the day before. It is not the end. If you screwed up, do your best to make amends and learn from it, but don’t beat yourself up over it. We are all going to fail at this! It’s what we choose to do after we fail that matters.

There is a song by Francesca Battistelli that is still timeless for me. The lyrics read: “don’t pretend to be something that you’re not, living life afraid of getting caught; there is freedom found when we lay our secrets down at the cross. So bring your brokenness and I’ll bring mine ‘cause love can heal what hurt divides and mercy’s waiting on the other side, if we’re honest.”

This is me being honest.

As a result, I hope this gives you the freedom to be honest with yourself, and with others too. People are not half as scary as we make them out to be, and all too frequently we give them more power than they truly have. We don’t have to get this perfectly right. This is why we have Jesus. We’re all the same at the foot of the cross.

So next time you have to face a room full of people, think of me, and I’ll think of you. We’ve got this. The greatest offering we have to give is ourselves. As Christ did for us, so we can do for others. He is with us. There is nothing we cannot do.

Let’s get out there and people together, shall we?

"Let Your love get inside our bones / May it deep within us grow / May we bring in the ones left outside." — Tenth Avenue North

Further Listening:
"We're All The Same", Tenth Avenue North
"If We're Honest", Francesca Battistelli

“It is not as we've seen, it is not as we've read, it is not as they've said. How we need to forget, we need to reset and be like children again. Are you hungry and have no money? You can sit at this table.” — Jess Ray, “Too Good”

Our dining room table wasn’t always the central focus of our home. My Dad was away for work a lot when I was really young, so we didn’t share a lot of meals together. It was only when Dad started working from home that tea time was a lot earlier so we could eat together as a family before us kids went to bed. It became a tradition that—except for weekends—meals were always shared there.

Memories before then are fuzzy now. The dining room table has come to hold many more vivid memories; ordinary quiet meals, extra chairs to accommodate friends and extended family, tense moments after particularly rough days where silence was heavy, nights where we lingered just to talk, or laugh until we couldn’t breathe, Saturday mornings wandering sleepily from our beds to join Mum and Dad where they sat reading the newspaper, countless birthday cakes, family discussions that didn’t exclude tears, small breaks throughout the day when you needed a moment of silence, or a place of ministry where Mum and Dad have had frequently counselled those with deep needs, including their own children.

The table really only had one rule: one must ask before leaving it. However, interestingly enough, no one ever needed to ask to pull up a chair and if one did, it was always met with a unanimous, undeniable, “Yes! Pull up a chair!” A request to join the table was almost considered a silly question. It was just naturally assumed that you knew the truth: that you were wanted, and you had a place there.

When I was growing up, I had very few friends. I had someone I called a best friend when I was five-years-old, however her family moved away within a year or two of our friendship and I haven’t seen her since. My early teen years were spent in homeschooling circles where I spent so much time trying to fit in and find myself a bestie that my desperation was probably part of the reason why I failed to form any lasting friendships. Those who had the potential to be substantial were snuffed short when the families moved away.

After the local homeschool group broke up, I went from the ages 14-18 without any true friends or community. We weren’t attending church during that season of life, so without six-weekly homeschooling get-togethers I had no fellowship outside of my family. I had penpals I dearly loved (one of whom remains a precious, lifelong friend) but they lived in other states, so I rarely—if ever—saw them. As I got older, my late teenage years were marked by the discovery of online community, and I made some incredible connections through a writers’ forum. Fast forwarding to today, I’m now a part of a thriving community and I have some amazing friends in my life who know me well, and love me through my highs and lows. I’m incredibly blessed. Yet the road to where I am now was paved with many lessons.

Somewhere along the line early on I picked up the message that friends were most important. I strived to build relationships with people, to form friendships through letter writing, mutual hobbies and interests, even if those things were a bore to me. I did my best to fit in, believing that was the way I would be accepted. Though my efforts were admirable because I didn’t wait for others to come be my friend, they were misplaced. I was compromising who I was in order to gain something, and any affection you earn by selling yourself is not real love.

I joined the writers’ forum with every intention of being myself. I went in with the mindset that if people didn’t like me, then it was their loss. It was too much work to pretend to be something I wasn’t and like things I didn’t, so I dropped the pose and found—to my surprise—how much people liked me. I made lasting friendships through that forum, and was encouraged and challenged more than I’d ever been before; learning to reach out to people and be a shoulder to cry on as well as championing them in their successful moments. It was a fundamental step in my journey of learning to build good relationships.

Shortly after this point I was invited by some new friends to join a Bible study/discipleship group at a neighboring church. Nervous and excited about being a part of a group of people around my age, I had no idea how that invitation would completely change the course of my life. Slowly learning to let me friendship-scarred heart be known, I stumbled through learning to love others and be loved myself. We sharpened one another through discussion, serving, miscommunications, planning subject matter, butting heads, and lots and LOTS of conversation. This group ended up supporting me and encouraging me through some very difficult transitions in my life which led to me eventually finding healing and attending their church and being able to call it home; a very new experience for me.

While friendship-building involves much selfless hard work, I'm beginning to see even the friends we make through the eyes of grace. Eucharisteo, "all is grace". Salvation is not the only thing that takes the grace of God. Scripture tells us that for us to have friends, we must be friendly. Grace helps us first become that friend. Which is why now I am grateful I had those years of solitude where I could become a friend to my family, grow stable and able to stand on my own, and become a person much more worthwhile being friends with once I became an adult. I’d done the work on myself, and am still working on myself. It starts with me, my attitude, and what I choose to believe. I found friendships much more readily when I believed the truth that I was accepted and worthy. It meant I didn’t have to earn people’s favour and attention. I simply believed I was worth favour and attention. It’s a subtle difference, but an important one nonetheless. True, this mindset has potential for pride to seep in, but if that does happen, it will undermine what you are trying to build. People are drawn to humility.

Second, grace brings us the right friends. Akin to the way grace made salvation available to us without forcing us to receive it, out of His grace, God puts people in our lives that He knows we need, and it is up to us whether we partake of those relationships. Whilst I now have people I am responsible to invest in and strengthen relationship with, these people didn't randomly appear in my life. Grace put them there.

When both are combined—grace to be a friend, grace to have a friend—beautiful things happen. I got to the place where instead of trying to prove I was worth knowing, I believed I was. Though the quality of friendships I have now are a result of a lot of hard work, sowing, investing, and giving, I no longer do those things in order to prove I'm a good person (at least, I'm learning not to). I focus on the other person. It’s what Jesus meant about how those who lose their life will find it. I found a lot more friends accidentally by loving them than I ever did striving to prove I was worth loving. I took my place at the table.

And that’s the truth; the truth is that grace sets a table right there in front of each of us. We all have a circle of faces around us, waiting for what we have to bring. We’ve been invited, but it is our responsibility to pull up a chair.

Having pulled up my own chair and sat down at the feast, sometimes I get distracted by those standing on the fringes. “Come on over!” I call. “There’s room for you here!” Sometimes I even leave my place at the table (without asking) to go stand with people on the outskirts, exhorting them to bring their whole selves to the table; as if they don’t understand the wording on the invitation, or that they don’t have the ability to drag a chair over. Or perhaps they scorn certain company, much like the elder brother of the prodigal son, and I feel compelled to justify their presence. Or maybe a flawed understanding of humility causes them to hang back. But standing there on the edges of the room, I fall into the trap of feeling guilty about my own seat. I feel shame when I sit down because I chose to come. I chose to do the work of salvation: receive. Take. Be given to. Honestly, salvation really does take a darn lot of courage; courage to believe you’re worth it. Courage to own that you’re loved, and trust that partaking of the feast and naming yourself a child of God brings gladness to the Father’s heart. So when I see others struggling to receive, I can feel guilty about my own gift.

The thing I need to remember is that no one forced me to take a chair. In all the years I spent begging for crumbs and scurrying beneath the feet of people already seated, I was never grabbed by the scruff of the neck and planted in a chair beside my heavenly Father. I was never bribed to the table, or deceived into taking a seat. I came to the end of my own efforts to a place where I recognized my singular value in Christ, and the fact He was holding the chair for me to sit down. It was not difficult. I didn’t have to strive for it or try to earn it. I simply had to humble myself and allow myself to be seated. Deuteronomy 30:11 reveals God telling us that this is not out of anyone’s reach, or is too difficult for us to receive. It’s not my place to compel others to take their place. It’s also not my place to feel guilty for those who may still hesitate to receive it. I don’t believe punishing myself by leaving the table to stand with those yet to take a chair honours God. Rest honours God, and where there is rest, God is (Exodus 33:14). I want to dwell in the presence of the Almighty, and not stand outside of that presence because I am tempted to feel guilty.

I wrote a song some months ago about friendships and the way God brings the right people into our lives at the right time. I sing from my experience in one line where I say, when the love in your heart still longs to be found, be ready for when God brings the right souls around. While there can be times we feel so lonely and far from community that we can't even see a table to be seated at, patience has its perfect work. The community you seek and the feast of fellowship you long for is there. It can just take time to be found.

This line lately has been coming to me over, and over again: there is a place for us at the table, but it is our responsibility to pull up a chair. I’m no longer taking responsibility for other people’s chairs. I choose to be seated at the table, even if it may be prepared in the presence of those who do not understand the feast or acknowledge the invitation (Psalm 23:5). There is room enough for everyone, and the responsibility—the faith to take—lies within our reach. You are invited! Come, pick up your chair and join the feast. If you’ve felt the isolation of being left on the fringes, you needn’t feel shame, guilt, or discouragement. The Father’s answer to your unspoken question is the same:

“Yes! Pull up a chair!”

Yes, yes, yes, dear friend. Believe it. Bring your whole self and come.

You have a place at the table.

“There will always, always be a place for you at My table, return to Me, My child.” — Josh Garrels, “At the Table”

“As I grow older, I discover more and more that the greatest gift I have to offer is my own joy of living, my own inner peace, my own silence and solitude, my own sense of well-being.” — Henri Nouwen

I put aside the book I just finished and prop my chin against my hand. Sleeping At Last is gently humming through the speaker, filling my room with gentle melodies, calming my nerves. I’m lying on my bed, feet propped against the headboard and I stare absently at my blue-green woolen jumper slung over the foot of the bunk. Thinking. Not thinking. Letting my mind rest in blankness for a while before returning to its normal state of flurry.

The book I just finished was called Present Over Perfect by Shauna Niequist. It speaks about a woman’s journey of ceasing from hurry and hustle to prove herself to the world, and returning to a quiet life where a yes to Christ’s presence and love is at the center of it. I can relate to her story. It wasn’t too long ago I felt God whisper to my soul a love-ladened warning: if you don’t learn to rest, you’re going to die. Rest, He says. A short, four-letter word that rolls off the tongue but feels impossible to get a handle on. Calendars fill up, cars need cleaning, washing hanging, church to attend, friends to see, people to counsel and businesses to run. A million and one responsibilities. It’s not as though any of it is done so much to earn approval, or worth (is it, Lord?). Well, I can’t just do nothing with my life, can I? I tell myself. If I’m not being useful, what is the point?

Being, maybe. I do understand the importance of learning to be. After all, “be still and know that I am God” begins with being. The ability to sit in silence and solitude, with no one but God and your own company is a mark of returning to your essential or true self, according to both Brennan Manning and Henri Nouwen. Silence is where you learn to quiet the shouting outside of you and within you in order to hear that still small voice; the voice that calls you beloved. It’s around my neck. I distractedly finger the silver chain, and trace the letters I know are found there: “ b e l o v e d ”. My head knows these things, yet I feel like my heart is still catching up. An adopted child still coming to grips with the fact they are both wanted and loved for who they are. It takes time for the heart to begin reflecting the reality of the born again soul. I feel like my heart has been given all the information and updated details of its identity, yet in the face of God’s Word saying so, it still starts every time it sees that unexpected face in the mirror. Funny, I often despise it when people forget truth, yet the most fundamental reality of life in Christ tends to slip my mind more often than I care to admit.

My greatest need in life is to intimately know this reality: that I am beloved of God, and that is enough. I say this because the word “need” has been creating conversations between myself and God. Needs are things I understand very well. I see them everywhere, in everyone. Need is the language I speak, and meeting needs is my greatest act. I use “act” with deliberation, mind you. Present me with any soul plus an hour, and I can usually discover where that person is insecure, where their buried gifts lie, where they’ve been hurt, what they’re passionate about, and a good idea of what their life’s trajectory is. At this point, my job then is to I deliver. I give them what they need; wanted or not. “You need to forgive yourself for that,” “you need to walk away from that situation,” “you need to step out and try,” “you need to comfort that person,” “you need to listen to that counsel”. You need, need, need.

Robert Downey Jr.’s character in the Sherlock Holmes movies was asked, “what do you see?” His reply—“Everything. That is my curse.” That is how it feels; and to have a set of eyes perfectly tailored to take in every need is excruciating. On top of that, the ability to deliver a convincing act based upon those perceived needs is both involuntary and exhausting. I expressed this to my sister not long ago, that it is so frustrating to walk into a room and know immediately what the room needs me to be and automatically becoming that person. I can’t not. Be the life of the party. Be the listener. Be the motivator. Be to meet the need. I get a distinct impression that this is not the kind of being God is calling me to. This kind of being doesn’t know how to rest in belovedness.

A tool God has used lately to unearth some of these meditations is the enneagram, and in recognising some of the traits and motivations of the type 2, I’ve become aware of a devastating flaw in myself. That, in all my efforts and desires to love others and meet their needs, all of it is motivated by a need to be lovable; to be loved in return. How selfish. How humiliating. I fix people and tell myself I’m being helpful, but I’m actually trying to protect myself from being hurt by their imperfection. My meeting people’s needs? Often it is a symptom of losing my awareness of my own belovedness in God’s eyes. Part of me thinks that type 2’s get the short straw in this, especially Christian 2’s. We are exhorted by Scripture to love everybody always, yet forget to be loved first ourselves. And so, we get caught up in the distraction of loving, yet never truly know the love we are working so desperately for; without even realising that’s what we’re doing. In the words of Sleeping At Last’s poignantly accurate lyrics in his song, “two”: I just want to love you, to love you, to love you well; I just want to learn how, somehow, to be loved myself.

Alongside type 2, the wing of type 3 also appeals to a room full of people for acceptance; being becomes doing, an act or dance to please the crowd. “It’s so exhausting on this silver screen, where I play the role of anyone but me”. No small wonder why the lyrics to Sleeping At Last’s “three” also resonates in my heart that longs for peace and rest: maybe I’ve done enough. Yes, “enough”. Done enough for whom, I wonder? Why do I do it? For myself? Probably a good chunk of it, whether I’m conscious of it or not. For others, under some guise of “keeping the peace”? Also a fair assumption. For God? Well no, not so that He will love me, I know that already. Or do I? If I did know that—truly know His love for me—would anyone else matter? Would anything else mean anything?

“Many voices ask for our attention… ‘prove that you are a good person’… ‘you’d better be ashamed of yourself’… ‘nobody really cares about you,’ and one that says, ‘be sure to become successful, popular, and powerful.’ But underneath all these very noisy voices is a still, small voice that says, ‘you are My beloved, my favour rests on you.’ That’s what prayer is. It is listening to the voice that calls us ‘my beloved’.”— Henri Nouwen

Sitting by myself on the verandah of the small flat we have next door, I sat in the sun and gazed at the rolling hills and trees before me, leading all the way to the foot of a mountain, Mount Olive. Mount of Olives… the name of the place Jesus often retreated to for quiet solitude. As I sat and listened to the stillness, I felt God draw near and whisper to my heart, “what if I came and stood before you; right here, right now, and asked you: what do you need? What do you need from Me? What would you say?”

I felt my chest constrict and hot tears welled up in my eyes as my breath came in rasps. “I don’t know,” I whispered. “I don’t know what I need.” Talk about humbling. The Creator of the universe comes down and asks this fatally flawed human with a billion imperfections—and those she knows about—and I couldn’t think of a single need. They say a type 2’s sin is pride; pride in the sense that they don’t believe they have any needs; they are dependent on no one for anything, self-sufficient. And antithetical to the Gospel. Though God in His grace didn’t take my ‘I don’t know’ as an answer (good parent that He is), I did realise that taking the time to become acquainted with my soul’s needs draws me into closer communion with my Creator. Pride goes before a fall, but thankfully the Rock of Ages breaks that fall.

Getting back up again, learning to practise stillness in His presence; humbling myself by admitting my needs to this Father in heaven who loves me; this is where I’m at right now. I by no means have this perfected, either. Not by a long shot. But I’ve come to realise that though God knows both the past and future, He lives in neither of them. God is the God of “now”. Present; the gift of His presence. Now. Today with its needs and problems. This moment. Breathing. “Every breath that I take says I love you, and every beat of my heart says I'm Yours. Every step that I take says I need You, and I will bless Your holy name.” How much more vividly I understand the words of that hymn:

"Lord, I need You, oh, I need You. Every hour I need You. My one defense, my righteousness, oh God, how I need You."

My greatest need in life is to intimately know this reality: that I am beloved of God, and that is enough. Saying yes to His presence. Choosing belovedness. No more acting, or meeting needs to be loved.

Just be loved first.

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