Open the valve to deeper relationships
I have been thinking about this for some time now. Why do I have some people in my life with whom I can discuss almost anything, and others for whom I rehearse a simple sentence three times before saying it? With the first group, I can admit that I am afraid, that I have made a terrible decision, or that I sometimes have absolutely no idea what I am doing. With the second, I carefully select my words, remove the embarrassing bits, add a little confidence, and present the best possible version of myself. I asked myself, why am I able to tell one person the unvarnished truth and feel the need to polish every sentence for another? Especially when the second person might be someone I love just as much. Then I remembered David an old friend of mine. We had been friends for years, and I could tell him things I wouldn't have admitted to almost anyone else. I could tell him when I was jealous of somebody's success, when I had been unkind and knew it, or when I was pretending to be happy because admitting otherwise felt too complicated. He never rushed to repair me. He didn't turn every admission into a lecture. He didn't reach for a motivational quote or explain how I could become a better version of myself. Sometimes, he simply listened. Once, after I had spent twenty minutes explaining why a particular decision was entirely reasonable, David looked at me and said, "Bob, are you explaining this to me, or are you trying to convince yourself?" Then I laughed. That was David's gift. Around him, I didn't have to win my own argument. I could simply lose it. And still be loved. The curious thing was that I wasn't always so honest with the people closest to me. There were conversations with family members in which I would say, "Everything is fine," when it wasn't. There were moments when somebody asked what I thought, and I gave them the answer least likely to upset them. There were times when I was hurt but pretended to be amused, disappointed but acted indifferent, lonely but insisted I was busy. I eventually realized that perhaps, I was afraid of being misunderstood. Afraid of looking weak. Afraid that saying what I really felt might change the way somebody saw me. And perhaps most uncomfortable of all, that I might be judged and that could affect our relations moving forward. So we begin editing. We remove the anger. We conceal our sadness, we disguise our needs, because we don't want to seem difficult. I think this is why a person like David matters so much. Not because he always understood me. He didn't. Not because he agreed with me. He often didn't. But because I never felt that I had to earn my place in the conversation by being clever, successful, cheerful, or right. I could arrive with an ugly truth, and he would make room for it. Perhaps that is one of the quietest forms of love: not merely loving what is beautiful in another person, but making room for what is unfinished. So, a good question to ask ourselves today is whether we follow David’s way and have deeper, unfiltered relationships in our lives or keep our relationships at a surface level. Of course, we can have both, so long as we are aware of the difference between the two. Happy Sunday, Bob
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