A Little Letting Go

I had a good day today. I pulled on some long spandex and jogged through the cold neighborhood. I met our new auto insurance agent and got all that dialed in. I studied at the library, made a visit to the chiropractor, and went to my in-law's to work on building a bookshelf. I got lost in the work for a few hours, stopped at home for a quick dinner and called my brother. I got to worship practice a few minutes late and got to play bass. I drove home and pulled up into the driveway. The windows were dark and the doors were locked.

Rachel is in Detroit tonight. Her work sent her out there to complete her training. So I walked in the door to an empty house. The furnace pilot had gone out so it was a little colder than normal.

Alone.

It's not that I can't spend a night by myself (I actually usually enjoy that occasionally). It's not that I
don't have friends here yet (I have met some good people here who I am getting to know better). It's more that I miss being a part of a larger conversation. I miss working toward something, each day building on the one before. I miss the feeling that somebody is depending on me, needing me to be me because I am important to them. What good am I as a passerby? But that's pride talking, isn't it? It's the part of me that wants to be important in the eyes of others. It's the part of me that is unsatisfied coming home without someone there to praise me.

When I was fifteen, my family moved from northern California to southern California. At a time when I was just starting to form my own identity, my context was ripped out from under me. I had been loved by so many close friends in Moraga, but after the move I was the new kid at La Costa Canyon High School with no friends*. I was a sad kid that first semester. I would listen to the mix from my going away party and cry, wondering what had happened to my life. A friend from church would say they didn't see me smile for six months. That's how long it took me to adjust to San Diego, to feel at home.

So maybe it takes time, maybe it just takes six months to adjust, to feel at home and comfortable, to find my place in that net of relationships that gives me the assurance of belonging.

But maybe it takes something else besides time. Maybe I'm not as important as I would like to be. Maybe it takes a little sadness, a little letting go of the family and friends who love me so much and remind me again and again and again how important I am. Yes, they are important to me and I am important to them. But I'm not important to everyone. And maybe that's okay. And maybe it takes letting go of some pride, a little coming home empty and falling asleep knowing that only God is with me, and that is enough. It is enough that He made me wonderfully*. And it's more than enough that He looks at me and He smiles.



*Okay, I did have some friends, but I call them pity friends. They let me sit with them and eat with them at snack and lunch breaks. Pretty sad, I know. Over five semesters, I made two friends total. I did well in class, but I didn't like being at school.

*When I was a kid, my mom helped me memorize Psalm 139. "Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go to the heavens, you are there. If I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I ride on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea. Even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast."