Truth or Dare.
I remember that feeling like it was yesterday. We would all
be in our pajamas by this time of the night. And we had (of course) already
completed the other tasks on our To Do List of Sixth-Grade Fun including a
3hour-long series of MASH, make-overs, dance performances, scary movies,
raiding the fridge… and NOW. It was everyone’s favorite.
Pillow in lap. Here we go.
And before you could say Backstreet’s Back, everyone was sitting in a perfectly flawless circle, Indian style and all, silently
comparing PJ’s. And I swear you could actually hear hearts beating heavily
around the room like rocks gloriously tumbling down the Carolina mountainside.
And the longer the silence lasted between players, the louder these hearts of
rock would become until suddenly, the moment when you equally love and hate your
name…
Mary Margaret.
Truth or Dare!?
At once, as if all N’sync (ha, see what I did there?),
a chorus of giggles and glares would leap across the circle as each girl internally
analyzed you to death, looking you up and down trying to figure out what your
puberty-stricken self is made of. In retrospect, it is a bit creepy how each individual tween's eyes would gleam like diamonds as she would silently predict your answer better than a weatherman predicts the day's mood.
And as fun as it was to be the brave soul that took on the
Dare every round and be forced to rush to the garage and shove a bowl of Dog
food down your throat against your own Limited Too will, you do know that, most
times that was the easier route. I mean, seriously, what middle school girl
really wants to open all doors to any question which she is required by Slumber
Party Law to uphold to in all honesty? Um… sorry, but No Thanks.
Ok so we’re on the same page? Truth is the new Dare. Just go
with me for a minute…
So back to yesterday…you know those moments when you crave
nothing more than familiarity? This was one of those days. Shoot, you could
have thrown me in a ditch in Nashville or Tuscaloosa (take your pick) and I
would have been one happy little camper. Either place would have sufficed. Just
give me a voice I recognize, a face that knows my past so I don’t have to
explain myself anymore. Just give me that Alabama ground, a tree at Centennial.
Anything.
It’s quite hilarious, though, how upset I get at myself when
those feelings come. I find myself saying things like, Just tough it up Mary
Margaret. Come on. You’re a big girl now. And then low and behold, the real
battle exists between a clean cheek and a wet one. And let me tell you, if
those tears come, all hell breaks loose.
I get so mad at myself.
Each tear becomes one more avalanche reminding me I failed.
I failed at being grown-up. I failed at putting on the happy face that people so
easily associate with me… or at least that’s my desire. Tears mean soft, weak,
pitiful. And this is not the time. At least save them until you are by
yourself, I tell myself. Save it for a decent writing session, a lonely night
before bed.
I was in Rite Aid when it happened. The battle had begun.
Two of my new coworkers/friends scurried around the store to cross off their
lifelong list of items… or so it seemed because it had literally been years
since I purchased my one necessary item for the day: a watch. I was putting it
off as long as possible. I hate wearing those heavy, ugly things on my wrist.
And more than that, most days I hate knowing what time it is. It makes me feel
like I live in a box… but I guess that’s part of being grown-up too.
So I was sitting in a cheap, raggedy looking chair in the
front of the store that I’m pretty sure was for sale since it was in the middle
of Nowhere-ville, Rite Aid. Yes, I was feeling a bit on the lazy side but I was
certainly ok with that. I know I probably looked a bit silly and out of place
sitting there but I somehow felt entitled to such temporary and unusual
comfort, I guess because, “I’m not from around these parts.”
I’m using that line as long as possible.
And then it hit me: I’m not having fun. I feel stuck in this
town, in this store, with no car and no desire to be the slightest bit social.
And I just bought a watch. Really?! A watch.
Ok so mission accomplished. I didn’t cry. My new friends who
are coming to know me for my quirky humor and Alabama twang never even knew I
was hurting inside. But should that have been my goal?
It’s such a natural instinct for me to not let myself “go
there” too many times than not. As soon as I get the shaky voice and the stuffy
nose, I just want to crawl into a hole and die. Ok that’s a little dramatic but
I think it’s safe to say I quickly turn into somewhat of a drill sergeant
inside demanding this way, then that. This feeling, not that.
And you know one thing I am beginning to realize? While I
spend all my time and efforts to withhold being vulnerable with people (A.K.A.
when my heart turns plastic like a McDonald’s hamburger), I hurt those I am
closest to because I don’t let them in. I don’t let them in to that sacred
space where God actually dreams of me living. Because it is there that He gets
to be God and we get to be human. He gets to be Father and we get to be child.
He gets to be Creator and we get to be creation.
Simpler version? We become what we were made for: Weak.
I know, it’s a bit unsettling. I still struggle with the
concept myself but God is opening my eyes to a new day, a new reality, where I
actually can begin to trust in His goodness. He is inviting me to a new place
on the map, an island of liberty perhaps, where He can actually hold my frail
and fragile heart and let me be me.
Messy messy me. Tears and all.
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