Ankle boots, lemon bars, and too many words

A couple of weekends ago, I went to a women’s event with a dear friend. I was in an unfamiliar city, at an unfamiliar church, meeting women who were all entirely new to me. I was fine and happy, though, because my dear friend was my security blanket (she doesn’t know how anxious I get meeting new people because I don’t do vulnerability, but because she’s lovely and true, I was mostly relaxed—a check mark in the win column), not to mention, in one hand, I was holding a little black plate with a lemon bar on it and in the other, a cup of hot decaf. I felt anchored and tethered and safe.

Also, this: because I don’t know any of these women, I got to be more quiet than usual. I am typically the one who rushes in with words, as though quiet is stranger-danger. But these beautiful young women, all mamas of short people, were doing the talking and connecting and loving. It was truly sweet. Because I was the visitor, I listened more and said less.

And it was in the listening that I heard something that made me draw my eyebrows together in a not so pleasant way. I’m going to re-tell the conversation here, but please understand before diving in that I do not do so to criticize. I’m digging into this because my word-rushiness gets me into some serious trouble. I regularly say crap I do not mean. I’ve been thinking about that lately, about how I so often blurt out something just to fill silence or discomfort, but … eesh, I do not mean the thing at all.

I want to do better.

So here goes.

Picture five of us balancing the little plates and smiling big. Not everyone knows everyone else. The ones who do are holding each other in new friendship space, that place where we enthusiastically seek common ground (loads of gushing ME, TOO!) but hold off on the real stuff (“I’m afraid you guys are judging me right now because I’m the only one here not wearing ankle boots”).

That space.

As an aside, you need to you know that I suck at small talk. I try. I really do. But I actually hate the phrase “small talk,” honestly, because small talk is not small at all. It’s where we sniff each other out, form connections, discover who is safe and who is not. It’s what normal people do, and I’m terrible at it. I find myself unable to stop from dropping heavy bombs into small talk … as you will see in just a moment.

Back to the five women. So one of these gals is a tall red-head and just drop-dead gorgeous. I’ll call her Savannah because that would be the perfect name for her. She has loads of long curly hair and a soft-spoken drawl. I loved her in an instant. Another smiling young woman, let’s say Julie, was so thin, I worried about her. She, like me, is a word-rusher.

So we’re standing about sharing bits of ourselves, like where we went to college and how many kids we have. (Oh God, the kid thing is a whole other topic that makes me uneasy. It seems like a safe enough thing to ask, like, “Hey, how about all this rain?” except when you say that to someone who lost a loved one in a flash flood. It’s complicated, okay?)

So Julie and I are doing our word-rush thing, except, for once, I’m not quite as quick to jump in. I’m listening more. And watching. And noshing on my lemon bar (okay, fine, there was a peanut butter brownie on my plate, too). And Julie said this to Savannah:

Your accent is so beautiful you should record the Bible because I’d totally listen to your voice every night as I fall asleep that would be so relaxing and soothing and I’d love to fall asleep listening to you really you should do it and make loads of money.

And her words instantly nagged at me because I don’t think Jesus would be all that happy if anyone made loads of money reading the Bible. There are a lot of reasons I think this. Seriously, a lot. Another day.

And also I don’t think the Bible is soothing or relaxing at all. I have never ever fallen asleep reading or listening to Biblical texts. Sometimes words from the Bible energize me and sometimes they comfort me and sometimes they propel me, but truth be told, a ton of stuff in the Bible confuses me and even worries me. But does the Bible make me sleepy? Nope.

And, of course, you know what’s coming. I sort of said that maybe reading the Bible shouldn't be relaxing. 

Not a check mark in the win column.

So I told Matt about the whole conversation that night. And I was judgy about it at first, honestly. But then I said, “I do the same thing. I say all kinds of things I don’t mean. I’m just uncomfortable and I’m trying to fill silences and I just don’t think. But also I’ve become a little too comfortable saying the thing that I do think, the real thing—like that Bible reading probably shouldn’t be relaxing or a big money-maker—and I’m not sure that’s any better than saying stupid stuff I don’t mean. Like who do I think I am???”

Matt laughed a little nervously. He’s been the brunt of so many of my words, the ones I don’t mean and the ones I most certainly do. He is the recipient of my kindest words, for sure, but he’s also the target of my ever-sharp criticism. He’s also had a front row seat to my Terribleness At Small Talk more times than I count. (Blessedly, small talk is one of his super powers, so I leave social events with at least a modicum of self-worth. I can’t do small talk, but at least I had the good sense to marry a nice person.)

I wish I could wrap this up with a happy little self-revelation. I don’t really have one. The truth is simply this: I say too much, I say too little, I say things I don’t mean, and I say things I absolutely mean—but not always gently.

I don’t judge Julie. I am Julie. I’m hanging on by a lemon bar, you guys, and an endless stream of words.

And the dear friends who stand next to me, holding little black plates of their own.