I turned 31 this past Saturday, and I have spent far too many of the past 31 years trying to be something other than what I am. I wanted to be cool instead of cute. Clever and sarcastic instead of tenderhearted and sensitive. For a few years, in the vacuum of middle school, I even pretended to be ditzy and dumb because that seemed to garner more endearment and approval from my friends than being studious and smart. Perhaps the very best part of getting older is not having to care quite so much what other people think.
At 31, I feel like in someways I am just now becoming more fully myself. My desires too have been refined. Where once I wanted to stand out and surprise, now I want to be thoroughly predictable in some ways. I’m okay with being boring to those close to me. I long for my life to be consistent and constant in some ways. There are things about me now that I want to never change. Some of these things after all have taken 31 years for me to accept about myself—traits that have had to claw their way out of the pit of shame I (and others) tried to bury them in—my sensitivity for instance.
A few weeks ago a friend that I haven’t seen in ages landed on my doorstep. She and I were in small group at church together back in 2016, and after a wonderful year together, she left to do her master’s degree in Germany. Now she lives in Kansas City working towards an MD PHD (such an underachiever am I right?), but she was on her way to visit family for the week and asked if she could swing by our new home on the way. (Since our new home was actually on her way!) Of course I immediately said yes.
I place the kettle on the gas eye to boil a few minutes before she is due to arrive. When she pulls up, I see her from the front window and run out to greet her, and as she stands with me for the first time on my (still new) front porch, amongst the plants and the rocking chairs she says, “I thought this porch looked like Gracie.”
When we first saw this house online last July, I was immediately struck by the front porch. It’s wide and deep, with a wood and metal railing, and a peaked roof with pine shiplap layered carefully above. The stamped concrete is a lovely dark pink color, and there is a hook for a wind chime on the post nearest the front door. The day we arrived here last September, after I had unloaded my two six-week-old babies from the van, the very first thing I did was hang my wind chime from that hook. And the very first purchase I made for the house was a pair of wooden rocking chairs, with a small table in between. It immediately made this place feel like home.
And now, here they sit—as sentries of connection and welcome that words cannot always express, saying to those who know me well, and to those who do not: You’re here. You made it. Welcome.
The tea kettle whistles just a few moments after my friend walks in the door, and as she opens the cupboard with the familiar mugs from which we drank tea all those years (and two houses) ago, I am reminded that though so much has changed, my life completely upended in so many ways, there are still so many things that have stayed the same.
Between the rhythms of sharing our hearts, and playing with the children, and fixing plates of good food, and washing the dishes together—there is a rhythm of mutual care and friendship that has not faded with time or distance. Even as we have both grown and changed so much in the past few years, I can look into the eyes of this dear old friend and see her tender heart, her fierce wisdom, her genuine affection. And it is a relief.
And as I opened an early birthday gift she so thoughtfully brought for me, I was delighted, but not terribly surprised, to find a tin of “Christmas in July” tea alongside a meaningful card full of encouragement. (Just the sort of present that I adore—because for those who know me, my love of tea and words of affirmation is thoroughly predictable.)
Sometimes, its the smallest things—the littlest moments—that make you feel seen after a year of feeling nearly invisible. To Colette, I am thoroughly predictable in some ways, which perhaps is just another way of saying I am known.
She holds my stories and my heart tenderly. She drinks the tea slowly. She comments on the children and hugs the ones who still remember the days when she came to play often, the mornings when we would call her over Whats App to hear all about her life in Germany. She introduces herself to the babies. She shares her life too.
And I am struck by this—all of this knowing and being known—as the most extravagant gift of all.
So here’s to being known friends—I hope you have someone in your life who loves you just the way you (actually) are, and not the way you pretend to be—even if that someone is just yourself.
Being Known
Grace,
I love your writing. I love you for who you are and have become. You are a part of the fabric of my life to find myself too. In finding ourselves, we help others. What a beautiful gift. And it's all because God is in our lives redeeming us. We are truly blessed. Hugs to you!