Faces, not the Masses

bekah General Leave a Comment

Enjoy the audio version here:


 

Faces, not the masses.

It’s a phrase I’ve heard echoing in my head for months now.

Faces, not the masses.

That person.
Right there.
Her face.
His eyes.
That student.
This child.

Right here.
In real time.
It’s he or she we choose to see.

I was reminded, once again, of this heartpat as I reunited with a high school friend. While cotton clouds slow-poked across the sky and crisp breezes waved her sighs about us, I listened, inspired and struck by this friend’s gentle nature.

She lives and craves real.
Imperfect.
Authentic.
The kind of relationships that reach across computers and phones and tables to say, “It’s okay that you aren’t sure about this whole faith thing. You are invited into my life.” She sees people that are emerging from dark pits, who could use gentle nudges, and she meets their eyes and says, “I get it. I relate. I’ll walk with you.”

She is choosing to not be uncomfortable with the uncomfortable.

And I could just hug her.

Oh, how I want life to be about the faces, not the masses.
The choosing of today and the enjoying of this meal and words speaking now. Planted front and center of life all around.

When I lose sight of the faces through the masses, when I see crowds instead of individuals, something, I realize, is off, and I reframe steps.

As this oldnew friend spoke, I sensed that stirring, that small spark ignite, a glow of a dream beginning. What would it would look like to create a space, a safe nest, where people can share their un-glitzy stories? Their in-the-middle, wrestling stories. The kind with lingering questions and messy symptoms and a quest for hope that spurs them to dig for more, to take one step closer to vulnerable real-ness. My friend does this every time she invites someone in and I’m wondering, do you crave that too?

Because, truth be told, I’ve experienced loss, depression, transition, tension, and grief. I’ve questioned myself, my worth, my marriage, my kids. I’ve doubted my God, my identity, my calling, my purpose, and I’ve needed to know that during those times, I was still useful, that my realness was accepted and acceptable.

Maybe you too?

Where does that settle with you? Do you yearn for a nest to share from and with, to whisper aloud without expectation for a remedy, or an answer, or a sure-fire fix-it way?

If you do, I’m thinking we should be friends.

Because your face and story, it so desperately needs to be seen and heard.

And I’m thinking there is a place for you here to do just that.

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