I believe this character's name is Lowly Worm. Read on.
Vulnerability Exercises
A friend writes self-help books full of useful
tips and insights I wouldn’t have thought of myself. They
sell well and help many. Several years back, her publisher
tasked her with writing one that touched on her own
divorce. Ever compliant, she ponied up another list of
to-do’s and to-don’t’s, the kind of thing she could write
while watching a movie and stirring the soup. Her
daughter, looking over the manuscript, offered advice:
“Mom, for this to help anybody, you’re gonna have to open
a vein and bleed.”
Much
of this post draws life-advice from wise kids.
“Open
a vein and bleed.” Dig deeper. Go out on a limb.
Take a risk. Be vulnerable.
During
a solo-camping exercise at a rock climbing school in New
Mexico, I got a glimpse of vulnerability’s twin sister,
honesty. On my own for two or three days in the mountains,
I did something I’d neglected in my journey with Jesus:
sat down and read the gospels, straight through. I was
dumbfounded by His interactions. He did not, it struck me,
give so much as the time of day to a virtue to which I had
devoted my callow twenty-four years: niceness. He spoke
trenchant truth into people’s lives, tempered with love
and mercy (unless He was talking to the Pharisees). He was
kind, but He was not nice. Lots of times nice is a
bad substitute for honest.
Neither
the honesty nor the vulnerability come easy to me. You
see, in fourth grade, my strategy, in life and in
dodgeball, was hiding in the back of the playing field
until everyone else was put out. Play it sneaky-safe and
win by default. I’ve tried to outgrow this ingrained
tendency, alerted to its awfulness by my younger son’s
reaction, spoken with disdain: “You were that
kid?!?”
Course-correction
from a ten-year-old.
Yeah,
I was that kid. Conflict-avoidant, reality-ducking,
people-pleasing. The type of person who never gets close
enough to the action to get cut, let alone bleed. So I’m
on a life-long journey toward getting real enough to be of
any use to anyone.
Let
me share three exercises I sometimes remember to use,
warm-up exercises for the race of life. They’re useful in
stretching the humility muscle and the honesty tendon,
keeping them pliant and ready for when life serves up
bigger challenges, which it surely will. They won’t get
you a medal, they’ll just prime the pump of your heart
with readiness for the Spirit of Truth to flow through it.
• Don’t default to polite and meaningless lies: Instead, Yes,
you have spinach stuck in your teeth, and, actually,
no, I’m not fine, but thanks for asking. That kind
of thing. Admitting I chose not to answer the phone,
instead of pretending I was in the shower when it rang.
The habit of speaking the most trivial of truths moves me
toward greater honesty.
• Embrace lowliness in minor things: gathering my courage
to admit I didn’t get a joke, or foresee the consequence
of an action, or that I was the one who left the ice cream
on the counter, thus running the risk of looking stupid.
When I do this, looks on nearby faces often surprise me –
I see it wasn’t just me.
• Another exercise – giving and facilitating appreciation.
Biting my lip when I want so badly to tell my own exploits
after someone shares theirs. That lip-bite lets them be
the best cook, the smartest pundit, even the more
accomplished writer, by not shoe-horning my own
accomplishments into the conversation. I stop protecting
my brains, my dignity, my housekeeping, my self.
By going lower in my interactions, instead of trying to
come out on top. Giving the exact compliment I wanted for
myself. Let me now repeat praise for my friend Tina,
(praise I wish I merited), from that same younger son:
“You think she’s just this nice woman, until you’ve talked
for a while and realize she’s been a step ahead of you the
whole time.” Tina keeps her brilliant self in the
background and lets others shine. Years later, I’m still
tickled her excellence got noticed by a teenager.
Warning:
done with an agenda, this is just conversational jujitsu,
using praise of the other person to make myself look
noble. In that case, I’m a sleazy conversational
politician. Please, may I never be like Jane Austen’s Mr.
Collins, the clergyman who practices inane flatteries in
private to trot out later in company. The vulnerability
and the praise must be genuine, based on deep and
kindhearted observation.
Because
going lower is the point, whether by admitting my
shortcomings or vaunting someone else’s long suits. Down
low is where community lives, but to get there I must step
down into vulnerability and honesty. This is not about
building alliances on weaknesses, little whiny fellowships
of agreed-upon complaints, but on building acceptance
through recognition that we’re on this journey together.
Acceptance is at the heart of kindness, and kindness, that
divine magnet, draws us to each other and gives us
strength to rise above our weaknesses. Most of us think
we’re the only one. The only one who can’t open a
combination lock, who thought Fred Astaire was one word,
who turn the map upside down heading south, who had eighth
grade acne. Who didn’t get the joke. Who think everyone
else has their act together. Well, let me tell you, it
isn’t just you, you’re not alone, and we need you, warts
and all.
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As always, thanks for reading.