Rescuing Moments
I find myself drawn to thrift stores and old books, rescuing pieces of stories that others have lived before me. Last year, I was invited to browse through the personal library of a pastor who had gone to be with the Lord—rows upon rows of books that had shaped his ministry, his thoughts, his life. Each volume I opened revealed fragments of his journey: handwritten notes in margins, highlighted passages, underlined verses that must have spoken to his soul in moments I'll never fully know. There's something sacred about those marked-up pages, like being invited into a conversation that spans both the present and the past.
The Longing for Authentic Connection
You see, this is what I've always longed for in community—that sense of being woven into others' stories, of finding my place in narratives bigger than my own. But unlike these books that so willingly share their previous owner's thoughts, real community has always been an elusive treasure in my life—something I've yearned for while simultaneously holding at arm's length. Like books arranged on different shelves, some parts of myself are proudly displayed, easily shared. Others remain tucked away, their spines turned to the wall, protected from curious eyes.
Early Wounds and Lasting Impressions
A few chapters of my early life wrote themselves in permanent ink. Though I wasn't subjected to the severe bullying that others have endured, the casual comments about my appearance and even my intellectual capacities carved subtle valleys in my sense of self. God's mercy shows in the haziness of other memories; some pains are better viewed through the fog of time. Maybe it's His way of protecting us from carrying too much. Though the memories fade, their imprints remain—showing up in the way I carry myself, in my hesitation to trust. Like a book with coffee stains on its cover—you know something happened there, but the details have blurred.
Moments of Connection and Disappointment
Now in my 40's, I'm still learning to balance my natural instincts with grace. I'm a critic with a bleeding heart—this gift of perception both blessing and burden. While it has led me through valleys of heartbreak, it's also given me moments of extraordinary connection—those rare times when you find someone whose story resonates so perfectly with your own that it takes your breath away. As C.S. Lewis wrote, "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, 'What! You too? I thought I was the only one.'" Like finding a book that speaks directly to your soul, these moments remind me why I keep turning pages in the story of community, even when some chapters end in disappointment.
I remember one such moment, not long ago, hiking with women from a new church. As we climbed the steep trail together, sharing stories between breaths, the gratitude I felt was almost tangible—one of those rare perfect moments I could count on one hand. But like morning dew, the warmth of that moment evaporated too quickly, leaving behind the familiar chill of disappointment. This is why Scripture repeatedly calls us to the "one anothers"—love one another, forgive one another, bear with one another. These commands are tools to help us uphold the essential truth that community isn't optional—even when it hurts.
The Challenge of Reopening Old Chapters
Sometimes the hardest pages to revisit are the ones we think we've already turned. I thrive in fresh chapters—clean pages where I can write a new story. But when familiar characters cross my path, I retreat and the old narrative takes over. Like finding a difficult passage in an old book, the memories of past hurts and my still-unresolved flaws make even the thought of reconnection feel overwhelming. These unresolved chapters seem to speak louder than the new ones I'm trying to write. And so the cycle continues, finding myself back at page one, starting the story over and over again.
The Dual Role: Wounded and Wounder
People hurt each other. I am part of people. This recognition—that I am both the wounded and the wounder—has been a hard truth to accept. For years, I wielded my perceptiveness like a shield, using it to identify potential threats before they could materialize and—like a critic's pen—marking up the margins of others' lives with observations and corrections. My leadership instincts, coupled with an almost compulsive drive for justice, often placed me in the role of the fixer—the one who could see the problems and therefore felt responsible for solving them.
Presence Over Perfection
What I'm learning, slowly and not always gracefully, is that true community doesn't require perfection—it requires presence. Those moments when I've felt most connected weren't when I was analyzing, leading, or fixing. They were when I simply showed up, vulnerabilities and all, and allowed others to do the same. My capacity for seeing deeply—both flaws and beauty—is the same capacity that allows me to love greatly. My leadership instincts, though sometimes overbearing, spring from a genuine desire to see others thrive. Even my critical nature, when properly channeled, helps me appreciate authentic connection even more.
Childlike Simplicity in Friendship
Recently, after our first day at a new Bible study, my son asked if I had made any new friends. When I explained that adult friendships don't form as easily as childhood ones—that we can't simply share our names and instantly become best friends—his response caught me off guard. With the pure confidence that only a child can possess, he offered to teach me his way, to show me just how simple it could be.
His innocence pierced straight through my adult complications, reminding me of something I'd lost along the way. That childlike ability to connect without pretense or precondition—what Jesus must have meant when He spoke of becoming like little children—feels so far away. My son's offer to "teach" me friendship carried an unintentional wisdom: perhaps we adults have overcomplicated what should be simple. We've built elaborate mazes of social expectations and self-protection, when maybe we should just be sharing our names and favorite colors, trading stories about our day with the unguarded openness of a child at recess.
The Ripple Effect of Influence
As I sit here among these rescued books, fingers trailing over worn spines and dog-eared pages, I'm struck by the ripples of influence flowing from these volumes. The pastor's studies, evidenced by the many highlights and notes, didn't just shape his own understanding—they flowed into his sermons, his counseling, his daily interactions. His insights touched countless lives beyond these pages—creating an impact that reached far beyond his library walls.
A Larger Story of Community
These ripples make me consider the marks we leave behind. Like those early comments about my appearance and intellect that still echo today, our words carry weight far beyond their moment—teaching me to wield my own perceptions with greater care. Every interaction, every word spoken or withheld, becomes part of someone else's story.
Perhaps that's the greatest lesson these old books have to teach me about community: we're all part of a larger story whether we realize it or not. Like these well-worn volumes, the marks we receive and the marks we leave aren't limited to direct contact. But the courage to show up authentically, to share our struggles and celebrations alike, might just give someone else permission to do the same. And in that beautiful cycle of vulnerability and grace, we will soon realize that we were always part of a story much bigger than our own—the story of one another—one that God is still writing, one marked page at a time.