©LF Haynie, July 23, 2016
“If you want to come see me, come anytime. If you want to come see my house, make an appointment,” the mother of a friend of mine says.
I was thinking this morning about how we tend to “hide” our messes. Be they the minor—or even major—messes of a lively household with a busy adult or the emotional messes of despair, shame, and other downward-dragging problems, we tend to hide or “minimize” the problems in front of others.
I lived with a hoarder for many years. Everybody who came to the door was greeted through a crack in the doorway. “I’m sorry, I can’t open the door, the dog will run out.” (I still do that, not because of a messy household, but in truth—the dog WILL run out. Beagle. Hound nose. “I’m being a GOOD doggie, I’m being a GOOD doggie, I’m sitting, just like Mama told me to…I’m being a GOOD doggie….oh, look, there’s a squirrel!” Gone. Breeding will tell.)
Why do I do that? Why do I act as though I have no problems? Everyone has a mess somewhere in their lives. We are all imperfect.
But we don’t believe that. We see the outer layers, the “Oh, excuse the mess” of two toys on the floor of the children’s playroom. The “Oh, I’m being sooo bad,” of a paper-thin woman eating a small dessert, having had a salad for lunch and again for dinner. The “Oh, this old thing?” of a designer dress, perfect color, perfect style, perfect fit.
I remember in Sunday school before the class began, other women talking of how upset they were that their husbands left their socks on the floor. I remember how upset I was at hearing that, thinking, “If they only knew.” I would have loved it if my husband’s socks were the only problem. But I couldn’t tell them that, because it would have made me too vulnerable. Because they didn’t appear to have any similar weaknesses. Stepford wives, each and every one of them.
Except they weren’t.
I cannot know what is inside of you, if you won’t let me in. And that makes me afraid to be vulnerable, to make myself vulnerable to you. Because I’m afraid you’ll judge me.
How often do we judge each other? Not for our messes, but for our “perfection”? How often do we judge each other, thinking “She would judge me, if she knew. She would think I’m not a decent person. I bet she never had a problem like THIS in her family.”
She almost certainly does—somewhere. Whether her “secret” sorrow is an addiction, in herself or in her family; whether it’s a physical illness, a mental illness, an emotional weakness… everyone has something. And if they don’t, chances are they are actually in denial about the problem.
When we “shame” ourselves into thinking we are the only person in the world with the problem, we compound the problem.
Perhaps what we should be looking for is the good in people, not the faults. What is the good in this person, that will let her see who I am, and not think the worse of me for having this problem?
How can we help each other with our burdens? All too often, we want to help others, but, fearing vulnerability, we deny needing help ourselves. We deny others the opportunity, the great gift, of helping us. To help another along the way, you have to be able to accept help—in some form—as well. Otherwise, the person we are helping feels ashamed of needing help.
And what else has God put us here on Earth to do, but to carry what we can and help others along the way?