The Worst Red Rover Ever

I wouldn’t have chosen it, but given the chance I would not choose to change it.

(I’m in the mountains on a spiritual retreat and wasn’t planning to write, but this whole thing just sort of arrived today…so here it is.)

Photo by Luis Santoyo on Unsplash

Last month, I found myself at a social event where I did not know a single person except the one who invited me. This is not a situation in which I shine.

In social settings, at parties for example, I basically have no idea how to just start talking to people I don’t know. This may come off as shyness or even arrogance, but in reality it is simply a blend of awkwardness and a concomitant contempt for conversations that differ very little from, say, those between your average squirrels .

What tree is your nest in? Have you always lived in that tree?

Do you have any brother or sister squirrels?

What is your favorite shade of brown?

=

Where are you from?

Denver.

Oh my barista has a nephew who used to live there.

Um, ok.

Shoot me.

So for the umpteenth time in my life it felt like “one of these things is not like the others,” and I was the thing. These were very polite, put-together people, none of whom appeared to struggle with accidently blurting out darkly inappropriate thoughts. Nor did they seem likely to have a tattoo Jimmy the Junkie scratched into their back when they were inadvisably laying in his living room sometime in the early 90s.

But the home was beautiful and the BBQ delicious so I had determined to eat and run.

But before I could get my plate of brisket to the table, a man in his 80s stopped me.

You look like a walking piece of art…I have a great tattoo story to tell you!

The most important part of the story was how he began it: So…I was in an AA meeting in Brussels.

All the tension left my shoulders because I knew small talk is unneeded between two people when they both speak the language of the resuscitated.

We dropped into our acquired dialect of failure, prayer and being saved from yourself, he and I, and spoke not at all of acorns.

To belong to the diaspora of drunks is an absolute treasure. It is not difficult to chat with them because we have trod the same road.

Here’s why I am mentioning this story, and forgive me if it sounds glib. I promise I am being sincere.

If a year ago God said “Ok kiddo, would you like to choose cancer, the amputation of your breasts, hormonal wreckage, 2 months of maybe having a 2^nd cancer (I do not have it but man, was that a tense 2 months), a D&C, and the death of your father” I would NEVER, never had chosen this. Because I am not a complete idiot. And yet, I must truly, if haltingly, admit: given a magic wand, one that could erase this last year of cancer and surgery and deep grief, I would not wave it.

Because there is a wounded sorority of women to which I belong. Were I to meet any of them at a party where I was just about to leave because I am garbage at small talk, I would stay and have seconds of brisket.

The fellowship that awaits us across the worst Red Rover ever, is ours for life. And right now I am feeling oddly grateful for it, because I feel less special and more deeply human than I ever have.

Schedule Change:

My Keeping It Together conversation with Father James Martin will not take place tomorrow - it has been rescheduled for Thursday Aug 6th - noon Eastern.