At the end of summer, I traveled north to visit old friends. They live in a beautiful land, filled with oceanic meadows, breathtaking mountains, and enchanting hillside streams.  My girlfriend, a brilliant but exhausted woman, cooked delicious food, cared for her children, and allowed me to nurture her kids.

The weekend arrived, along with my birthday, and on that day, we ran errands to the farmer's market, and finished by going to a stock show. 

As we walked around the mammoth auditorium, I smelled the stench of fear, and heard the meat lambs crying out. Standing next to one of the stalls, a slate gray lamb writhed in its cage, bellowing frantically. My heart ached to witness such suffering, and I yearned to comfort it in some way, its primal fear so dreadful to witness. 

Here I am, on my birthday, watching suffering animals, a parade of pain.

Eventually, we returned to the car, and the boys bickered and the girl-child read a book to cover over her stress. Back at the house, my girlfriend and I spent the evening in the kitchen cooking and singing and dancing to the singer Adele, doing our best to find joy amid the rubble of life's sorrows.

At the table, my male friend prayed and blessed me, speaking so softly I barely heard him. I bravely held in the tears as the realization poured over me like a sudden onslaught of rain: I am not welcome here. 

What do you do when you feel as if you cannot be yourself with others?

***

In college twenty years ago, I became good friends with a fiery young woman named Daphne who proclaimed to be a rationalist.  She taught me how to eat with chopsticks at the local Vietnamese restaurant, the smells of delicious pho wafting to our hungry mouths.  Daphne invited me into her heart for friendship and we shared many hilarious times together.

But her primary means of interacting with me centered on proving herself the smarter one.  While a devout Christian, she had a mean streak with a penchant toward ridicule. She made fun of my eccentric ways, my curly hair, and my personality. At one point, she declared, "I have learned tolerance in becoming friends with someone like you."

Eventually, I let her go because I need friends who would allow me the space to be myself, in all my imperfect glory. However, I still befriended individuals who would find the soft, tender spots in me and hurt me.

Sometimes, we make the same mistakes in order to increase self-awareness, which will move us toward healing. Although touted in the popular culture, perfection in our behavior, thoughts, and feelings is not a possibility. Often, we make these same mistakes again because we are not yet aware of old patterns that rear their ugly heads at stressful moments in our lives.

But learning a new way of relating to oneself, in spite of how others treat you, is one of the great gifts of maturity, and modern brain science backs up this truth too. It’s called neuroplasticity; it means we can learn and grow until our very last breath.

Was my male friend unwelcoming of me or was it really a distorted perception brought about by ancient patterns of past hurts and fears? That old college friendship is gone, but I still had a chance to renew things now.

***

On Sunday morning, I warned my girlfriend I would skip church, that due to my increasing back pain, rest would be my church for the day. Truth be told, I was glad to be alone; I could recharge from the stress of travel in private.

After breakfast, I lounged on their large back porch, looking up at the dusty tan mesas, or rims as the locals call them. The sturdy sentinels of coniferous tress, spruce and pine, dotted the faraway hills. As I sat on the porch and relaxed into God’s loving embrace, I became as still as a moose in a forest thicket.  

What do you want to do next? I inquired gently for healing occurs when we become lovers of our bodies.

As I turned my head, a little red bird landed in the colorful geranium planter near my lawn chair.  In stillness, I observed the house finch pecking in the soil, its red head shiny and flitting about. It did not notice me, and I recognized it as a gift from above. St. Francis of Assisi was right about creation—it is a temple in which God continually dwells, the first Bible humans ever had.

Minutes later, it flew past me, only inches away, and my heart soared with pleasure.  This is where I find rest for my soul, I realized. In quietness, allowing my body to breath deeply and soak in beauty.

After the bird flew away, I listened to a podcast on the absolute assurance of the Divine's loving presence with us, in our bodies, minds, and souls. Weeping with relief, I heard truth proclaimed over me, that I am good and loved. My tears baptized me, and suddenly a new insight emerged: my friends are struggling and that my male friend’s soft birthday blessing was the best he could offer.  

It was never about me. The old meanness from relationships past no longer has to mar the friendships I have now. 

On my last night, all of us piled together in the basement, watching movies. My male friend gave me a hug and wished me a good trip home, asking me to bring my husband next time. With relief, I discovered he was glad to see me, that my expectations about how others should respond, got in the way of my birthday weekend.

But not anymore. God showed me, in Sunday morning quiet, that as I release old hurts and affirm a new storyline of peace, I practice his truth. I walk out his peace.

JENN ZATOPEK

Jenn Zatopek is a recovering perfectionist, writer, and licensed professional counselor from Texas. She has a master’s degree in counseling psychology from Tarleton State University, and has been accepted to Brite Divinity School to pursue a degree in theology. Her work has been featured at SheLoves Magazine, The Glorious Table, and Panther City Review. Jenn believes in radical kindness and her heroes include Fred Rogers and Henri Nouwen. You can find her writing about the intersection of psychology and spirituality at The Holy Absurd and at Instagram @theholyabsurd.