Talk, Talk, Talk

I had coffee with someone last week. I've given myself a week to think about our conversation in order not to make a snap judgment about what was said or how I felt about it. He asked me some questions, told me what he thought about my answers and told me what he wanted from me.

During the conversation I worked very hard at not reacting outwardly to some things that were hurtful and, from where I was sitting in my own skin and looking through the lens of having actually lived what he was trying to analyze, felt somewhat naive and oversimplified.

Before we got up to leave the coffee shop I said to him, "You know, you've told me what you want me to do but not once did you ever ask what I wanted."

"I know," he said. "What you want doesn't really matter to me."

Since that evening I've felt that same semi-suffocating pressure that I used to feel when I was pastoring the church. It's the sense that I can't take a real breath because other people's expectations about who and what I am are sitting on my chest.

There's no neat little wrapped up ending to this story.

We're supposed to do an Ash Wednesday gathering at our house day after tomorrow. Right now, I don't want anything to do with it. I don't want to do Bible study either.

I guess I'm hoping that the writing of this encounter will diffuse it's power. That naming my discomfort and fear will put them into proper perspective. That the joy that Bible study was bringing me will return.

Because the one thing I promised myself when I left the church so long ago now, is that nothing would stop me from telling my truth ever again.