Come and knock on my door.

Several years ago (could it really be 10+ already?), someone who's opinion I respected said that she noticed that I see myself as an outsider a lot. It gave me a lens to my life I hadn't noticed before, and to think about my history as to why this might be true.

Like, besides knowing that I was born into a family that believed my brother was going to be an only child.

I remember standing outside the door of a friend's house one Saturday morning then I was 10 or 11. I was expected, but I could hear that they were having breakfast together and talking and laughing. I was worried I got the time wrong. I was worried I was intruding. I hesitated a long time. I knocked quietly, then a bit harder. They got quiet and asked each other if that was a knock and then one of the girls answered the door.

They were such a perfect family. Not really, but in my child eyes, those blond hair, blue eyed, beautiful people with the genius dad toy inventor and joyful full time mom. The oldest daughter was actually the inspiration for the look of a best selling doll I won't name here. And I was invited in that morning, too tall with my perpetually messy brown wispy hair and bland face, and made me welcome at their family breakfast at the table, AT THE TABLE, and everyone laughing and being nice. I didn't even have a place or name for the flood of emotions.

My family never ate at the table. Unless it was a special occasion. Or my dad was on a tear about being a family, and those times were tense with anger just under the surface. Every manner was under scrutiny and there could be an explosion at any time.

We never had anyone over, except family or a close friend of mine or my brother's. We didn't go places together as a family, except homes of relatives. I can remember exactly one 4th of July family dinner picnic out, exactly one time at a sit down restaurant.

One time my dad brought home a bunch of magazines a customer had given him called Calling All Girls. My best friend and I poured over them for hours. They had stories, but also useful articles about manners and how to dress for different occasions. We were trying so hard to figure out how to be "normal." Her dad was also an alcoholic. Her home was also chaos.

One summer a few years later, I was doing some summer volunteering with a friend at her sister's school. Yes, way back then there were kids with autism as well as other differences, but they were all just called "retarded' (don't get me started about the slang use of that term). We were invited to spend the night with another volunteer whose brother attended the school. Their home was huge and beautiful in a very upscale area in Pacific Palisades. The dinner table was huge, surrounded by three generations of family and felt like a grand occasion to me.

Following the advice of Calling All Girls, I looked to the actions of the family members for expected behaviors. Spaghetti was set on the table and one of the older brother's put plain noodles on his plate and passed the dish to me, then he buttered his noodles. I didn't see any sauce, so I buttered mine also as the noodles were passed on. Other dishes circulated, and the brother began to eat the buttered noodles, so I did too. Just then the sauce and cheese were brought out and began to be passed, and I felt the laughter around the table about me copying the brother who just didn't like sauce.

This is how it is, when you grow up knowing that there is too much that you don't know about being in social situations. On top of the constant awareness of mood nuances needed for survival in an emotionally abusive family, I also am still, always, watching for social cues. And I am very aware that I sometimes get it wrong. I am an outsider, in part, because I'm afraid of that laughter when I start to eat plain noodles.

I could tell other stories. I could talk about walking into situations; classes, clubs, churches, where everyone seems to know rhythms and rules that are like secret code to me and seem to be in place to make sure outsiders continue to be left out. I could also tell of the places and people who have made me feel welcome.

People talk kindly about me, about how welcoming I am. Our family has a habit of gathering people in and including people. I love our close community of geeks and oddballs that have found family.

But I hate that I still feel that fear and anxiety. Yes, I'm a socially awkward introvert, but not to the point where being alone doesn't get boring or feel lonely sometimes. I have several parties and events coming up in the next few weeks that I'm excited for. But also terrified. What if I don't get it right? What if I have misread the cues, they don't really want my awkward self there, they are just being charitable, or worse yet, only invited me because they feel obligated.

You can't fix this in me. My dear friend who loves me, you can't tell me that of course you love me and want to see me and want me there and I'm perfectly fine. I wish you could. I wish I could hear those words instead of that laughter and the critical voice in my head when I inevitably get it wrong. And I feel naked and needy even talking about it.

So why am I talking about it? Because I'm pretty sure that I am not alone. There are so many of us, faking our way through it and trying to feel that we belong. There are too many of us that isolate and are lonely because the fear wins. I want to invite us out, in all our fearful, awkward glory. I want to welcome us in to a big, warm hug. Maybe if I tell my story and you tell your story we will find out that we are not so alone, the rules are made up and the points don't matter.

Go ahead and knock on that door, you belong at the table.

Thoughts in the storm

Here we are, beginning of the second month of the year. When I was Homeschool Mom, we called it Black February; the mid point of the school year that was dark and too short and all the pressure hit to have done more. 

And here in Grandma Mom world we have all been sick, despite flu shots. The undercurrents of stress are free-floating through the dark, chilly house. Sudden thunder storm strikes of anger loom on the horizon. I'm supposed to have wise words and calm, but what I have are so many questions still unanswered.

Rainbows are beautiful and have been an eternal symbol of hope before they became a symbol of diversity. But rainbows are fleeting and illusive. Hebrews 11:1 says "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for..."  That is cool for faith and all, but sometimes when you have been sick and are at the beginning of February, you need a bit of the substance to keep having hope. 

So, I'm praying today for healing. Not just little healing, I mean, if you are going to pray for miracles that feel impossible, you might as well pray big, right? I'm praying not just that our family will get over this flu and get on with surviving, but I pray for our dear friends who are who are fighting cancer, for their healing too. I'm not just praying for our financial stresses, but for the people across this country who are out in the cold tonight, who have already lost it all. I'm not just praying for my family to be gentle with each other, but that we, as a nation of scared and wounded and stressed people find ways to be gentle and kind and have compassion for one another and our world. I'm praying that people who have been having their own storms of anger flashing out bolts of hateful words because of the fear and stress of this crazy present darkness, that light and love and peace and hope shine though.

I am praying for compassion, for all of us, big compassion.

And you may think I'm a foolish dreamer and what possible difference can such prayers make. We need the actual substance, not just the rainbow hope. I know, I know.

But this is what I have, and this is what I offer you today. If you think that maybe some old lady who has been beat up by the storms of life might have a word of wisdom to offer, this is what I would offer you today.

Like all things, it starts with love.