What Happened to you, Ethan Craft?

A spiky haired man wearing VERY yellow pants just hugged me.  The lemon-scented cleaning spray, yellow. Jose’, Pedro. I can’t remember his name. He works for the apartment complex. 72% of the time I’m not a huge fan of his vibes. I can tell he is good on the inside but I have to look really hard sometimes.

            We chatted cordially, “It really got cold, these past two days.”

            “Yeah. Brrr. .. yessiree. Cold. “

            “Did you have a nice Christmas?”

            “Yep…yep….you?”

            “Yes.”

             “Ooooohkay…well…happy new year!”

            *hug*

            He iniciated it. I didn’t want to hug him. I don’t get slimy, scumbag vibes from him, I just didn’t want to hug him. But I did. Ick. Dangit. Why did I do that? Why didn’t I just reach out my hand for a handshake? That would have been OBVIOUS the hug rejection, but that ‘s okay!! YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING YOU DON’T WANT TO RACHAEL OR SAY ANYTHING YOU DON’T WANT TO. EVER. Yes, that is true. Thank you, Blog-Rachael-version-of-me for the wise words. It is difficult though (I reply to my blog version self) to break the patter of pleasing others because it has been apart of me for so long.

            There was another man today at Harris Teeter. I was restocking bacon. He was maybe late thirties to early forties. He had dark skin; it was an olivey-smoky copper-light brown. He was dressed poorly. But I didn’t notice that at first. Were they jeans or sweatpants? A soiled hoodie with a once-creamy-white, wool hood. Picture a Derice Bannock -Ethan Craft hybrid who aged 20 years and now lives under a bridge. What other grubby clothes was he wearing? Hmm. Can’t recall. I looked up from my bacon and smiled at him. He smiled back. He had the best, well, the top three, best smiles I’ve ever seen from a man. Ever.

             I was literally thinking in my head “You sir, have an amazing smile.”

            Then HE SAID TO ME, “Great smile.”

            I stammered, bashfully, “ Thank you.” And he, WHILE STILL SMILING HIS AMAZING SMILE said, “No, thank you.”

            The crazy thing is, he was totally sincere. I felt it. I know when someone is not, and he was genuine. Meek, even.  It wasn’t fake charm, it was two comfortable sentences exchanged in passing.

            I glanced up, real subtle, of course, a few seconds later, and he was standing next to his daughter (I assume). He wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked totally different. Tired. That is when I noticed he was dressed in worn close. He reminded me of my older brother. Maybe why I loved him. SHINING, BEAUITUFL SPIRIT AND SMILE then it was like, wait…you’re a regular human being beat-up by the world and covered in dirt.

           

            And I think… which is the mirage? Which is the illusion?

            His radiating light and genuine goodness was more real than what my eyes saw following: grubby, poor, and baggy. Even now I have to work really hard to recall how his appearance looked when his smile feels imprinted on my brain. Kinda like after I watch a firework explode and I close my eyes and its silhouette is sketched in vapor on my black lids. I’m not speaking of romantic love. Just love.

            I met a woman named Mary today. She was maybe 65 years old with gray hair and some less gray hair that would soon be gray hair. It was cut shortly like my mom’s. She was thin like my mom. But had such a sweet presence. She told me her name. I told her I love that name so much because it reminds me of Mary who was the mother of Jesus. We smiled at each other. I felt my throat get tight when I mentioned the Savior. I was feeling really tense minutes before. In my whole body. My skin felt tight, like the chocolate syrup that gets poured over ice-cream and immediately turns into a hard shell. That was my skin: concrete. Some women were talking about things I didn’t want to hear and I felt painfully uncomfortable. I felt sad because I didn’t know how to act. I love those women. They know that. I bet if I just asked if we could change the topic they would have understood and it wouldn’t have been a big deal.

            I felt fear. Fear to speak. I didn’t want them to laugh at me…or my innocence.  I wondered if I would always feel this timid forever. It’s not who I am. But when I met Mary, and saw my mom in her sweet eyes, and told her why I love her name, and said the Savior’s name reverently, I felt all the fear go away. I felt so much love. I felt that I would and could be the woman who is inside of me. That I don’t need to be ashamed. That I don’t need to live in fear anymore. Fear to just be myself. Kind of a funny fear, huh? It’s not one that pops up with 8 legs on my bathroom ceiling, though not a fan. (Haha…I didn’t mean to make a pun. Fan wings can be called legs, right?). It’s not one that hovers and looms and promises imminent death if pushed over/off a tall height. This one just stays. A cold shadow. A chilling umbra, tomb. Historically, it has been especially bad if I have a crush on a boy. But remember, I’m not ready to talk about that subject yet. :)    

            And that is why I am writing. A half an hour of, perhaps, nonsensical thoughts. Me just being me. I trace back my fears and anxieties, BIIIIGGGGG ones, and it all comes back to that fear: that somewhere, somehow, I learned, or misunderstood that I, me, just me, is not enough or worth loving. That if I act my true self, all my thoughts, emotion, and dimension. I cannot be loved. Isn’t that sad? It is a lie, OBVIOUSLY. A big one. I believed it for a long time. My whole life, really. So I hid. And still find myself hiding. I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want it to be just God and me anymore. That’s how it has been for so long. And I am sooo grateful He has been there for me and always will be! But I think loving, Heavenly Father wants more for His precious daughter. Lots more.

            I think so too.  So I am fighting. By writing. Until I can speak. And be, without fear, filter, or shame. And the woman I am—really am, in all of my power, expression and beauty—can be free.