That Girl and Belonging

Usually after writing a post I can let something go (usually as in 1 out of 3 times and then only for awhile), but this time I keep thinking about belonging--describing belonging, defining belonging, feeling belonging.  Yesterday's post continues to race through my head like a Derby winner (Belonging--What Does That Mean?).  As I took a short nap yesterday I fell asleep trying to think about times I felt I belonged, and I woke up to this...

I have been blessed in my life with some very good friends.  I have been further blessed with

They are trying to knock each other off

maintaining some of these friendships over many decades (even before facebook), but this story belongs to one.  We've been friends since her eldest son threw sand in my eldest daughter's face when
they were 2.  They've had an interesting competitive relationship ever since. She is one of those friends who you are doubly lucky to have because your families become friends. (Read your husbands put up with you talking on the phone for endless hours and yes they even like each other)

Yesterday as I was thinking about our friendship, I was very tempted to turn it into the perfect friendship and turn my friend into a saint.  But I realized that wouldn't be fair to us--to the work we put into the friendship and while she's pretty darn close, she's not a saint (yet).  We had times in our friendship that were hard, times we hurt each other, but one of the things I love remembering about our friendship, is it was probably one of my first adult ones--meaning, instead of running away, instead of gossiping about one another, instead of just letting the friendship die, we sat and worked through it, we actually talked about what was wrong--sometimes we didn't talk about certain things for years, but eventually we did. (Thank you J--I still remember that wonderful bottle of wine.)

She's Caroline's Godmother--blame her

So we met early in our married lives and went through the birth of five more children between us--this is the friend that when I broke my arm while pregnant with Caroline and Chris worked until 9 pm would come over and bathe the children every night; this is the friend who with another friend cleaned my house the night before I got home with Caroline from Philadelphia after being in the ICU with skull fractures; this is the friend who stopped by my house to drop something off when her children were out of town for the day and a 1 year old William reached out his arms to her and she took

him home--she gave up her free afternoon to give me a break; this is the friend who puts up with my months of silence only to answer and hear about my latest drama--but none of that is the story.

In the summer of 2007 we were living in England.  The children had six weeks off from school so I flew home with them for what we lovingly called our Grisdoyle summer vacation.  We drove through six states trying to see all our friends and ultimately met Chris in Kentucky.  (That's what happens when you move a lot--you collect friends in different states.)

So we'd been invited to my friend's new lake house for five or six days of our trip.  The first day was wonderful (minus the fact her youngest was mad because they weren't allowed to watch Sponge Bob because I didn't allow it--oh for that to be my biggest problem now--why didn't someone tell me to relax?!?!?! I apologize C--you were right.  You should have thrown a fit, but thank you for not.) After the second day I could feel something was amiss; Chris told me I was probably imagining it.  Late into the afternoon of the third day I knew there was something wrong but didn't know what to do about it.  So I did what I always do when I'm uncomfortable, I went into hyper pleasing mode.

I remember this moment like it was yesterday.  I was scrubbing her already perfectly scrubbed counters (did I mention she is a far better housekeeper than me?).  She walked over to me and said, "You are making me miserable."  I scrubbed harder.  "Stop," she said, "Listen to me.  This is no fun for me--you're trying to do everything; buy all the food; clean all the dishes; buy the gas for the boat; apologize for every single thing including the fact that it rained last night.  I can't take it anymore; I am having no fun."

I think I froze; I can't remember, but I do remember stammering.  "But it's so much to have all of us here.  I don't want you to think we're sponging off you or that we're taking you for granted.  I don't want you to think we're not grateful for you inviting us, but there's so many of us--we eat a lot; we make a lot of messes.  I have four children."

At that she put both hands on my shoulder and said, "Do you not think I remembered you had four children when I invited you?  I was there for most of their births.  I am not your past--I don't think that way."  (See she really did know me) "I WANTED you to come, you my friend and all of your children--all 4 of them.  I WANTED you to be here, but right now you are making me miserable." And in that moment I could breathe; in that moment I could relax and let go--in that moment I could be completely me; in that moment I knew I belonged.

The rest of the trip was wonderful--minus Christopher's 57 stitches (a blog for another day).  I have not yet been back to that house--we've seen each other in other places (Go Dawgs!) but deep in my heart and soul I know I'm always welcome there--deep in my being I know I belong.

As I think about that moment and why it was so powerful, I realize it was about a few things--it was about someone who loved me unconditionally--someone who knew my neurosis, who knew my past pain and while she cared and cares very much about that, she wouldn't and won't let me stay there.  It was about someone who could speak the truth in love so we could return to community. And we did.