She sends Facebook notes and messages. Today it was a poem. The words take my breath away. She knows. It is a tender thing, to be seen. It is especially tender to be seen, through your words. I am grateful.
It has always been like that for me. These women have seen me. They look into my life and call to me. They see through the mess and speak words of possibility. They see the brokenness and whisper words of healing. They see the fear and speak words of courage. They see my potential and call me toward it. They see the hidden things that get in my way and push me into the light. Their words are true, sometimes soft and warm, sometimes hard as steel. They dare to share them.
That’s the magic to me. They share. They open their lives and offer what they have. Lives lived in the mess. Not sugar sweet, but clear and true. They stumble, fall, fail. They love, hurt, give, and take. These are the real ones, showing me how to live real. These sermons are preached with an everyday doxology. They are aging, and loving, and giving, and growing, and teaching me as they go.
These women move through my life with grace and truth. I don’t know that they know what their words, their stories, their moments of recognition mean to me. They simply live their lives. They give of themselves. I know I am not the only one who has gathered up bunches of wisdom. I am not the only one who has dared to share the turmoil and found kindness and help. I am not the only one who has grasped humble truths with two hands and held on until my heart agreed. I am not the only one whose life has been changed.
I wonder if they know. I hope so. When I grow up, I want to be like them.