Explanations

the REST of the week #88

It's the rest of the week. How about catching some little foxes?

Photo by Martin Arusalu on Unsplash

Have you ever showed up somewhere with the wrong clothing for the occasion? Or done something in public that, although harmless, sets you outside the group consensus of what is appropriate? Or drawn attention to yourself doing something that doesn’t match the expectation of a role you carry?

Last weekend, that was me. Arriving at a destination several hours from home, I discovered that my shoes hadn’t made the trip and, if I couldn’t find a pair of shoes to borrow, I’d be wearing my lovely, crimson silk dress with a pair of boxy grey-lavender running shoes.

A quick call to a local friend did not save the day, due to the two size difference between our feet (mine being the less dainty).

Perhaps you are grounded enough to take this kind of thing in stride. Maybe you’d feel embarrassed, but would be quick to follow Mary Osmond’s advice:

“If you're going to be able to look back on something and laugh about it, you might as well laugh about it now.”

Or maybe you give yourself a little pep talk about how you shouldn’t feel self-conscious for a whole list of very good reasons, and then wait for the cringy feelings to pass.

I have a good deal of experience with the latter approach.

But this time was different. I did not feel any sinking feeling of doom. Just a simple realization that I was in a predicament with no apparent solution and what could I do? Nothing.

I thought of rest and about how I might write about this experience—which kind of made me feel like I was telling you all about it in real time while simultaneously looking back on it.

(Thank you for being there without knowing it.)

As we walked away from the car, I tried dangling my long sweater at different angles in an effort to obstruct the line of vision from other’s eyes to the floor under me. Once seated, I let the sweater cover my lap and drape over my feet.

Within the first 20 minutes or so, I noticed how much more comfortable my feet were in running shoes. By the time we were moving to the next event, I’d begun to appreciate the experience.

It occurred to me that I was not the center of attention, that people were not focused on my feet.

And, anyway, didn’t God say (via the prophet Isaiah to undeserving people in need of redemption):

“I, even I, am he who comforts you.
    Who are you that you fear mere mortals,
    human beings who are but grass.”

Isaiah 51:12

Next, came a sense of freedom.

Back in college, I remember feeling horrified at the very thought of an assignment given to a group of psychology majors—to go somewhere public and do something considered socially inappropriate (with certain constraints, of course). A friend had decided to go to Taco Bell and let out a big belch during her meal.

The very thought was mortifying to me—I could not imagine one single qualifying behavior that I would be willing to act out.

And here I was, now, relishing the moment.

“Wow,” I thought to myself, feeling like a few pounds had been taken out of my backpack, “progress.”

A thought suggested that I could actually be making a statement by wearing running shoes with my dressy-dress… and the irony of trading one form of self-consciousness for another was not lost on me.

In a desire to squeeze every ounce of learning from the opportunity, I decided I wouldn’t give any voluntary explanations as to why I wasn’t complying with social norms—something very uncharacteristic of me.

Google, borrowing from Oxford Languages, says that an explanation can be “a statement or account that makes something clear” or “a reason or justification given for an action or belief.”

For some of us, there is nothing more exhausting than trying to make something clear or trying to justify something.

When I find myself giving explanations, it is almost always an indication that that I’m trying to settle some internal unrest with external tools that won’t reach.

It was a lovely rest to not wonder what was going on in the minds of the two or three people who shifted their gaze as we shook hands, the ones who took a sneaky second look with their peripheral vision.

Towards the end of the day, as we made our way to the door and the parking lot, an acquaintance greeted me and I decided to tell her. I’m not sure why. It didn’t feel like giving in to temptation. Maybe I just wanted to celebrate with someone besides Ricardo.

I laughingly mentioned how I’d left my dress shoes at home.

“Oh sister,” she exclaimed, “what size are you? I can lend you some!”

“That’s kind of you—we’re on our way home now, it’s OK.”

If you are tempted (as I was) to judge this reflection as disproportionately dramatic compared to the heavier experiences of life, consider the words attributed to the wise King Solomon in the ancient love poem, the Song of Songs.

These words are an appeal, a charge, if you will, written between words of longing: “show me your face, let me hear your voice…” and secure belovedness: “My beloved is mine and I am his…”:

Catch for us the foxes,
    the little foxes
that ruin the vineyards,
    our vineyards that are in bloom

Song of Songs 2:15

In the past, I would’ve felt chagrined, tried to talk myself out of feeling that way, and, along the way, done a lot of explaining.

Thanks to this practice of shifting to a place of rest, I let it go.

But, the best part is that I stayed in the moment and noticed what was going on. I recognized and caught the little fox—I caught my urge to explain my presentation in an effort to avoid judgement.

The little mundane moments of unrest each day are the little foxes. If we follow their trail, we will catch them in the place where they do their damage—in our souls—the place we often avoid inhabiting because of the discomfort and inconvenience of knowing and being ourselves.

Who wants to admit feeling insecure?

Yet, that is the very place where we get to the root of the big things.

And when we can meet God in that place of openness and honesty, we can begin to know that he knows us already and that we are beloved.

Here’s to catching your little foxes.

And may your rest be sweet.