The joy of stating the obvious

I can’t stop thinking about one particular song lately. The song is called “Obvious” and it’s a cut song from the musical Dear Evan Hansen. The song starts with a simple statement from the main character: “When we know something is true beyond question or doubt/ there’s no particular point in pointing it out…it’s something you don’t need to hear. It’s just clear.” This is a trap that I fall into all the time. Someone’s good qualities seem so obvious to me that I don’t say anything to the person because I don’t want to embarrass them or waste their time.

And so, I never tell them my friend how I love watching their eyes light up when they tell me about what they’re interested in. I never tell my professor that the way he cracks up at his own jokes makes my day. I never tell my other professor that the way he winks at me after saying something clever reminds me of my late Grandpa, that it feels like he’s right beside me again, if only for that moment. I never tell my friend that the few extra seconds she puts into a hug make all the difference. 

I neglect to tell the people in my life how much I cherish all the little things we do for each other, every day, sometimes without even realizing we’re doing it. The song echoes this when, after listing his crush’s endearing habits, Evan says: “sometimes the words we tend to withhold, well, they’re exactly the words someone needs to be told/ but oh, thinking they know, we never say I love you.”

Our culture tells us to reserve this kind of thing for romantic partners, but we miss out on so much if we limit ourselves like that. We miss out on the chance to tell people about what makes them who they are. The half smiles, the small eyebrow raises, the silly walks, all these small things that as much a part of them as their face or voice. These are the small things that remind us why we love them.

So today, I’m going to be a little more brave. I’m going to say the obvious thing because that might just be what someone needs to hear today. It might not be much, but that’s okay. Moments like that are tiny lanterns, not noticeable most of the time, but just bright enough when the lights go out. Maybe, just maybe, the light will be enough to help them see themselves when they need it most.

P.S. Here's a link to the song in case anyone is curious: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=01--GmFBnls

The quiet joys of sharing our pain

The heart that hurts is unsightly. The heart in pain should be shielded, cordoned off until it’s fixed. People need us to be happy. Sharing our pain brings others down. If you must take time to heal, take it alone. These are the things our culture teaches us. We should get over our pain as quickly as possible so that people feel comfortable spending time with us again.

Everyone agrees that humans need time to grieve, but so few of us are taught how. We recognize that emotions affect us, and that we need space for ourselves, but what are we supposed to do in that space? Many of us aren’t fortunate enough to have someone sit with us in silence, to sit with us and silently hold our hand, as we try to figure out who this new person is that lives inside our bodies now. Bring someone in, and you run the risk of dragging them down. That is the lie we tell ourselves. That American exceptionalism means that we should be able to handle every internal struggle alone, that no one else is strong enough to carry our burdens with us.

Friendships in media are often portrayed as an accumulation of happy memories, a bridge suspended on clouds of laughter. While that is part of friendship, that’s not all it is. Sometimes friendship is the hammock that cradles you as you feel yourself sag into it with your full weight. Sometimes it’s realizing how much stronger you are when you’re asked to lift something that isn’t yours. Sometimes it’s keeping a flame burning long enough for someone to find it in the dark. Sometimes pain is that flame.

It’s not about having all the answers, or knowing where to go. Sometimes it’s enough to know that someone is with you in the dark, to see their unsure expression and heartfelt smile as you wander off to wherever you go from here. A heart that hurts is one that feels. A heart that hurts is one that can heal.

Pain should be held, not hidden. It should be embraced and cradled. It should be shown to others so they can help. When we show each other our pain, it becomes just a little bit smaller. We see that the person next to us is still there, that our matching scars are not only proof of pain, but survival. I want to learn how to sit with people, how to hold them, how to be the face beside them in the dark. I want to heal with my hurt.

Our culture tells us that every question has an answer, that the answers will make us feel better. Sometimes, it isn’t about an answer. It’s enough to ask the question. It’s enough to pull something out of ourselves and set it down, to make no attempt to build a box around it or label it, to simply acknowledge it as a part of us. Maybe the light that it gives off will warm someone else. Maybe it will resonate with someone else. Maybe it will be the missing piece of the puzzle.

Sharing is hard. It means opening ourselves up to rejection. It means not knowing if our next step will be forward or backward. It means accepting that the person who came with us so far may not be the person to go with us the rest of the way. It means acknowledging that our time together was valuable, even if it wasn’t forever. Sharing means leaving a piece of ourselves with other people, because we know that another piece will grow to replace it. It means accepting other people’s pieces, making them into a mirror we can use to see ourselves when the voices in our head get too loud.

Teach me to be that person. Teach me to remind people of who they are at their best when they feel the worst. Teach me to remind them that they are more than their worst day. Teach me to help them take the next step, even if they don’t know how they’re going to take the twenty after that. Teach me to help them to appreciate their progress, even as the mountain in front of them grows larger with every step. Teach me to help them love themselves for who they are instead of waiting for who they might be.

Teach me to give them the love they deserve instead of the love they were given. Teach me to help them look up at the faces who love them, even if their vision is blurred by tears. Teach me to not let the ending stop the beginning from being born. Teach me to shine the light that I have, to see it as a light that someone needs, even if it’s not that bright. Teach me to be a lighthouse in the dark. Teach me to comfort the hurting heart.