Have you ever had a day where you were walking along and all of a sudden, it felt like a bolt of lightning hit it and it exploded? Mine was yesterday. I had worked an 8-hour temp assignment; changed clothes in the bathroom for the Summer Camp for Women gala banquet; drove to The Salvation Army to make sure the transportation was there and the campers had all they needed: bag lunches for their kids, check, car seats, check, the Salvation Army banner, check, only to lock my keys in the trunk of my car.
That was the lightning bolt. Stunned and shaken, I used my co-leader's cell phone to call AAA to come unlock my car. The operator said it would be 2 hours before the locksmith would be there. Mind you, the gala banquet started at 6:30pm, it was now 7:00pm. Once the last camper from The Salvation Army was ready to be transported, we decided to go to the camp and just leave my car. Five minutes up the road, a call comes in. The locksmith is going to be at my car in 5-10 minutes. Though I argued that I was told 2 hours, he said that if I wasn't there when he got there and he had to stay or there was another dispatch, AAA would charge me.
Sooooo, we had to turn my co-leader's car around to take me back. My heart ached. It ached for the campers already at the banquet, waiting, wondering what was happening. It ached for the camper and her child in the car. It ached because neither of them had eaten. It ached.
As I entered the banquet to all the revelry and stood behind another camp about to make it's entrance, waving their butterflies and excited as they crossed stage, my heart ached once again. I tried to smile, I tried to talk, I just couldn't. I didn't know where my campers were. I just stood there with bags in my hands. Bags containing the gift bags with each campers name, filled with beauty goodies from friends who generously donated them. When I finally found the ladies, one looked up at me and said, "we didn't get to cross stage...we didn't have our banner." The banner! I had left it in the car. So, I put the bags down walked back to the car that was parked a country mile away and came back with the banner. Even with the efforts and the hope that, though late, maybe just maybe they could be recognized, those gorgeous butterflies didn't get to cross stage. They attended the banquet, yes, but didn't feel part of the banquet. My heart ached again.
"At least you made it!," you might interject. And though that's true and I appreciate the clarity and focus and perspective you'd like to bring to this; it's a tad dismissive to me. Besides, it wasn't about me. It was about the campers who had to get dressed, round up their children, struggle with car seats and crying babies to get there. It was about the final camper being delayed, hungry and tired from catching the bus from her job to pick up her child to come back to a place she didn't want to be, only to get dressed, get to the banquet and by then most of the food was gone.
This morning, it's hard to accept the "at least you made it" argument. The reason for my tears and the sadness in my heart doesn't alter that fact. That's a given. It's this: just fast-forwarding to the end makes it seem like it didn't matter. It did matter. Feelings matter. Their feelings matter. Your feelings matter. My feelings matter. And I can't fast-forward to the victory without acknowledging that it mattered. When you care, it matters. When you feel for someone else's experience, it matters.
So this is what I say. It mattered. I'm gonna let it rest there for a moment. I'm not going to rush to the conjunction: the but, the yet, the still, the and. I will feel all the discomfort that comes when something mattered. I will allow myself to feel it. I will allow myself to grieve the loss of that moment. That moment the ladies didn't get to have. That moment we didn't get to have together. I will allow myself to care. And I believe this. I believe that if I allow my heart to feel as it does without blaming anyone else for what happened, including myself, I will move to, "and we made it." For on the we made it side was seeing the ladies in their pretty dresses and their special hairdo's, sitting together, laughing together. On the we made it side was seeing how impacted they were as the dancers twirled in their white dresses and gold flags. On the we made it side was the look of surprise and delight as the ladies opened their gift bags, read their personal handwritten notes and smelled the fragrance of their shower gels, bath tea bags and salts.
Understand, this blog isn't because I was treated like it didn't matter. Quite the contrary, when I entered the camp, the concern on my sister camp leader's face as I walked in late with my bags was heartfelt. She didn't have to say a word. When my friend, my neighbor, walked up in her yellow and hugged me and said "I was praying for you," I felt her sister heart. When I called the organizer to tell her of all that was going on, she was caring and affirming. So, it was one of those things that happened.
The lesson in this? When people express discomfort or hurt feelings over something. First and foremost, respond in a way that acknowledges that their experience, what they are saying matters. Let it rest right there. Let them feel the healing of those words. Let them feel the validation of their feelings, the validation of their experience. Let it rest. Don't try to move them too quickly. For to do it puts them on the defensive. They start arguing against what you are saying. Let there be a pause. A respectful pause. A hug. A rub on the shoulder. A listening ear. Do this before you shift them to the but, the still, the yet or the and. They'll be more receptive to it.
It mattered...and we made it.
