My Black Suit

I own a black suit. I don’t wear it frequently, because I have two other suits I like better. I don’t have to dress nice very often and so the other two are in a more regular rotation than my plain black suit.

I donned this one a few weeks ago to attend a memorial service and while there, I stuck my hand in a coat pocket and instantly knew when I last wore this suit.

It was January 29, about six months prior.

How did I know this specific date? When I put my right hand into the pocket I found a half dozen folded Kleenex and remembered that I’d put them there for a wedding I officiated on January 29.

This sudden recollection of being prepared for tears brought up a realization about my black suit: I only wear it at weddings and funerals.

Immediately after I had a deeper recognition, which is that we respond the same way to both our most joyful and painful events: we reply to those emotions with tears.

There were many shed on January 29 and there were plenty on September 14 at this particular memorial.

I must confess, when it comes to crying, I’ve had multiple identities in my life. As a child, I cried often. The smallest things would break my heart and overwhelm me, and my only response was to shed my feelings. As I became an adult, it became a matter of pride that I was immune to that physical response and I actually had a three-year stretch without tears.

Now I think I’ve found a fair middle ground and perhaps I’m a little more prone to crying that I give myself credit for. I trust that others have noticed a wetness to my eyes, particularly when I’m discussing people I care about.

As I’m discovering the connection between the events that make us cry, I think I’m seeing something arise; crying is our inability to contain ourselves. Whatever we’re feeling, whether it’s joy, sadness, hope, encouragement or loss, it is more than we can handle. We cannot enclose these feelings and so they pour out of us.

So maybe now my black suit is my favorite. When I wear it, that means I’m going somewhere that is likely to open my emotions. I will use tears to respond with enthusiasm because the cascades on my cheeks mean I’m more alive in that moment and more present to the world and people around me.

Being Incovenienced

My best friend was recently asked to preside over a ceremony where his grandparents renewed their marriage vows. They’ve been married 60 years. 60 YEARS! That is entirely beyond my comprehension.

As part of his preparation he asked close friends to write a sentence or two describing what we think it takes to make it 60 long years with someone.

I pondered my response. I wanted to say something better than commitment; we all know that you don’t make it to 60 without steadfastly standing by your promise. I wanted to say something more profound than compromise. Of course marriage requires that and 60 years necessitates more than most; but somehow that just didn’t seem to encapsulate what I thought would be hardest. Compromise seems to describe decisions and conflict but not the day to day.

After some thought, I came up with this: it takes a willingness to be inconvenienced.

I realize that seems like a foolish response, almost insignificant. Surely a good marriage is more than being inconvenienced.

But I said that because frankly, I’ve found that being inconvenienced is one of the things that happens most in my close relationships. Being married, choosing to live with someone and share your most intimate space with them…you will invariably run up against them being in the way as if there were a redwood growing in your living room. It’s unavoidable and everything must account for that presence. They’re in the shower when you want to use it, they left something on the floor of the room AGAIN, they aren’t ready to go to dinner while you’re in the car starving…inconveniences.

I chose this one to share with my friend because I believe that is what is at the heart of all my best relationships. I don’t really want to help someone move into a new apartment, but I choose to be inconvenienced. I don’t necessarily want to sit with someone dealing with grief, but I choose to be inconvenienced. I don’t particularly want to help my friend process through that same break up again, but I choose to be inconvenienced.

Why do I choose that?

Because that’s what love looks like in the day to day. Allowing someone into your space enough that you cannot avoid what they want and what’s best for them. And it means they’ve let you in enough that you too are an inconvenience.

Yet, for some reason, they love you more than the inconvenience.