looking through me

Tag: words

August 11, 2015

ness

Language is not static. Rules are broken—I break them all the time. Meanings and usages change. I know. I feel my shoulder inch up near my ear when people turn nouns into verbs. But sometimes tacking a suffix onto a word it doesn’t belong to creates the exact meaning I need.

One in particular keeps rising up within me: -ness. A word plus -ness denotes a quality or state; it turns adjectives or participles into abstract nouns. So I take “known” and I add -ness, and I get a word that sounds strange but means the quality of being known . . . known-ness. It’s perfect.

Because being known matters. Who I am when I am known matters. Known-ness feels different than being needed or wanted or tolerated or acknowledged. It’s the opposite of anonymity. There are overtones of being accepted and embraced and valued. To be known means being received for who I really am and not who I might be or used to be or seem to be.

Known-ness comes through sharing life: rejoicing together, grieving together, surviving together, thriving together, working together, resting together. It takes trust and truth. It doesn’t happen overnight nor is it a byproduct of time alone. It requires intentionality, vulnerability and honoring the other person’s vulnerability in turn.

Known-ness is scary. It’s risky. It requires stepping out from behind walls and facades and careful constructs. And it’s thrilling and freeing and wildly good.

Life—like language—is not static. Opening my arms to the dynamic possibilities of known-ness may be bending some rules of language usage but it is also expanding my definitions.

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July 8, 2015

sacred listening

The sacred act of listening.[1]

Jesus listened. He asked people what they wanted. He allowed them to speak and be heard. He honored their requests not only by fulfilling their desires but by hearing them, by listening to them. He didn’t have to. He could have acted without a conversation—it would have been no less miraculous—but He didn’t. He saw them. He engaged them. He heard them.

Listening is knowing. It is fully present multi-input observation. It’s hearing the words, spoken and not—the silence, the searching and the fumbling. It’s seeing the hurt, the joy, the confusion, the value.

In the presence of good listeners I hear myself saying words out loud I didn’t know I had in me. Good listeners hear me, and they make sure I hear me. They ask questions: good, hard, necessary questions. And they wait. They offer the time and space I need to find my words. They circle back—they don’t forget—but they don’t rush me. They are a safe repository for my words.

Listening is work and art and gift. It’s a slow excavation, sifting through dirt and brushing off debris to unearth the treasure. It takes heart and presence and investment. It’s slow, meticulous work. It’s costly.

To be heard is powerful. To have a voice, to have words honored. To be known . . . is sacred. And it is beautiful.

 

[1] “[l]istening itself is a sacred act.” Shauna Niequist, Savor: living abundantly where you are, as you are (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2015), p. 141

 

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