Carry On, Warrior: Thoughts on Life Unarmed

by Glennon Melton

  And Michelle said, “Yeah. You don’t bring amazing dishes. But you know what you do bring? You have a way of making me feel important when we talk. You really listen to me. That’s why I like having you at our parties. You are a great listener.”

  And I thought, hmmmm.

  Now, when people invite me to things and they ask what I’ll bring, I say: “I will bring my amazing listening ears.” If they love me, this will be fine with them. They’ll understand. If it is not fine with them, they will stop inviting me to things. Win-win.

  Another one of my gifts is writing.

  Dana is one of my dearest, best friends on earth. Dana lost her daddy recently. It was shocking and horrifying, and it still is. Dana is a daddy’s girl, and she honored her father and their relationship by writing and delivering the eulogy at his memorial service. Can you imagine? A week after she lost him, she stood up in front of hundreds of his friends and her family and spoke eloquently of his greatness and their loss. It was one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever seen. Certainly one of the bravest. Heroic, really.

  A few nights before the memorial, Dana asked me to revise her eulogy for her father. It’s a good thing she did, because after reading it several times with a very critical eye, I had to admit that in my expert writing opinion, she should consider changing the but in the third paragraph to an and. Dana didn’t really need me at all. But she thought of me because she knows I’m a writer. And since I’m a writer, I got invited into one of the most important moments in her family’s life. It was such an honor to read that love letter to her daddy. To read it first. To feel, at the memorial, that I was up there on the altar with her.

  That got me thinking about all the other ways that writing has served as an invitation into important moments of my friend’s lives.

  My friend Joey and her fiancé Brock invited me to help write their wedding vows. Those were pretty damn good vows. Now I kind of feel like all three of us are married to each other—Joey, Brock, and me. The gift of writing, it turns out, has been my ticket into others’ lives.

  And I’ve realized that these bridges go two ways: others’ gifts are their tickets into my life as well.

  My friend Gena has a gift for hostessing. Gena doesn’t just use her beautiful home to hostess; she uses her whole heart. She throws opens her doors and invites people to step inside and celebrate life. Her gift is celebration, creating an atmosphere in her home and presence in which her friends feel loved and honored. She has hosted each of my last four birthday parties, and she hosts a huge Christmas party every year for all of us. Being a hostess doesn’t stress her out; she loves it. It’s her gift—welcoming people. And because she offers it to me, Gena’s face will be front and center in our family’s celebration memories forever. Because of her gift, there are many, many bridges between Gena and me.

  And then there’s Sister’s best friend, Allison. Allison is an artist, and her medium is the camera. She feels at home behind the camera, and God has given her the gift of noticing important moments and capturing them. So her friends and family invite her into their important days to help them grab the magical parts and keep them forever. And Allison becomes a part of those days, those memories, forever. She’s all tangled up in there. It’s funny: Allison is quiet at events—she’s more of an “ahh, there you are” person than a “HEY! Here I am!” person, but when you look at her photographs, you realize that she was actually more there than anyone else. She detected and documented every meaningful moment.

  I think sometimes we get confused and believe that our gift must bring us money or success or fame. Sometimes those things do happen, but not usually. The only thing a gift needs to do is bring you joy. You must find the thing that brings you joy in the doing of that thing, and not worry about the outcome. Your gift might be crucial and obviously helpful, like being a good listener, or it might be odd and unique. For example, one of Sister’s many gifts is finding incredible deals at thrift stores. She dresses like a movie star, and every time someone compliments her on a fabulous blouse, her face lights up and she yells, “Fifty cents! I got it for fifty cents!” Then she usually tries to give the shirt to the person who offered the compliment, which gets a little awkward. Her gift helps the world because she always shops at Goodwill, so her shopping is like charity work, and buying recycled clothes is very green. But really, the important thing is that it makes her feel alive. It’s a gift. It brings her joy and satisfaction. Happier people make a better world.

  Writing brings me joy and satisfaction. My gift has happened to turn into a career, and parts of that are wonderful and parts of that are not. I am happiest not when I am congratulated on a book deal, but when I have finished an essay that says what I mean. That’s all. Expressing myself effectively brings me great joy. You will know your gift because it will bring you joy and satisfaction, even if it’s hard for you to do. You will go about using your gift quietly, and eventually someone might notice and ask you to share your gift. If you agree to share, your gift will become a bridge. I suppose it’s possible that no one will ever ask, or that you will be too afraid to accept. Consider Emily Dickinson. Her gift was poetry, but she kept that gift to herself. Then she died, and her writing was found, and her gift became a bridge into millions of hearts. I think it’s pretty hard to keep a gift from becoming a bridge, somehow, someday, someway—if we use it. Because I think that God must really want us to connect with each other. He must want us to become a part of each other’s lives and memories, and he must want our hearts to get all tangled up with other hearts. We are each an island, but he gives us gifts to use as bridges into each other’s lives. When we lay down our gift, we walk right over it and straight into another heart.

  Hostressing

  “True hospitality is welcoming the stranger on her own terms. This kind of hospitality can only be offered by those who’ve found the center of their lives in their own hearts.”

  —Henri Nouwen

  The thing about the bridges is that I feel more comfortable walking over them and entering other people’s lives than inviting them into mine. For example, I am terrified of allowing people into my house. Sometimes when I hear a knock on the door, I hide in my bathroom until the knocking stops.

  Inviting others into my home—it’s such an intimate act. I mean, our home is where we live. It’s where we keep all of our Meltony messes and stains and smells and dust. And I’ve heard that 99 percent of dust is dead skin cells. Dead Melton skin cells? Please, come in and sit among our family’s dead skin cells. Seems odd. Showing outsiders our insides is a scary big deal to me. I’m better at opening up figuratively, through my writing. The real thing in the real world makes me twitch and sweat.

  Last week my cousins stopped by unannounced, and while they went upstairs to see the kids’ rooms, I started my deep, cleansing breaths while frantically scrounging through the empty pantry. I grabbed a box of pasta and a bottle of vinegar. Then I dropped them and grabbed Craig by the shoulders instead. I looked deep into his eyes and said: “Oh my God! What do people eat??”

  Because that’s the thing. I just don’t know. I don’t know what people eat.

  And even if I did know what people eat, I wouldn’t know how to make those things. And even if I could make those things, I wouldn’t have the stuff needed to serve those things. Each time a guest rifles through my pantry (yikes! sweat!), she casually asks, “Hey G, where is your . . .” Fill in the blank. Trivet? Cheese cutter? Curry? And I have to say, “Whatever that thing you just said is, I don’t have it.”

  Sister came over to cook dinner recently, which she does occasionally for the sake of the children, and she yelled from the kitchen, “Glennon, where are your PANS?” and I yelled back, “I don’t have one.” And after that shocked silence to which I’ve become well accustomed, she yelled back, “You don’t own A pan? How do you cook without a single pan?” And I said, “Yeah. I know, IT’S REALLY HARD.” And then she walked into the family room and stared at me in disbelief for a good
two minutes. When she finally spoke, she said something about how she has MULTIPLE PANS FOR VARIOUS PURPOSES and how I COULD SIMPLY NOT NOT have a single pan in my home.

  I took a deep breath and said, “Give me a break. So I don’t have a pan? So what? It’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. Every day I pray the serenity prayer, ‘Allow me to accept the things I cannot change,’ and then I accept the fact that I do not have a pan. Also, if we’re being honest here, I think you’re being a bit judgmental. Just because you’re a ‘multiple pan owner’ doesn’t mean that we all must join you in your life of excess. Sister, there are children starving in Africa, actually at my house too, and you’re walking around with your head in the clouds, judging the panless and gloating about your multiple pans.”

  Sister took a deep breath, walked back to the kitchen, and called for pizza delivery.

  So you see, any sort of hostessing that involves a pan is out of the question. Water is another challenge. I have noticed that when people come over, they tend to want water. All of my glasses still look dirty when I get them out of the dishwasher, and I’m afraid if I serve my guests water from a dirty glass, they’ll think that my family and I are dirty too. So I buy bottled water. But then I’m afraid that if I serve guests bottled water, they’ll think I’m environmentally irresponsible. It’s a risk either way, really. So I analyze each guest and try to predict which type of water will offend her less. Tree huggers get dirty glasses and fancy-pantses get bottles.

  And wine. Dear Lord. Please don’t ask for wine. During my drinking days, I drank wine from the box, but it’s been suggested to me that serving boxed wine to guests when one is in one’s mid- to late thirties is tacky. But I never learned how to uncork a bottle. Who could afford corked bottles back in the day? Additionally, all my wine glasses have these Saturny rings around them. Often, these rings are accompanied by leftover lip gloss stains. Thanks for doing your job, dishwasher. What is it that you actually do around here, anyway? And the crumbs in the silverware drawer, the toilets my angels forgot to flush, the dog poop in the backyard that Craig missed. I just get sweaty about all of it. And so I allow my fear of embarrassment to stop me from hostessing anyone.

  I tell myself it’s fine, it’s just not “my thing,” but I actually think that’s a weak excuse. Because there are things we should do, regardless of whether they are our favorite “things” or not, because they help us grow and rest and connect with other people. Like fresh air—people should get some each day whether they want to or not. It helps. And telling the truth. That’s hard, but people should do it anyway. Fresh air isn’t just for outdoorsy people, telling the truth isn’t just for honest people, and hospitality isn’t just for Martha Stewarty people. I think inviting people into your home, whether it’s an impeccable mansion or a rusty old shack, is probably an important practice. I think we’re supposed to take deep breaths, tell the truth, and keep our hearts, minds, and spaces open to others, whether these things are easy for us or not. Because hospitality is not about fancy table settings, just like writing isn’t about fancy words. They are both about letting people see you. Letting people in now, not waiting until things are perfect. So deep down, I think that humoring my hostess phobia is selfish, prideful, and lazy of me. And I’m afraid that I’m missing out on something awesome, since every spiritual practice eventually delivers a big blessing.

  In the Bible, there is a story about the time Jesus and his twelve disciples came to visit the home of two sisters, Mary and Martha. Martha gets very busy and harried with all the preparations because, I mean, Jesus plus twelve?? JESUS. Talk about hostress. Martha starts cooking and cleaning and trying to find all of her hostessy things and working herself into a frenzy. Then she notices that her younger sister, Mary, is just sitting there at Jesus’s feet. Mary’s not cooking, not cleaning, not hustling or bustling or serving anything to anybody. She’s just resting and listening and soaking in Jesus’s company. And Martha is still in the kitchen grabbing her hubby’s shoulders and yelling, “WHAT DO GODS AND DISCIPLES EAT?” And the thing is that she is so busy trying to make things perfect for Jesus that she is missing him. She is missing his visit entirely, and she is miserable. When she’s finally had enough, Martha says to Jesus, “JESUS CHRIST! Can you please tell my sister to HELP ME?? I’m all on my own here. And there are thirteen of you!” And Jesus says something awesome. He says, “Martha, you are worried about so many things. Mary has chosen the better part, and it won’t be taken from her.”

  The better part of what? The better part of hospitality? Is it possible that true hospitality is not about perfect food or fancy furniture? Could the better part of hospitality be listening? If you can’t do both, could the better part be focusing on your guest instead of trying to impress or even feed him? Could the better place be the family room, at the foot of your guest, instead of tucked away in the kitchen? Maybe. Maybe hostessing is not really about the host, but the guest. Maybe it’s a sacred spiritual practice because every single person who crosses our doorsteps is a gift, is Jesus really. And each guest has something to teach us if we’re present enough to learn. Maybe hospitality is not about my home, or my food, or my lack of stuff. Maybe it’s just about soaking people in.

  After letting this new idea soak in for a few days, I told Craig that I was going to take the plunge. I was going to throw a party for my best friends. Craig thought it was a great idea because we’d have lots of excuses to be unprepared since we’d just moved into our new house. Yes, I said, brilliant! We will do this our way. Not Martha Stewart’s way or biblical Martha’s way. Our way.

  So I wrote up an e-mail invitation and sent it to all of my best friends:

  Dearest Friends,

  I have decided to face my hostressing issue by having you all over the week after we move in to our new home. Please note the following things.

  Bring Food. I don’t have any. Bring a seat. We don’t have many. No fabrics other than flannel will be permitted to cross my door step. Pajamas, please—don’t be a show-off. Use the bathroom before you come, because I am all out of Windex. Whatever the thing is you like to drink, please bring that thing. Also bring something to drink that thing out of. I can’t deal with the glasses situation right now. Too many different types of glasses. It’s ridiculous, if you want my opinion. Also. At nine o’clock you will say, “We should go” and I will say, “No, please stay!” Don’t stay. GO. I’m really, really tired and I’m just trying to be polite because etiquette is extremely important to me.

  LYLAS,

  G

  All of my best friends came to my unparty. They all came in their jammies, bearing snacks and drinks and smiles.

  We ate their food and drank their drinks and somebody else opened the wine, thank God. And they all squeezed onto my one and only couch and I sat at their feet because I’m a floor sitter. All evening, I soaked them in. Looking up at all my friends laughing and comfortable, I realized, I can handle this. I don’t have to miss out on this anymore because they’re all the way in and they love me anyway, maybe even more than they did before. The whole evening felt so warm and wonderful, I didn’t even get mad when they stayed until 9:15.

  And now, I am a hostess. Without the r.

  Room for One More

  Craig and I are considering becoming official members of our neighborhood church. This is a big deal for us, because a few years ago we promised ourselves we wouldn’t choose a denomination. We couldn’t imagine the need for it. Still can’t, really. We consider ourselves religious rolling stones. We find it important to be the leaders of our family’s faith life instead of passing off that job. We worry that blindly following others’ interpretations of God and scripture can get dangerous. God can speak to each of us directly, after all.

  But we’ve fallen for this little church, and we started wondering if our religious “freedom” wasn’t just another word for nothing left to lose. Because we know that any faith worth a damn is a faith worked out over a lifetime of relationships with
other people. Church is just a commitment to try to live a life of a certain quality—a life of love, of humility, of service—alongside others for whom you will care and allow to care for you, even when that’s difficult. It’s a group of regular old humans trying to love each other and the world in superhuman ways. And so it’s a hard way of life, but to me, it’s the only way of life that makes any sense. When people ask me if faith, if church, is comforting to me, I say, “Sort of.” But mostly it’s challenging.

  Still, I was afraid to join this new church. Because I don’t want to pretend to believe anything I don’t believe. I don’t want to pretend to not have doubts. And I don’t want my children to be taught things about God that I’ll have to undo. Before I joined any church, I needed permission from whomever was in charge to be different.

  So I invited one of the ministers over to my house.

  I was scared.

  We talked for two hours. I told her all of my concerns. I wanted to join her church, but first, I wanted to make sure she wanted me. I warned her that I am a troublemaker.

  I told her that I love Jesus madly and deeply, but my problem always seemed to be that I understand him quite differently than many other Christians do. And I love these other Christians, so I didn’t want offend them. I suggested that maybe it was better for me to remain unattached to any particular church rather than disrupt a perfectly lovely one.

  I explained that I had all kinds of doubts and questions and negative feelings about the church’s role throughout history. But I told her I still loved the church. I felt kind of like St. Augustine, who said, “The church is a whore, but she’s my mother.” If I were to become a member of her church, I would need permission to speak my mind respectfully but freely. I would need permission to be myself. I wanted her to know all the things I believe because I knew that eventually they were all going to come out of my mouth in her church.