Spit-and-Polish

I was driving home the other day and started to think of an old friend of mine. We’re still in touch, but don’t see each other more than once a year or so. I was smiling broadly and may have even laughed a bit at the thought of how fun it would be to see my friend again. I’ve known her since I was thirteen or so – we go back a long way, and we know each other very well. Yet, I still agonize over what to wear, how to do my hair, losing ten pounds – essentially, giving my real self a good scrub and polish – every time we get together.
I started to wonder about this. My mind likes to wonder about this sort of thing. I am always put perfectly together by the time we meet. But, by the end of the evening (we usually go out for dinner), my lipstick is gone and my drug-store eye shadow has settled into the creases of my lids, my mascara has sprinkled little black flecks on my cheeks, and there’s probably food in my teeth.
I suddenly remembered that last year, after returning to the car from dinner, I pulled down the passenger-side visor to re-apply some lipstick in the mirror. She asked me why I was doing that. I think I said I just wanted to look nice, or something else just as lame as that. Why was I doing that? She likes me just as much after all the polish has worn away. Probably even a little bit better.
So, why are we compelled to keep our real selves secret?
The self I presented to the world when I was young is very different from the self I am today. I was congratulating myself on that fact as I continued to drive home, when it occurred to me that it may not be something worth congratulating.
When I was young, I wore my faith on my sleeve. All of my innocent dogma and all of my self-righteousness were on display right alongside it. I considered those things part of my faith at the time. Aside from that, though, I kept my opinions largely to myself. I kept my talents hidden, just in case I wasn’t as good as the next guy. I didn’t laugh as loudly as I wanted to, either. I had my clutch of friends who were close enough to know who I really was, but they numbered in the single digits.
As I have grown, I have gained confidence in the fact that people like to know what I think about. I have learned that it’s okay to be the loud one at a party. It’s okay to laugh so hard that you snort a little bit, even in front of strangers. It’s endearing to wear a toothy grin when you walk around by yourself. So, I taught myself to put my big heart on display – even if it gets hurt sometimes. I taught myself to vocalize my opinions, but in a soft, non-threatening way. I share with others through the talents and gifts that I was born with. My husband says I’m saving the world one cake at a time. That makes me proud. A homemade cake is no small thing!
But it occurred to me that I haven’t opened the door to myself wider, really. I just got braver about sharing some things and less brave about sharing others. My faith? It’s now well-protected. I don’t proclaim it as loudly and boldly as I did when I was younger. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing, but it isn’t all good either.
I’d like to hide behind the modern notion of relational evangelism, but for me, I think that it’s easy to use that as an excuse not to share something that I am no longer bold enough to share.
Maybe I have merely polished my self instead of growing as a person. Maybe I was just trying to scrub the religion out of my heart so that I would look better. Maybe I was trying to hide the parts of me that aren’t as good as the next guy’s. I am not the type of person that you would meet and suspect as being a private or quiet individual. I haven’t been since I was, say, nine or ten years old. But the truth is, I am picky about what I will put out there, and much of who I am when I am around others cleverly detracts attention from what I don’t want people to know about me.
So, my secrets have just traded places. Now, the old secrets are on display and the old display items have been locked away inside.
No, I don’t think that’s something to feel self-congratulatory about at all. Why am I always compelled to keep parts of my self hidden? Wouldn’t people like me better without the pretentious polish?
I have the gift of many friendships now, but there is still only a small clutch of people who have seen all of me and know my heart. I consider it a badge of honor when a friend trusts me enough to come to me crying an ugly cry and not wearing any makeup. Nothing makes me feel more worthy than being shown the deep secrets in the heart of a friend. Why is it so hard for me to honor my friends in kind?
It’s so scary to risk. And, in a reciprocal friendship, we risk so much. Friendships aren’t like family – they are not bound by blood or by law. Friends can move away. Friends can fight and don’t have to forgive before the next holiday gathering.
But, I think that the beauty is in the risk.


<3 Christy