Gift of Presence

I stood there clutching the beautiful pastel envelope against my chest... and weeping.

Walking down the driveway with intentional yet uneventful steps simply performing the task of retrieving the day's mail... Isn't it odd how a mailbox can be such a deceiving thing? It looks the same every day from the view from inside of the house. It just sits there in that simple way at the end of the road. Upon outward appearance, it's just an unusually shaped box made of tin or metal or wood.  Either way, the contents held within that elevated container at the end of the driveway could be concealing a piece of neighborhood information or an advertisement or some bill with a specified due date.  Maybe, on certain days, it stands empty.  The only way to know is by opening the door with the release of a latch and taking a look inside. And so, in this moment, my steps are set toward discovery.  The latch is opened, envelopes are clutched, latch is closed.  I quickly thumb through standing in place as if the sorting can't wait.  And there it lies between weekly sales and some other something of unnecessary importance. An envelope of delicate and feminine nature addressed to me... only me.  And without warning or hesitation, the tears roll.  And isn't that the way of tears?  So often not even knowing that they are on the brink of falling, until they do.

Loneliness.  When does anyone want to utter that description of themselves?  So few admit it, fighting the symptoms or denying reality or even painting a mask that defies the label.  "I'm so lonely in all of this," my friend bravely admitted.  Surrounded by life's demands and peer groups and loaded calendars... "I'm so lonely." It seems insane.  Hosts of the parties, bells of the balls, objects of the spotlight... "I'm so lonely."  And that's the thing about loneliness.  It doesn't play favorites.  Loneliness, that word, gets pinned on all of our hearts at some point in life.  The hard lesson for the lonely is that far too many of those who are packed into our stimulated pathways have not a single clue.  Our eyes hide it well.  Oh we have well learned that art.  Smile?  Oh yes, here's one for you and you and you.. and you as well.  

Surely there is someone, anyone, willing to pull the latch of our lives, or our hearts, or our empty eyes and find out that on the inside there is that word just lurking there... lonely.  Oh, you won't find emptiness.  No, that's not loneliness.  The loneliest are full of other adjectives as well. Words like confused, bitter, misunderstood, discouraged, anxious, traumatized and the like.  It may be more than you even imagined; but, pulling your hand back from engagement means being part of the reason that word lies there in the first place.   Is there anyone intentional enough to reach deeply inside?  Take the path that is out of the way.  Sit in the seat when the crowds have moved on to the next task or event.  Engage in conversation during the most unexpected hours and places.  Doodle in the sand until the spectators dissipate.  Light the fire when the night hour sets a stage of starless dark.  Lift someone from their shame while onlookers question the motivation.  Take the chance on what lies behind the latch.  Eliminating the description of lonely in someone's life means being the presence... answers not required, words not a must, absolute acceptance an essential.

My most despairing time in this less than 50 year journey left me pinned with an intimate label of "lonely".  "Can you see me?", my heart cries.  Take the time to look through my carefully placed exterior design and see the scattered, disheveled inside.  My engagement with my mailbox that day exposed the word for what it was.  I had struggled to place a finger on my disappointment and fear which inevitably often spoke through me at times as anger.  But that day, I saw it clearly.  Lonely. My feet shuffled toward the mailbox on a daily routine of sorting and throwing out, keeping, filing away... I couldn't tell you anything more except that the beautiful pastel envelope bore my name.  And I held it to my chest like it would dissipate into thin air if I let it go.  I didn't examine the return label or the contents of the wrapping for a very long time.  I just walked back into the house and sat down and stared at my name written by an unfamiliar hand.  The relief was incredible.  Yes, later I carefully peeled back the seal.  Later, I read the words.  However, they are not the lasting impression.  I don't remember the signature or the carefully selected salutation.  I simply remember my name written on the outside of a perfectly simple gift... the gift of presence.