My friend understood that well. Sitting across from the always elegant and eternally wise eighty-two-year-old grande dame, I spilled my guts. Florence Littauer, an accomplished author who had ministered to women for four decades, owned an aura reminiscent of the tulle-wrapped, very pink, and very glittery Glinda, Oz's famed Good Witch of the North. And I, a trembling Munchkin, was counting on her kindness. The imaginary wand she waved would undoubtedly reflect that kindness, but I was still nervous. Although I had known her for years (or perhaps because I had known her for years), I suspected an edict was forthcoming.
Florence listened, speared the last grape in her chicken salad, dabbed the corners of her mouth oh so delicately, and with her index finger wagging, distinctly opined, "Your problem is, you think you have no value apart from that man."
Ouch. There it was. That was it. Bull's-eye.
You feel worthless.
More specifically, worthless without him, a phrase that fits as perfectly as your best little black dress.
That's not a match for your particular situation, you say?
You're probably right. It may not be. Perhaps our losses don't resemble each other's in the least little bit. But see if completing this sentence with your words offers clarity. Imagine Florence speaking to you. (Side note: it's helpful to throw in that finger-wagging thing too.)
"You think you have no value apart from _____________."
That job? That bank account? That relationship? The success of that superstar child? That home? That car? That title? Those dusty trophies lined up against the window ledge? That perfectly beating heart that pumped you through two elite marathons? Those long-awaited and longed-for Louboutin shoes?
Recalibrating your worth when you lose something temporal you've attached it to proves debilitating. And it doesn't really matter which temporal thing becomes the object of your devotion. All will fail because all are, by definition, fleeting.
Working in a local "stone soup" homeless shelter, I recall a day I manned the clothing trailer. I struck up a conversation with a chatty middle-aged client, as we called the visitors, who took his time poring over the donated jackets hanging on the rack. He pulled out a rather natty plaid coat, propped it up for me to see, and announced, "I wore one like this when I was somebody." My soul tore a little for him as I helped him into the sleeves and reflected on the lesson he was teaching me at that very moment, as I was still stuck searching for that old relationship that I'd worn when I was somebody. Neither of our garments fit.
These spiritual misappropriations and misplaced self-assessments in light of loss happen in all stratas of society — rich or impoverished, privileged or marginalized. I think the marginalized just may be more honest about it. Hence, natty-plaid-coat-man with the easy confession rolling off his tongue, unknowingly calling out the got-it-all-together volunteer hiding her spiritual snags behind a laminated-lanyard ID tag and rows of hand-me-down coats stuffed into a double-wide.
The movie scene running through my mind cuts to Jesus gathering the children to Him, deliberately corralling the littlest littles and placing them center stage while the disciples, clueless, strut around in the wings, jockeying for position and elbowing each other out of the way, so as to avoid tripping over their extra-long egos.
Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven. — Matthew 18:3
Well played, Jesus.
The upside-down Kingdom of this tough-but-tender Rabbi never fails to flip social structures on their haughty heads.
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