19 - The Handshake

This season is about joy. At least, it is supposed to be.

A celebration of the birth of Christ for Christians. The festival of lights, a Jewish celebration of the miracle of the oil. Kwanzaa, a celebration of identity for African Americans. A celebration of Saint Nicholas, a bishop made famous for his generous gifts to the poor. 

But we often forget the true reason for the season, whichever one we are celebrating. 

Last night, two of my children were helping me to wrap presents. As much as I enjoy it, my back pain limits what I can do. But the kids love it. It gives them an opportunity to share in the joy.

They talked about how much fun it is to search for the gifts under the tree, trying to find the correct number for their gift. They told me they appreciate the presents, but the joy of the game is what they always remember the most. To be fair, my kids are older. But I have succeeded in what I wanted to instill: the season is about joy.

As my daughter was organizing things on the other side of the room, my son laid a particularly large box on the table and was trying to measure out the wrapping paper. Because the box was large, he chose a large roll of paper. 

He struggled to fold the paper around the box so that he could even figure out where to make the cut. The paper kept bending and wouldn’t cooperate. My daughter kindly offered to help.

But then it became two people wrestling with the present. It was basically a 4 foot by 4 foot piece of heavy wrapping paper, trying to go around a huge box. They weren’t having much luck.

They tried one way, then another. A lot of, “Ok, you go over there, and I’ll go over here.” And, “Wait! It’s not working, back up and try to fold it that way.” They called it the demon shark paper, while also laughing. There was a lot of huffing and puffing until they were able to wrangle it into submission.

And when they were ready to lay the first piece of tape, they both burst into laughter! “Mama! You have to preach a sermon on this!” When I looked, sure enough, there was a sermon if ever I had seen one. The paper had lined up so perfectly, that it looked like there was no seam at all!

Isn’t that the way life rolls? You struggle and sweat, and fight and work. You think that all the bad things are from the devil. You want to give up. You want to give in. You think, “Nothing good can come from this!”

But if you are patient, it can line up. Good can come from difficult situations.

Recently, I met my husband’s coworkers and their spouses for the first time. We walked around the room and I was introduced to so many new people. As I became acquainted with each person, their hand automatically went out to shake mine. The first time it happened, I hesitated, then shook the hand. Is this what we are doing now? 

I need to get this out of the way: This isn’t a story about Covid. 

I was fine until it was time for food. I went into the bathroom and scrubbed my hands, opened the door with the edge of my shirt, and walked to the back of the line where my husband was waiting. As I approached, he eagerly introduced me to the couple in front of us. I froze as I looked at their outstretched hands. There was a huge pause as I contemplated my options. Shake, then rewash? Politely decline? 

In the past, not wanting to look like a weirdo, I would shake the hand. The person would continue to talk and laugh but I would not hear a single word. I was constantly trying to fit in and be normal. Normal people don’t freak out about washing their hands. I would either wait a little bit and then make an excuse to walk away (and then secretly dash to the bathroom), or I would “suck it up” and stay put (while my brain was screaming, “Unclean! Unclean!”)

Covid actually instigated a time where everyone else became like me. It was very easy for me to slip into sanitizing my hands when I got into my car, because I already did that. It was easy for me to come home and take a shower, because I already felt that need after being out. I’ve watched kids stick their hands in bulk bins to choose candy to put into a bag. While the mom watched. After the kid sneezed. So when those items came already bagged, I thought it was a good idea.

But things are changing again. We’re getting back to normal. And I LOVE that! I really do! It’s just hard for me. 

I am trying to care less and less about what others think of me so I chose the option of declining. I told them I had just washed my hands and would prefer not to shake hands. They were offended. 

I whispered in my husband’s ear that I was sorry. I felt bad that he would now be known as the guy with the crazy wife. He said, because of Covid, it wasn’t a big deal. 

Even though, to be honest, it has nothing to do with Covid. 

When my oldest was born, I didn’t know what I was doing, but I wasn’t freaked out about germs.

When my second was born, he was in the NICU for two weeks. I became more aware of the dangers for premature babies and was a more cautious mom.

When the twins were born 12 weeks early, I was a mess. One contracted RSV while in the NICU, which the nurses blamed on me. We had the “I’ve done all I can do” conversation with the doctor while we waited to see if our son would survive the night. 

My mind imagined picking out a coffin and how we would manage. I hit an animal that darted onto the road. I had a nervous breakdown, convinced that God would take my son because I had killed the rabbit. 

My son pulled through. We were lucky. But I was changed.

My daughter remembers that when the boys came home, she had to “decontaminate before holding them, and you told me not to breathe on them.” Sounds about right. 

When they got sick, it usually meant a trip to the ER, within hours of the first cough. Sometimes, there were several days in the hospital. I’m still on high alert when I hear them clear their throat. It’s etched in my brain. I can’t seem to erase it. 

If you want to know where that particular brand of crazy came, why my hands are always raw, there’s your answer.

So when another couple came in behind us and introduced themselves, I was pissed. I stared at the hands, heaved a huge sigh, then shook. The lady in front of me laughed then turned her back to me. She was delighted by my pain.

When we got to the front of the line, I picked up a plate, then went to the kitchen to unpack my meal. They were having barbeque, so I made a version for myself that I could have. I had brought things that would make my plate similar to everyone else. I didn’t want to stick out. I didn’t want to be different. I wanted to blend in.

But the truth is, I am different. Like it or not, I see the world through a different lens.

My entire life, I have wanted friends but been awkward around people. I try very hard not to be offensive, yet I invariably say the one thing that is insulting. And then I bumble over it, trying to make it better, but essentially making it worse. I try to just keep my mouth shut.

But we’ve all been inside for so long, I’m out of practice. I really love my house and prefer to be here rather than out. That part wasn’t hard for me. The hard part is trying to fit back into interacting with others.

If I’m at the store, and someone talks to me or makes a cute joke, I laugh. I tell them to have a beautiful day before I move on. If I am interacting with a cashier, and they seem receptive, I thank them for what they are doing. If I meet a receptionist, I smile big and tell them it’s not a problem when I am told there will be a short wait. I can handle about 60 seconds, before things go south. As long as our interaction is short and anonymous, I will walk away and you will think that I’m amazing.

It’s when the conversations are longer that I have trouble. Or I have to hop from one conversation to another, like at a party. I don’t do small talk very well. I’m not interested in the weather. I’m not a fan of news scare tactics. I don’t like sports. And I won’t remember your name, no matter how hard I try. Unless the conversation is meaningful. 

I want to know what led you to your current career. I want to know the story of how you met your husband. I want to know what you really think about a class you like. I want to hear about a passion you have: writing, painting, creating, loving others, whatever you do to enjoy life. I want to see the light in your eyes as you share what really makes you happy.

But those are conversations that don’t happen when you are first introduced to someone. There are the customary questions like: 

What do you do? This one is really insulting to those who choose to stay at home. And I know that because I am a woman who stays at home. And yet…it always tumbles out of my mouth…

Where do you live? Which, for me, is a stupid question to ask because I’m not familiar enough with my city to recognize the answer. I just smile and nod.

Do you have any children? I’ve stopped asking this question. If the answer is yes, it’s often an opportunity for them to share more. That’s good. But if the answer is no, there is awkward silence. 

Even as I’m writing this, I can’t think of anything else. *Ugh!* Small talk sucks!

As I concentrated on getting my meal together, I blocked everyone else out of my mind. I kept yelling, “Don’t you cry! Don’t you dare cry!” over and over in my head. I regrouped. I reminded myself to have a good time. I told myself it was going to be ok. 

No, I don’t want to shake your hand. But if you stick around long enough, I can be an interesting person. I stopped trying to figure out what the other person wanted to hear. Essentially, I stopped trying so hard and was just me.

Dinner conversation with a small group ended up being funny and enjoyable. I took a moment outside on the back deck to overlook the city and enjoy the beautiful lights. I had a lovely conversation with a man who also enjoyed grilling and woodworking. I talked to another group about our upcoming renovation and the projects I had done in the past. They shared their renovation tales as well.

In the end, I had a good time. 

I stood a little farther back from people. I kept my hands down and said, “Nice to meet you,” or did a little wave. When it was time to go, I did the same thing, a wave and, “It was a pleasure to meet you.” Except for the one person I did know. A dear family friend of 10+ years with whom I shared a bear hug. Because he’s practically family.

People are always going to judge me. I know that! It’s hard not to slip back into caring. It’s hard to fight against the urge to do what everyone else is doing. It’s hard to be a little different. It’s hard to stand out and be a LOT different. I’m fighting the wrapping paper.

The thing is, though, my purpose requires it. I need to stand up and do things the way I need to do them. If people don’t like it, so be it. But the only way for me to find joy and purpose is to embrace my past, the things that make me who I am, and just be me. The authentic, weird, crazy, person that I am. 

If this difficult situation can, in some way, inspire you to boldly stand up and be your brand of different, then I have succeeded. My purpose is to inspire you to step into your purpose. And that purpose, by the way, is not what everyone else is doing. 

So, be bold. Be brave. Be you!

It won’t be easy. But stick with it. It will eventually line up the way it is supposed to be.