Womanly Wednesday: A Guest Post On Rejection And Recovery

Welcome to this week’s Womanly Wednesday! This week’s poster, Leigh, is a friend whom I met through my church small group.  Leigh has a deep heart to thoughtfully and intentionally love people and I have learned so much from my friendship with her these past two years.  She’s a fellow writer whose passion and love of language I deeply respect, so make sure to check out her blog too! 

I experienced my first rejection around age 5 or 6.

What I remember most from this rejection story is that I noticed it easily. Maybe more easily than a child should, but then again, children are sponges and aware of way more than that for which we give them credit. My Grandmother (my Mom’s Mom), from as early as I can remember, favored my Dad and my Sister over my Mom or me. My Sister was more even in personality (not hyper-active like I was), very smart where she didn’t have to try at school subjects, and quieter – more behaved. My Mom and I are more emotion-on-our sleeves people. I was all over the place growing up. Loud, hyper-active, talked so fast and rarely sat still. I spoke before I really thought about it and laughed at high decibels.

Once, when I was very young but obviously old enough to read, I found a letter from my Grandmother, to my mom. The letter said, among other things, that she did not think I was a good child. She said I needed to be more like my sister. I should be more contained and controlled. She said my mom was not doing a good job of raising me, and should work harder at fixing my issues. I walked up to my mom, more from a curiosity standpoint – I wasn’t crying and I don’t think I understood the impact enough to be hurt right away – and asked “Mom, why doesn’t Grandma like me? Did I do something wrong?”

What I remember most was the look of sadness and defeat on my Mom’s face.

She hung her head and said “You weren’t meant to see that baby. Don’t you worry about that letter. You haven’t done anything wrong, okay.”

As I’ve grown older, I’ve better understood the impact of how a young mind can learn to hold herself differently so she doesn’t have to experience the kind of repelling effect she has. That it becomes a thread in the fabric through which she see herself and with which she presents herself to the world.

Having a close friend walk away in Middle School/early High School after admitting over the phone: “You’re too much. I’m just not comfortable anymore. You make it too hard.”

Being shushed, audibly, as an adult (after college, when I thought the disappointment may finally be behind me) more than once. Having an audience, witnessing. More.than.once. These are not strangers, these are people I’d let in as friends. Ones who meant a great deal to me and I do know they cared for me too. Yet still. I pushed them to a limit. A laugh too loud. A disdain unable to be hidden any longer. One time, being physically grabbed  – moving my hands down with the request for my voice – so I would not miss it.

You want to run away. In some actual moments, I did. I got up from the tables and breathed deeply in bathroom corners to shove it down and move it past and smile bigger (don’t let it show) but coached myself to keep my lips together more and observe and quietly continue. I would nod my head and not let them see the damage and be on best behavior so they wouldn’t lose hope that I could be better. I could make it work. If I did a good enough job, they wouldn’t walk away like the others.

None of us are held together with much more than strings and imperfection. I know that not all those who lost patience with me wanted to run in the other direction completely. There are sins between us and bad days and stresses. I love, very much, the person who shushed me. I love, very much, the other friend who has once even hit me. We are walking a fractured world, in fallen bodies, and we will hurt one another when we are weary.

There was a more recent rejection, and I may not have the space here today to speak about it. Yet it is the most fresh and in this, I lost a dear friend whom I had grown to respect and value deeply.

There was a guy – kind, compassionate, fun. We share similar personalities and love to laugh and play poker and be outside in the adventurous world. He left me slowly at first, then all together gone. We’d been friends for a year when I followed the urging of the Spirit (it took me a long while, for He asked of me something I had never done). After months of consistent nudging, I spoke briefly and lightly in an e-mail to this friend (and yes, he has read it). An mere offering of a time to share a conversation. Nothing more. No declarations, advances, or leading. Just opening a door, hoping honestly, that we would both decide together that our friendship was where we should stay. (I wanted that answer more than any other possibility, if I’m being wholly, deeply honest.) For then, I would have been obedient to my Father, but I would still get to keep my intimacy boundaries up, guarded and in tact.

It didn’t go that way. We never talked about it and the space grew between us until the talking stopped and the pretend dwindled down in the reality of another lost friendship.

I have higher boundaries now, maybe. Maybe not. I lost a friend and I grieved that loss more than any embarrassment or possibility to look foolish. I cared about none of that – only that I was left again and it appeared to be my fault.

Yes, I know the sting of the cut, the turn of the heel, and the dust left behind of those walking away. Yet I wouldn’t take any of it back – because my Maker refines me by fire and ashes. Beauty is built from brokenness and nails were used to set a world free.

There is repair for destruction, binding for the fractured, rebuilding for that which seems destroyed. We have a Savior, a rescuer when we fail, disappoint, scrape and stumble. He is the Light which pulls apart the dark.

What I have learned in my years of rejection is that it may never stop until I’m Home. I may be left again and again but it will not finish me. I was finished when He rolled away the stone. My hurt and heartache was healed and my identity was forged on a hilltop with thorns and wooden beams. I was redeemed – and it cannot be undone. Not with a shush or a letter or a dismissal. Not with doubts or walls or fear.

I want to take a moment and speak the genuine praise of one who is abundantly grateful. My Maker has blessed me with firm foundations in the relationships in my life. I have chosen-family in my friends who calls me theirs, and they are mine. I have people who have stuck and stuck so well that I cannot question the power of the Body nor the rock that Community was made to be (He, being the cornerstone). I have people spread locally, as well as across state and even national lines. There is no shortage of love in my life. What an amazing God I worship who gives me truth and lovely repair amidst the life of temporary hurt.

I am my Beloved’s. He is mine. I will use His strength to continue to walk in this uncertain life. I will rejoice and be glad. I will walk alongside others and beckon them to let Him be their beauty as well.

Thank you for hearing my story. It is no small honor and its catharsis spreads wide.

Leigh is an Aunt, sister, daughter, and friend. She writes over at Daily Refined and learns more about herself and her Creator through writing, reading, and experiencing nature. Trees and mountains are her grandest happy-place and Autumn is her favorite season. She is a freelance editor and adores the opportunities she’s experienced. Reading new books,  hiking a trail, or driving on a spontaneous road trip are some of her favorite things. You can keep updated  and see what other lessons He is teaching her along the way by subscribing to the blog, following her Facebook page, Twitter, or Instagram.