Confession: I still hide behind being helpful.
There’s still a sliver of shame in me that says if I can’t help you I’m no good to you. The sliver says I shouldn’t write posts like this one, intended only to thank you, dear reader, for being a big, beautiful place of belonging for me in the world. That sliver is wrong, of course, which is why I’m publishing this year-in-reverse retrospective about the role of belonging in our lives, and how pinch-me-I-must-be-dreaming grateful I am for each and every one of you.
Black Friday 2023
As always, we stay in our pajamas and decorate the house while It’s a Wonderful Life plays in the background. Right around the time the last bulb is hung, George Bailey is returning to his real life. He’s now aware of the tremendous impact he’s had on the world, but he doesn’t pour himself a drink and toast to his many accomplishments. Instead, he sprints for home, where he can’t stop hugging his kids and kissing his wife. While everyone in town dumps buckets of money on his living room table—and we might be fooled for the barest of moments into thinking life is about having money—his guardian angel Clarence sends him a clarifying note:
“Remember, no man is a failure who has friends.”
It makes me think about the author’s note I might add at the beginning of Loveable if it were ever to sell enough copies to warrant an anniversary edition:
In this book, I suggested the three great tasks of life are embracing our worthiness, finding our belonging, and practicing our purpose. Many years later, I stand by that suggestion. Yet I'm afraid you might finish this book with the impression these three tasks stand on equal footing. They don’t. Worthiness is the way to belonging, and purpose is the playground on which we play with those to whom we belong, but belonging is an end unto itself. Belonging is at the heart of this book because it is at the heart of our lives. It’s both our birthright and our destiny and most of what matters in between.
Thanksgiving Dinner
I’ve just said grace and everyone is digging in—the boys are debating the merits of white meat versus dark, Caitlin is suggesting she still prefers Mac ’n’ Cheese, their uncle is joking that wine out of a bottle is definitely better than wine out of a box, my uncle is quietly polishing off his plate, and my wife is cackling about something I missed entirely. If there were do-overs for dinner prayers, this is what I’d pray:
One of the unexpected graces of growing older and your family growing up is that you are simply more and more grateful to have them all back together again. You used to want it to be a certain way, or need it be another way, but now it is simply a gift to experience it the way it is, however that is. Thank you, God, for the gift of belonging. It is enough. It is more than enough.
In True Companions I shared some research which proves that when we are feeling young and immortal we prioritize expansion and accumulation, but when our horizons draw near—when our “fragility is primed,” as the scientist explains it—we prioritize appreciation and belonging. I guess my horizons are just a little closer than ever.
Thanksgiving Morning
The kids are still asleep as I pour a cup of coffee and continue The Sacred Journey by Frederick Buechner, in which he writes:
The trouble with steeling yourself against the harshness of reality is that the same steel that secures your life against being destroyed secures your life also against being opened up and transformed by the holy power that life itself comes from. You can survive on your own. You can grow strong on your own. You can prevail on your own. But you cannot become human on your own.
An hour later the kids are stirring, so I place my bookmark back in its place. The bookmark is a receipt from a meal I had with my oldest while visiting him in Chicago earlier in the month. Why, with a hundred undistributed Unhiding of Elijah Campbell glossy bookmarks in my desk drawer, am I using this thin, already tattered, piece of paper as my marker? Maybe it’s because that moment of belonging with him was precious—hearing about the brave leap he’s just made into the Second City conservatory set against some of the pain of his childhood. “Before that happens," he says, "putting yourself out there just feels natural, after that it always feels like there’s a lot at stake." That moment of belonging with him is more precious than anything with gloss on it.
Drew Holcomb & The Neighbors are performing in the Macy’s Parade for the first time. They sing, “You got to find your people, you can’t go it alone, everybody needs help. You got to find your people then you’ll find yourself. You got to find your people, that’ll call your bluff, who’ll ride along when the road is rough.”
It makes me think about the TV show Lost. If you thought the whole show was about solving the mystery of the island they were all stranded on, you hated the series finale. But if you thought it was about finding your people while stumbling through the unsolvable mystery of the island and life and existence, then you loved the ending. I think we’re all just tripping through the mystery, and staying on our feet isn’t nearly as important as finding the people who want to trip with us.
Summer 2023
Immediately after finishing my second novel, I start a third one. It's about a group of seemingly unrelated misfits, each in despair because they’re failing to either identify or achieve their purpose in life. Over the course of the story they discover their purpose is each other. Their purpose is belonging. In this excerpt, a young high school English teacher is talking to her mentor:
“Teaching English has been your life’s purpose for forty years. Where will you find your purpose if you retire?”
“Oh, Lizzie, teaching isn’t my purpose.”
Lizzie doesn’t even try to mask her confusion. “Wait, you talk all the time about your passion for teaching. If teaching isn’t your purpose, what is?”
“Oh, I searched for a sense of purpose in my career for years. Decades, really. But I never found it. What I found instead was my ka-tet.”
“Ka-tet?” Confusion gives way to curiosity. Mrs. P has a way of doing that to her.
“Ka-tet,” she confirms with a nod. “In Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, it’s his word for your circle of true belonging.”
“Mrs. P!” Lizzie exclaims, playfulness coming easier this time, “You’re a high school English teacher. You can’t tell people you read Stephen King, you’ll lose your credibility!”
“Oh, he’s one of my favorites. People think he’s a horror specialist, but really he’s a friendship specialist. It. The Stand. Shawshank Redemption. Stand by Me. These are books about belonging. No one sees that about him. What he’s really been trying to tell us for decades is that you can handle any horror that comes your way if you have companions. In the Dark Tower books he comes right out and says it: we’re here to find our ka-tet and then journey toward our destiny with them. Our passions? They’re just lightning rods for our ka-tet. They attract those with similar destinies. And let me tell you, teaching has been a lovely lightning rod for me. My colleagues. My students. My successor.” She pats Lizzie’s arm in that motherly way. “Oh, I’ve found my ka-tet, and now it’s time for me to step aside and let you find yours.”
December 2022
I’ve just delivered a keynote talk about worthiness to hundreds of women at a church in Texas. I’m at the book table signing holiday bundles of Loveable and Unhiding, when I have one of the great epiphanies of my life.
These books of mine are my lightning rod.
They draw to me those with similar destinies, and they give us all a common language by which to discuss those destinies. That’s what this writing life of mine has always been as much as anything else—a wonderful way to find my people.
As I chat with those in the book line, I have an utterly peaceful sense that my purpose is complete, not because a hundred bundles were sold, but because I got to be with my people. Everything beyond the belonging is just icing.
Now
If you’re reading this right now—almost 1500 words in, which is a lifetime in online reading years—you are most definitely one of those people.
I published my first blog post in January 2012, and six people shared it. I thought, Seems about right. Two months later, I published my ninth blog post and a hundred thousand people shared it. I thought, That’s bizarre, but I supposed I should start getting these folks’ email addresses. I had no idea that I was basically collecting a community of people who, like me, know deep down in their bones, “You can survive on your own. You can grow strong on your own. You can prevail on your own. But you cannot become human on your own.”
Thank you for humaning with me these many years. Thank you for reading. Thank you for connecting. Thank you for your belonging. It is a great, graceful gift to me.
More and more, it is my favorite reason to write.
Last week, I offered to give away a copy of each of my books to one lucky commenter, and it was such a blessing to hear from so many of you. The winner was Marilyn W!
I enjoyed it so much, I’m going to do it again every Wednesday between now and Christmas. So, drop a few words in the comments and I’ll announce the winner again next Wednesday (winners must have a U.S. mailing address). If you can’t think of anything to say, feel free to simply introduce yourself and let us know why you’re here!
Of course, if you can’t wait to win, you can hit that button below and get a copy today.
I'm beyond grateful for you finding your lightening rod!
Thank YOU, Kelly. I am a mostly silent reader. Thank you for continuing to share, even when you don’t hear a response. I am still reading.