I’ve written some things this summer that have deeply hurt others. I was just stupid enough to think a blanket of anonymity would protect everyone, both them and me. I was wrong and there have been buckets full of tears all around.
Writing is a tricky art. I’ve often defended that you can be descriptive without being judgmental. But perhaps it’s a line so thin and so gray that it’s not worth defending. Even without any judgment in the world, the mere act of describing, painting the facts of the moment, can cut to the bone. And it’s inaccurate, these snapshots we paint with our words. A painting can only capture a moment, and life is much bigger and broader and brighter than that.
There’s an inherent carelessness when you paint someone who you think will never see the finished product. And so my strokes have been too harsh, imbalanced.
I strive to write from a place of authenticity and honesty. The thing I desire to encapsulate in my word pictures more than anything is the cathartic reality that we all fall and it’s okay. We’re imperfect, messy humans and yet there’s still so much grace to be found, to be extended.
I failed to capture that picture this summer. I tried to immortalize the beauty in accepting our differences but I failed miserably. Miserably. In a terribly ironic and hurtful twist, I’ve done the very opposite of what I wanted. I’ve left people feeling judged, gutted open.
And so I’ve learned a hard and humbling lesson.
Anonymity and authenticity are never excuse for carelessness with another’s heart.
Also, I’m a pretty big coward. God isn’t kidding about me learning how to apologize.
Needless to say, I’m feeling pretty much like the worst person in the world at the moment, not to mention an idiot. So me and my sinus infection are going to crawl in a hole and die now. Or hibernate until the move.