Are you missing out on the real world?
“I thought I smelled coffee.”
I looked up from my computer screen to the teenage girl awkwardly gesturing at my coffee cup. The same cup had been sitting between us for the past thirty minutes. The dining room was practically empty, yet Sam decided to sit in the armchair directly in front of me thirty minutes ago.
So much for my distraction-free writing session.
It was my fault. I mistakenly smiled at her when she walked through the door. My adopted Southern etiquette poisoned the evening I had been looking forward to all day.
“Are you in college?” she asked.
“No. I’m not in college, but I’m flattered you think I could be,” I replied.
Sam thought about that for a while, then stated, “Old people can go to college too.”
Awesome.
I had a few options. It was too late to return to my northern roots, which was to avoid eye contact with every human in the room. I was left with two other choices. I could be polite for a few minutes, then cut the conversation off and work elsewhere, or ride it out and see where it took us.
I decided to ride it out. As a mother, I wanted to respond the way I want my children treated — with dignity and kindness. I’m glad I did. Often the best lessons are learned at the most inconvenient times and through the most unlikely individuals.
Based on her seating choice, her silently and methodically pulling at her hair, and now her unfiltered comments, I guessed Sam struggled with a disability. She confirmed this when five minutes into our conversation, she told me her special education classroom smelled bad.
“Relationally, I’m an F. Mathematically, I’m an A,” she explained. “My twin sister doesn’t have the same problems I have. Relationally she is an A. That’s why she gets to stay home alone, and I have to sit here while my parents are in a meeting.”
I gave her a response most people would expect. That she was unique, and everyone had different talents and abilities. She agreed and listed everything she was good at — drama, art, math, and helping others. Then she paused.
“But sometimes there are voices in my head all having a conversation at the same time, and I look up and realize I’m missing the real world,” she explained.
Me too. I also miss out on the real world. I have distractions and expectations daily fighting for my attention, which keeps me from seeing what is essential. People are essential. Their stories are important.
There was a time when I only valued people who were exactly like me. I didn’t appreciate those whose brains were wired differently from mine, people who had different beliefs, interests, personalities, and mannerisms. Don Miller says it best: “The most difficult lie I have ever contended with is this: life is a story about me.”
Four years ago, I moved from my home state to a city overflowing with other transplants. I found a church that values people and their stories. I am now friends with artists and accountants, Republicans and Democrats, extroverts and introverts, and polite Southern belles and matter-of-fact Yankees. My social circle includes a variety of spectrums and cultures. I’ve learned that people who struggle in areas of “normalcy” (my definition of normal) trump me in areas I neglect. And through these relationships, I’ve become a better person.
I encourage you today to step off your stage. Look up from your devices. Temporarily give up your to-do list. Smile and talk to a stranger. Embrace people who aren’t your definition of normal, those who live life outside your bubble. I promise it will be a journey worth taking.
As Sam was leaving, she turned back and said, “I apologize if you were bored. You didn’t look bored, but I wanted to make sure.”
“No, Sam. I was never bored.”