Out of the overflow of the heart

Sometimes you don't know something until after you've said it. At least if you're a highly verbal extrovert like myself whose thoughts typically take the express train from mind to mouth without any stops in between. (My husband is the complete opposite and is often mystified by my changing direction in the middle of a sentence because, "wait, that's not really what I think.")

Jesus must have been thinking (perhaps with similar amusement) of people like myself when he said, as recorded in the gospel of Luke, "Out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks." There are obvious drawbacks to being wired this way, but at the same time, I've had many beautiful moments where the words coming out of my mouth reveal something to me that was in my heart, or in my mind, but I hadn't yet seen it.

It happened to me again yesterday morning; I was hosting the monthly gathering of the prayer and fellowship group I'd started a few years ago for moms whose kids attend our local Catholic school. We typically always meet at my house, since it's just around the corner from school, but for the past fourteen months we had been meeting on Zoom, or in my driveway seated far apart on lawn chairs (and bundled up to stay warm, since mornings are chilly during both spring and fall in Iowa.)

This time, since I had recently passed the "all clear" milestone of two weeks after my second vaccine dose, we were in my home. The sound of laughter filled my kitchen, as did the familiar smell-combination of scented candles, baked goodies, and coffee. Everyone there was either fully or almost fully vaccinated (or had already had COVID), so when we pulled our chairs into a circle we did it without stopping to mentally measure the distance, and no one wore masks. We could see each other smiling.

We were not the same people that we were in March 2020, nor will we ever be. But the meeting itself truly felt the same as before. Just being together, effortlessly and joyfully, without each of us having an invisible fence around her that we had to keep reminding ourselves not to cross.

I'm very aware that this kind of freedom to gather is not possible in many parts of the world right now due to high infection rates, low vaccine availability, or a combination of both. I do not want to forget this. But I can still rejoice that for most people here in the United States, it has become possible to get back that experience of natural togetherness which all of us have been missing for so long. We've been subsisting without it, doing all right, keeping the wheels of the machinery turning, but I wonder if we can ever really thrive without it.

I didn't realize how true this was in my own life until I started to cry when trying to lead the group in an opening prayer. Words of gratitude came out of my mouth first, and then, unexpectedly, "It's been so long."

In that moment it became clear to me how much my spirit had been starving for community. Maybe we protect ourselves from seeing how depleted we really are, so that we can keep going, do our jobs, take care of the ones we love. But eventually, out of the overflow of the heart the truth makes itself known.

Another thing I realized in that moment was how much it meant to me that this group, as well as several other important groups in my life, had stayed connected throughout the pandemic. When it came time for our meetings we showed up, we talked honestly about how we were doing, and in many cases (depending on what kind of group it was) we prayed together about our struggles.

In a year when so much was taken away, all these relationships that remained spoke a wordless message of permanence and of hope: We're all still here. I'd taken this gift for granted in my tendency to always look ahead, waiting for that far-off "Someday" when we could interact normally again. As if our present interactions were so altered that they weren't really worth much...but of course, they were. I wonder, in fact, how different a shape I'd be in mentally and emotionally right now if I'd had to make my way through this challenging year without all these little threads of community that formed a kind of net beneath me.

Yesterday also happened to be my birthday, and I always feel grateful on my birthday, in a big-picture sort of way. I'm grateful for being given 42 years of a life that, with all its complexities, surprises, and occasional trips through dark valleys, has been overall a very good one. I'm grateful for my parents' perseverance and hope despite suffering multiple miscarriages and being told they would probably never be able to have children. Grateful that I had the chance to come into this world, take that first breath of air, and begin, because not everyone does.

This year, on a more here-and-now level, I'm also grateful for the friends, both old and new, whose accompanying presence during the past year has been more important than I realized.

"Sisters in prayer, through the pandemic and beyond!" I wrote in a text message conversation with one of the fellowship group moms shortly after the meeting. At first I was a little surprised at what I had just typed; she is one of two new members whom I didn't even know before this fall. But the process of friendship-building is changed by extreme situations like the one we've all been living in. It becomes concentrated, intensified, like fruit in a year of drought, so even seemingly small interactions can go a long way.

I looked at the words on my phone screen again, realizing: yes, this is really what I think.