Jesus Ate with Dirty Hands

Jesus's disciples ate with dirty hands.  We are told in Mark 7:5, "Some of the Pharisees and teachers of the law asked Jesus, 'Why don't your disciples live according to the traditions of the elders instead of eating their food with defiled hands?'"  In a culture that was heavy on purity, hospitality, and following the rules, chances are good if the disciples ate with unclean hands, so did Jesus.

Jesus ate with dirty feet.  Luke 7:36-47 reads:

When one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to have dinner with him, he went to the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table.  A woman in that town who lived a sinful life learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, so she came there with an alabaster jar of perfume.  As she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.

When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner.”

Jesus answered him, “Simon, I have something to tell you.”

“Tell me, teacher,” he said.

“Two people owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii, and the other fifty.  Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he forgave the debts of both. Now which of them will love him more?”

Simon replied, “I suppose the one who had the bigger debt forgiven.”

“You have judged correctly,” Jesus said.

Then he turned toward the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair.  You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet.  You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet.  Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”

Jesus ate with sinners.  Jesus ate with tax collectors.  Jesus ate with garden variety whores.  Jesus ate with prostitutes.  Jesus ate with adulterers.

Jesus preached a gospel of radical love; a gospel in which all are welcome; a gospel that declares that we come before a throne of GRACE and all of us are on equal footing there; a gospel that declares that none of us must make ourselves "clean enough" before we enter HIS presence; before we eat at HIS table.  As though any of us could, by an ablution or any other means, somehow make ourselves pure enough, good enough, holy enough to join Christ in HIS banquet.

Jesus never turned anyone away.  Jesus never cast anyone out.  Jesus never set out armed guards and barred the doors to the sacrament of God's love and grace and compassion.

Jesus intentionally spent his time, not with the religious elite, the holy men, those who most stringently observed the purity rites of their religion.  Jesus intentionally spent his time with fishermen and Samaritans, women and children, prostitutes, tax collectors, sinners, and sluts.

When a church invites sinners, tax collectors, prostitutes, adulterers, pedophiles, and all manner of other people with dirty hands and feet to join them at CHRIST'S banquet table, but they use armed police men to bar entrance and fellowship to homosexuals who must "wash their hands" before entering CHRIST'S church and sharing in fellowship at CHRIST'S table, something is grossly wrong.  God's love has been distorted beyond all rationality.

Jesus ate with dirty feet and dirty hands.  Why would he expect anything different from us?

Casting Lots

On occasion, someone will ask me how I managed to start life in the Midwest (where I was perfectly content to continue living and be perfectly discontent for the remainder of my life, so long as I could finish my education, get married, and make babies) and then move to New York City with only seven days notice and no place to live and complete uncertainty about the future or life or what the hell am I thinking moving from a town of fifty people to a sprawling metropolis of 8 million, which happens to be nearly three times the population of my entire home state.

Graduate school is often the answer I give.  I had finished my bachelor's degree and wanted more education and I ended up in school in New York City.

Sometimes, people will ask how I chose the school from which I went on to receive my Master's education.

"Well, I was looking at a number of schools, and weighing the pros and cons and this one was the right one for me," I'll tell them, occasionally filling in what that process looked like--getting recommendations from my academic adviser on what schools might offer the academic rigor I desired, narrowing the options down, praying and praying and praying, feeling called to the school I would eventually attend and choosing from there.

If I really trust them, I'll tell them the whole truth.

I cast lots.  And I stacked the odds against the school to which I felt called, because I did not want to go.

I hated the idea of living in New York City, 1,000 miles from anything familiar.  1,000 miles from the only thing I'd ever known.  1,000 miles from rich, black earth, and thunder storms, and wide open spaces, and blue skies.  A world of steel and glass and concrete and hustle and bustle and 8 million people shoving their way through life.  As an introvert who greatly values her time alone, away from crowds, with the option to walk by a lake or along a wooded path, the notion of moving to a large city was horrifying.

I took the six schools I was considering and wrote the name of each of five of these schools on 10 slips of paper, each, and placed them in a bag.  I wrote the name of the sixth school on a single slip of paper and tossed it in.  I shook it up and reached inside.  1:51.  Those are long odds when every other school has a 10:51 chance.  I pulled out the school I'd put in a single time.

Well, I thought to myself, that simply isn't going to work.  Dumb luck.

I put the slip back in, and shook the bag.  I reached in and pulled out....  The same damn slip of paper.

Okay,  One more time!  Dropped it back in, shook the bag, reach inside and....FUCK!

I threw the piece of paper away because by now, I was sure that my fingers were feeling the difference between this over-handled slip of paper and the rest which seemed not to want to be held at all.  I wrote the name of the school on a new slip of paper, added it to the bag, shook it up, and...

I gave up and attended the school in New York City which was on the bottom of my list, and only there because I felt called to go there, despite my best efforts to convince myself and God otherwise by casting lots.

Casting lots to determine something as important as where you will spend the next three years in a master's program is probably foolish, but it worked for me.

In hindsight, I do not know if I could have finished a graduate program anywhere else in the world.  I do not know if my life could have been as profoundly impacted by anyone else in the world as it was by those I met in New York City.

Proverbs 16:33 reads:

The lot is cast into the lap,
     but its every decision is from the Lord.

 I suppose this is as true as anything.

I do not make a habit of casting lots.  I tend to think that careful planning and thoughtful decisions that take all factors into consideration, and lots of prayer for the big ones, is the best way to make life choices.  The idea that a roll of the dice or the drawing of a slip of paper from amongst a pot of 51 slips identical in size and shape can somehow communicate the will of God is foolish.

Call me a fool.  It worked out once, eight years ago, and my whole life looks radically different, and I am more myself than I have been since the age of five because of that slip with three letters on it.

Still, I think it would be foolish to cast lots again or put any stock in their answer.  And I should probably avoid Magic 8 balls.

A Breezy Day at Work

It happened again today.

A breezy day.

It happened once before.  About 5 years ago.  On a street in New York City.

There I was, minding my own business, headed to the subway, a spring in my step, and I felt them begin to slide.  Over my hips, down my legs, past my thighs.

I clenched my knees together and hobbled into a public building, making an awkward stride to the ladies' room.  The moment I relaxed my legs, my panties were a puddle of satin on the floor.

It was during my lunch break today, as I made my way to the break room.  I managed to squeeze my thighs together as soon as they began their descent, making for a much less awkward dash to the restroom.

There is all the difference in the world between losing your panties in front of a street full of strangers who will 1) likely not notice and 2) you'll never see again and losing your panties in front of your coworkers who will 1) definitely notice, 2) point it out loudly enough for the entire office to hear, and 3) never let you forget it.

So, I pulled them back up, and returned to the break room with my hands planted on my hips.  I was not feeling stern; rather I was keeping my red and gold lace panties firmly in place.

After lunch, and an awkward hobble back to my desk where I deposited my utensils, I grabbed my purse and hobbled anew to the ladies' room where I allowed the bit of lace to float silently to the floor and, stepping out of them, picked them up and placed them in my purse for later disposal.

It's a shame, really, that these panties are suddenly too big.  I really like the red and gold lace.

And it made for a breezy day at work.

No Body Nose

I am standing next to him in the grocery store with 4.6 billion thoughts running through my mind.  I need to process.  I take a deep breath and try to calm the whirlwind so that I can effectively manage the rest of the day until processing can take place.

"So," he says to me.  I turn and look at him.  I have no idea what my face looks like.  I imagine it's...something.  What am I telegraphing?

I want to smile, but I'm afraid.  I want to say, "I'm okay," but I do not trust my voice.  I want to ask a question, but this is neither the time nor the place.

"You know how you call a person who's missing two limbs a paraplegic?" he asks me.

"Yes."

"You know how you call a person who's missing four limbs a quadriplegic?"he asks me.

"Yes."

"What do you call a person with no body at all and just a nose on their face?" he asks me.

"I don't know," I say, knowing that whatever comes next, this is a joke.

"No body nose!"

I am loved.

I turn my back to him as I begin to cry.  "That's a good one," I say, my voice cracking a little.

I am so loved.

*****

We have this thing we do.  I'm having a bad day, or something awful happens, or I'm processing, or I'm sad, or my heart hurts, and I ask for a joke.  I need a distraction.

It started with aardvarks.

I asked for an aardvark joke.  That was it.  I sent a text message:  I need an aardvark joke.  Stat!

After this happened twice in the course of a week, with no explanations as to why I needed an aardvark joke, my phone rang.  "So, what's going on?" he asked me, his voice all serious and completely emotionally available to me.

Sometimes, he knows the root cause of my need for a joke in that moment.  Sometimes, he doesn't.  No matter what, he checks to make sure I am okay.  And he always sends a joke.

*****

I am standing next to him in the grocery store.  I am sure that every time I look at him, my face gets a sappy look about it and my eyes are filled with moony wonderment at how amazing he is.  I am sure that everyone who sees me looking at him, and sees the expression on my face, knows.  I am sure that it's telegraphed to the entire world that I believe this man hung the stars and his very existence is what makes them shine.

I am terrified that this is going to make him uncomfortable, this devotion I carry in my heart for him.  I tell my heart and my body to give it up, it's never going to happen.  They steadfastly refuse to listen to my brain, and I end up feeling pathetic and humiliated, because I cannot control my physiological response to him, and I end up standing next to him in grocery stores looking sappy and moony-eyed.

At no point has he ever said or done anything to lead me to feel pathetic and humiliated.  It is my own lack of self-control and my inability to bring my emotions into line with my thoughts that makes me feel pathetic.  It is my failure to behave in accordance with my knowledge that leaves me feeling humiliated.

(I'm kind of ashamed of how much I think about myself in the course of a day).

"So," he says to me.  I turn and look at him. "You know how you call a person who's missing two limbs a paraplegic?" he asks me.

"Yes."

"You know how you call a person who's missing four limbs a quadriplegic?"he asks me.

"Yes."

"What do you call a person with no body at all and just a nose on their face?" he asks me.

"I don't know," I say, knowing that whatever comes next, this is a joke.

I am loved.

Though he's asking me about paraplegics, and quadriplegics, and disembodied  noses, what he is saying to me is, "I can tell that something is going on.  I do not know what it is, but I am here, and I am invested, and I will do whatever I can to carry you through this until we are in a place where it is safe to ask the question.  In the meantime, know that I see you.  Know that you are not invisible to me.  Know that you are safe with me."

I am so loved.

"No body nose!"

I turn away from him and sniffle, a single tear rolling down my cheek.  "That's a good one," I whisper to him, my voice cracking, as I pull his voice around me like an embrace, safe and warm and secure.

I am loved.  I am so incredibly well loved.

And I really do believe the stars burn brighter because he exists.

Heartbreak vs. Rage

The enormity of the hurt surpasses even my extraordinary expository skills.

That's really all I can say about what it feels like when someone who was part of your life for ten years suddenly isn't.

There are no easy answers to any of the questions.  In reality, there are likely no answers at all.  Someone who was there, now is not.

It starts with a dull ache at the back of the throat.  From there, it moves into one of two directions:  heartbreak or rage.

Rage is comfortable.  It allows me to put it outside of myself as I thirstily drink in a desire for vengeance.

Rage disgusts me as thoughts of revenge come to mind, and I shudder to consider the extent of the hatefulness I carry within me.

Heartbreak is terrifying.  It curls my body around the source of the wound in an effort to stop the flood of pain before it drowns me.

Heartbreak is risky, because it means relinquishing my control over the situation and resting in the moment.  Heartbreak means allowing myself to be carried through the pain while making no effort to steer the journey into darker places.

Rage means the illusion of holding onto my sense of self, while in reality sacrificing everything I love about who I am in the name of protecting of the same.

Heartbreak means trusting that when the ocean of hurt recedes, my essential self, everything I love about who I am, will be intact and potentially stronger.

Rage means trusting in my own undeniably brilliant logic to protect the mystical.

Heartbreak means trusting in Jesus to hold the sacred tenderly.

Rage means finding a cure, quick and easy.

Heartbreak means engaging the present in all of its fullness for the promise of future healing, whether anything is cured or not.

Rage means binding a wound with cloth and piling on spices to mask the stench of death.

Heartbreak means believing in the power of resurrection.

I remember when Tim died I had asked Jesus to resurrect him.

I had to drastically alter my notion of resurrection.  I had to accept that Jesus already had.  I had to accept that, someday, I too would be resurrected from the death I was experiencing.

*****

I open my hands and let go.

I let go of my need for control.

I let go of my need to understand.

I let go of my vengeful thoughts.

I open my hands and ask Jesus to fill them with new things.

I open my hands to receive peace.

I open my hands to receive acceptance.

I open my hands to receive grace.

I open my hands to receive compassion.

I open my hands to receive new eyes to perceive things more clearly.

I open my hands to receive new ears to hear Jesus's tender words of comfort.

I open my hands to receive a new mind focused on the things of God.

I open my hands to receive a new heart, soft and tender.

I open my hands to receive all of the ways Jesus will love, comfort, and sustain me now, in this moment.

*****

Pain gushes out of me and surrounds me like an ocean.  I cling to the only one standing beside me and remember there was a time when blood and water poured from his side when his heart broke as well.

I open my hands, palms turned up.  I see my scars.

Jesus reaches out and clasps my hands.  I see his scars and I know that resurrection is coming.

I choose heartbreak and hope.

There are Worse Things in Life

I have cried myself to sleep every night this week.  Deep, body wrenching, soul crushing sobs.

I now have inflamed sinuses, a cracked and very sore nose, my tears have changed consistency and leak from my eyes with a viscosity more reminiscent of ointment than water.

I've sniffled my through a box of Puffs at work.

A dear friend and I went to Target on Wednesday to visit our barista.  Her name is Jessica.  While she serves all patrons of the Starbucks at Target, we claim her as our own.

Much as I prefer the coffee at our local, non-chain coffee bar, the benefit of Target is that we were able to get some other shopping done.  We wandered through the grocery section, contemplating peanut butter.  I mentioned perusing the nuts in hopes of finding some honey mustard almonds.

We skipped over the nuts and landed in the booze aisle.  I contemplated two bottles of vodka.  That's how I did it last time.  A fifth of vodka in a very short time frame.  I was not successful, and so two fifths seemed like it might increase my chances.

A fleeting thought.

My friend asked if she should not allow me to purchase alcohol.  "I wasn't going to anyhow," I told her truthfully.  "Just....thinking."

The chair looked like this,
minus the ottoman and white

We began to wander to the sporting goods section and got distracted by furniture.  In particular, a child's armchair.  It was about 24 inches high.  Blue.  "What do you think would happen if we bought this, put casters on the legs, and replaced our bosses' boss's chair with it?"  My friend agreed it would be awesome!  Our bosses' boss is about 5' tall.  He's an extraordinary man, but the chair gag was just too funny.  The chair itself was $80.00.  We'll be on the look out for a salvage.

Those are strips of white pleather

We pondered decorative pillows, most too hideous to believe.  No wonder that style is on clearance.  "Nate Berkus needs to go back to design school," I remarked.

We wandered through bedding.  I pondered a sheet set for a twin bed I do not own.

Upon our arrival in the sporting goods section, we found what we, or rather I, was looking for:  basketballs.  I had rather hoped to find a mini ball in the traditional orange.  No such luck.  The mini balls were all odd colors:  green or blue.  They were also $2.00 more than the junior size balls that actually came in the traditional orange.  A junior ball it was to be.

On our way to the registers, we passed the seasonal section:  patio furniture.  A sure sign that spring is on the way.

A mini grill caught my eye, and I pondered the realities of carbon monoxide, a drafty house, poorly insulated room, unfinished doorways and much beloved dogs and a couple of cats.  Not to mention other people.  Though at that rate the amount of CO produced by the limited quantity of charcoal briquettes that would fit in a grill that size, in a house relatively large for such an application....

A fleeting thought.

The front of the store was beckoning us on, and as we passed electronics, I decided to pick up a phone card, though I wasn't sure why.  Another thick, gelled tear rolled down my left cheek.  I cleared my throat.  To stay in contact with everyone in my contact list.  Right.  Yes.  That makes sense.

Books.  I see a book by an author I enjoy reading, though I am ashamed to admit it.

I could get this book for the same price at Barnes and Noble, and I would get to enjoy the book-buying atmosphere there, an atmosphere which is missing in department stores.

Then it hits me:  I can never go to Barnes and Noble again.  Several tears leak from the corners of my eyes.

It's like the mangoes of 2008-2010 all over again.  During that time, I could not look at a mango without crying uncontrollably.

Recluse.  Shut in.  This is what amazon is for.

Artwork courtesy of Chris Lynch

Sharpie markers.  Black.  For the basketball.  Because Lucille says:  Enjoy March Madness!

There are worse things in life.  I have survived much.

There are worse things in life.  I will survive this.

There are worse things in life.  I get out of bed every morning.

There are worse things in life.  I go to work and do my job.  I socialize.  I delight in the ridiculous.

There are worse things in life.  Perhaps one of these days I'll actually believe it.

A fleeting thought.  Now passed.  I still live.

The Importance of Quality Time

I am frustrated.  And really, really, really angry.

Gary Chapman has a book out (has had a book out, in fact, for quite some time) entitled The Five Love Languages.  Read the book or don't, but familiarize yourself with the principles, because they're good.

Chapman purports that people have a "language" that "speaks" love to them.  Everyone has a first language.  Other languages do not necessarily come naturally to them, either in hearing them spoken or in speaking them.  According to Chapman there are five love languages:  Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Receiving Gifts, Acts of Service, and Physical Affection.

My primary love language is Quality Time.  For me to feel connected and fulfilled in a relationship, I need to be able to spend quality time with the other person in the relationship.  When this need is met, I'm connected, fulfilled, happy in the relationship, and able to receive love in other languages, such as a hug or kind word.

Conversely, if my need for quality time is not being met in a relationship, I feel disconnected and unfulfilled.  I feel profoundly uncared for, unloved, and so disconnected that I cannot believe that the relationship has value or meaning at all.  Though I am more than willing to stick it out, believing that at some point this need will be met and things will look up, when this need is not met, I become completely incapable of receiving love "spoken" in any of the other languages.

It is not as though I do not want to receive love in these other languages.  In fact, when my basic, primary need for quality time is met, on occasion I actually desire to be loved in these other ways:  to hear a kind word, to be touched, to have someone else take care of a basic need.  I could largely do away with gifts at this point, however, because unless you know me very well, there's little chance you'll gift me with something I can use, and I do not have room for "stuff."  (HP paraphernalia is a safe bet; but if you know me, you already know this).

To the best of my ability, when I know another person's love language, I seek to speak that language at every opportunity.  Even if my own need isn't met.  I fail.  A lot.  But I try with those who are most important to me.

My best friend knows that quality time is my primary love language.  I haven't had quality time with her in seven months.  Seven months of not spending time together as friends.  Seven months of unreturned phone calls, ignored text messages, and no responses to emails.  Seven months of every time we do get together, it's related to work or it's about someone else, and she inevitably runs 45 minutes to two hours late.

I miss my best friend.  I miss our relationship.  I feel disconnected, uncared for, unloved, and disrespected in the way she does choose to spend time with me, and the fact that she isn't on time, does not return calls, and fails to respond to emails when she says she will.

I would have an easier time forgiving the fact that she doesn't return emails when she promises if she would, at the very least, tell me that she can't get to me within the time-frame she herself dictated.  She doesn't even have to tell me why she can't do it.  She just has to tell me there is a legitimate delay, so that I'm not left waiting, wondering why she doesn't care enough to say anything.

I have talked to her about this.  Repeatedly.  I've talked to her about this three or four times a year, every year, for the past 3 years.  Nothing has changed.  Every time I get the same response, "I know your love language is quality time, and I'm really sorry that we live so far apart, and you are my first priority after work and family...."

First priority gets me face-to-face quality time once a year, and virtually no other personal contact otherwise.  I've spent more cumulative hours of quality time with each of several close friends who live 400-1,000 miles away in the last 2 months than I have with my best friend, who lives 100 miles away, in the last year.

We saw each other twice in the past week, which is something.  But both times were centered around her job, and weren't quality time, as such.

I've been having an incredibly difficult time the past few months, and she offered some platitudinous words of encouragement.  I rejected them all because they didn't ring true.  I could not hear love or compassion in them.  Mostly I heard judgment from someone who isn't familiar with my struggles because she hasn't been involved enough in my life to know my struggles.

Asking for her presence at a funeral on a Friday in January, I was told, "We are out of town until next Wednesday."  She didn't leave town until the day after the funeral.

She told me I could share whatever I needed with her via email, and she'd be happy to read it and be there for me to the extent that she could.  So, I shared with her the struggle of losing someone who's role in my life felt very complicated.  She responded, "I assume this is from your blog."  That was it.  That was all she had so say.  As though because it came from my blog, which I keep mostly for myself as a place to process and reflect, it was less valid, less legitimate because I'd written it somewhere else before I shared it with her.

When I was struggling with a disappointment in my personal life and tried to speak with her about it, she responded with judgment and unkindness and hateful, hurtful words.  Assuming that her preferred method of communication - texting - was resulting in a loss of tone and intention, I emailed, and I pleaded with her to help me understand why she was responding the way she was.  I wasn't upset, I wasn't angry, I wasn't even frustrated.  I was confused and feeling unheard, and figured the best way to get things sorted out was to choose a method of communication with a higher bandwidth.

She emailed and told me she had received my email and would respond that night.  She did not.  The next day, she emailed again and told me that she would set aside time during the coming weekend to respond in full.  Friday ended.  No email.  I wasn't really expecting it that soon.  Saturday ended.  No email.  This pattern is starting to feel familiar.  Sunday ended.  No email.  I know, at this point, that it isn't coming.  Still, I go to bed, hoping, quite foolishly, that I'll wake up Monday morning and find that she had responded that night.

I woke up Monday morning, with no response as promised.  What's more, there wasn't even an email telling me that she was sorry, but unfortunately, something came up, and she would have to put it off again.  There simply wasn't anything.  So, I sent a text message.  In anger.  And later apologized, and asked how I could care for her in the situation that had come up.

Still, five weeks later, and the promised response has never arrived.

As so many things have happened so close together, death and loss and disappointment, my best friend hasn't been able to find one period of time when she could simply be present with me, or hear me, or respond to my needs with anything short of callous judgment and disregard.

I've asked and explained and shared with her how necessary it is for me that we spend time together in our friendship.  I've received apologies and excuses as to why that isn't possible, and how sorry she is that this is the case.  But my need for quality time in this relationship continues to go unmet, as we are always hurried, always tied to her work, always shorter on time than expected because she is always running later than she's promised.

When we were sitting on her couch this past week, and she was saying things I'm sure she intended to be loving and compassionate but which spoke nothing but judgment and a complete lack of understanding and care, she said to me, "I'm not sure what my role in your life is anymore."  To which I responded, "I'm not sure either."

It occurred to me today why I don't know what her role in my life is anymore:  If you have not, presently, been a part of my life, you have no right to expect that I will be able to hear you when you decide it's your right to speak into my life.

Last July, I had a debate with a dear friend about hegemonic gender roles in America.  In conversation, I'm an internal processor and I like to organize my thoughts clearly before speaking.  There were occasional pauses as I tried to sort through my thoughts and find a way to respond clearly to the challenges made to me.  These pauses were made a bit longer by virtue of the fact that the example my friend chose in this debate struck a deep and personally painful nerve.

As I struggled to separate out my feelings from the debate, and to organize my thoughts about the topic at hand, and respond to the challenges presented, and take into consideration the points my friend was making, and ask clarifying questions so as to ensure I had a full understanding of this person's point of view, I fell farther and farther behind.  The more quiet I became in an effort to respond well, the more my friend filled that space and gave me more to think about before I felt ready to respond.

Eventually, I just stopped talking.  Eventually, I just stopped trying.  If I am not being heard, I am going to stop making noise.  At this point in the debate, my friend said, "I feel like I've done something wrong, and I don't know what it is.  How can I love you well right now?"

I've been telling my best friend for three years that I feel disconnected and uncared for in our relationship.  For three years, I've been telling her that I need quality time with her if I'm going to be able to be fully myself in this relationship and if I'm going to be able to engage well.  For three years, I've been telling her that I am struggling to understand why we're even friends anymore.

My best friend does not read my blog.  She is simply not interested.  Until last week.  And then she personalized a blog that had nothing to do with her.  (There is no risk of that happening today).  She asked me why I hadn't talked to her about how disconnected I feel in our relationship.  All I could think was, "I've been telling you this consistently for three years."

Today, I think I've reached the point where I need to acknowledge that for all the lip service my best friend pays to knowing that quality time is my love language and knowing just how important it is to me, and wanting to love me well, but not having the time, and telling me how sorry she is for that, the fact of the matter is, she simply does not understand what it means that quality time is my love language.  She is either unwilling or unable to hear me as I tell her that this is such a significant issue in our relationship, I cannot continue in it.

The more I try to find ways to sustain the friendship, the more effort I put into it, the more I sacrifice, the more I seek to speak her primary love language, the more disconnected, unloved, uncared for, and disrespected I feel; the more bitter, angry and resentful I become.

Today, I think I've reached the point of realizing that all my words have fallen on deaf ears.  As such, it is time to stop talking.