The Way of Belonging (eBook)

Reimagining Who We Are and How We Relate

Sarah E. Westfall (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
192 Seiten
IVP (Verlag)
978-1-5140-0854-6 (ISBN)

Infos

The welcome of God changes everything. No one is a stranger to loneliness. Despite how social we are via text, chat, and notifications, we are far from being truly connected. We all want someone else to really see us and choose us for who we are. We want a place to finally fit in. But what if finding the right people or the right place is not the answer? From her community-building background, Sarah E. Westfall takes our longing to belong as an invitation to embrace and extend the deep love of God. After years contemplating how she fit in and trying to earn acceptance, she realized 'belonging is not something to attain, but someone to become.' Through narrative, research, Scripture, and spiritual practice, she teaches how belonging is a way of being-a posture of welcome in the spirit of the Father who extends his arms to those returning and those who don't yet know they've resisted his love. Whether you understand the perspective of the outsider in need of acceptance well or you're eager to include, the barriers to belonging can come down as Sarah gently guides us toward deep connection-a connection where our humanity draws us closer to people and envelops us in the heart of God. Embark with Sarah on this challenge that will awaken your empathy and affirm you with the truth of these words: 'You are welcome.' Includes a two-session group guide.

Sarah E. Westfall is a writer, speaker, and host of the Human Together podcast. Her previous work includes serving as director of community for online writing groups and as a student development professional on college campuses. She has been published in RELEVANT, Fathom Mag, and (in)courage. Sarah lives in Indiana with her husband, Ben, and four sons.

Textauszug

1

Out of Place

I was born homesick. Maybe we all were.

Andrew Peterson

I could see her out the corner of my eye. A woman from church who I did not know well lingered just off stage, clutching a notebook to her chest. She was clearly waiting for me, but I paused to give myself a moment. Tiredness had settled deep in my body, and my introverted tendencies were in full force. All I wanted was to be home in my sweatpants, but I knew I could not slip silently out the back door. At a conference I helped plan. About community. (Listen, the irony was not lost on me.)

I stepped off stage, and the woman inched closer.

Her face was familiar from passing each other on Sunday mornings, but we had never been formally introduced. She extended her hand, “Hi. I’m Jolene. I’m the one who asked the question about doing all the right things . . .”

A knot formed at the base of my stomach. I knew exactly what question she meant. During the last session of the conference, we had opened the floor for attendees to submit questions anonymously. Many submissions were expected: What opportunities does the church have for connection? What if I cannot attend a small group? You get the picture. But one question left me and the other speakers feeling like raccoons, wide eyes caught in stage lights with nowhere to run. In the moment, I had done my best to empathize with the struggle, but the truth was that I did not have an answer, at least not one that satisfied my soul. And with Jolene standing in front of me, it appeared the response had not satisfied her either.

We stood there, and Jolene softly repeated her question, “I have done all the things you guys talked about—showing up, inviting people over.” Her voice wavered. “So why do I still feel like I don’t belong?”

A moment of silence passed. Then another. And another. Part of me wanted to throw a blanket of “Oh, well just keep doing what you’re doing . . .” over her pain so we could both go home, but as I stood there, my gut turning and twisting, I realized I had no idea what to tell her. Outside the regular community mantras of “be vulnerable, show up, be intentional,” I did not know how to soothe her ache. I offered to meet her for coffee, but even as the words came out, the response seemed cheap in relation to the question with which she was entrusting me. Coffee and communion are far from the same.

How desperately I wanted to have a neat and tidy answer for her (and if I was being especially transparent, a neat and tidy answer for myself), but I knew Jolene was right. Belonging cannot be manufactured. It is not an idyllic destination “out there” waiting for us to arrive or a recipe we can cobble together in our kitchens (although a kitchen often seems a more likely place to find it than the round tables and hard chairs at church). There is no secret formula or five-step program that guarantees the connection we crave. We can do all the right things and still feel so dreadfully out of place.

I know this reality well, because despite all I have learned, practiced, and even taught about cultivating connection at church, on college campuses, and in our home, I am the one who often feels more outside than in.

I am the one who makes dinner plans but considers faking a fever right up until the moment I have to leave.

I am the one who cringes when conversation stalls at small talk.

I am the one who walks into a room and makes my way to the food, just to have something to do with my hands.

More often than not, the thing that gets me out of bed and occupies most of my thoughts and conversations is also the thing that tucks me into bed at night full of questions. And while I could do without the perpetual self-doubt, I am exceedingly grateful for those questions, because I know I am not the only one asking them.

I am not the only one who wants more than surface relationships but struggles to know how much to share.

I am not the only one who wants to show up fully myself but often shrinks back in fear.

I am not the only one who has felt the sting of loneliness and wondered, What does it really look like to belong?

That day, Jolene and I said an awkward and inadequate goodbye. We never did meet for coffee, a regret that still causes twinges of guilt from time to time. But as I walked away, I knew I needed a better answer to the question we were both asking, because if belonging is not finding the right place or the right people, then what is it?

Back to the Beginning

For as long as I can remember, belonging is a desire I have carried. Some people are born with birthmarks or unusually loud laughs, but I was born with a want for connection wedged into the deepest parts of my body. As a child, I pursued connection with curiosity and nothing less. Unhindered by expectations, the yearning flowed freely as I ran across the backyard, over the short fence, to ask whether my friend Emily could come out to play. I did not wonder whether Emily wanted to come over, what we would talk about, or how my disheveled hair cascaded wildly down my back. I had not yet learned how fragile relationships could be or the ways we tend to lose ourselves trying to fit in. I had not yet felt the sting of being on the outside. All I had was unfettered joy as I ran barefoot across the grass.

I often wonder if that’s what Adam and Eve experienced in the Garden. Prior to experiencing the pain of separation, was belonging simply part of their daily existence, as natural as the air that moved in and out of their newly formed lungs? Without shame in nearness or nakedness, did they run through the grass with arms extended toward God and each other? At night, as wind whistled through the trees and the rivers sang their lullabies, did man and woman close their eyes without fear or hesitation, knowing they were already home?

Even now as I imagine that kind of communion, I take a deep breath, a familiar wanting rising in my chest. Perhaps we are all just trying to get back to where we started, back to the place where we did not hesitate to run across the yard and find a friend. My pulse quickens at the thought of such safety and unbridled pursuit. Such purity of presence. What might it be like to return to our beginnings?

From the moment we come into the world, we are reaching. Our infant lips and limbs search for our mothers, craving attachment of body and soul. Without shame, we make known our need for the warmth and nearness of another person, tipping back our heads with primal yells and letting tears fall freely until we are safe and soothed. No hesitation. No second-guessing. All we know is that we want to be held.

As children, we looked for friends on playgrounds or down the street, because the desire for connection did not fill us with shame but moved us toward each other. If you were lonely, you simply asked to join the closest game of tag or knocked on a neighbor’s door or climbed onto a parent’s lap. Just last week my husband took our four boys to the park and our youngest son came home sweaty and eyes alight with excitement about a boy he met named Michael. They had played together only five minutes, but it was enough to call Michael a friend.

It is as if God’s words “it is not good . . . to be alone” are molded into our marrow, wrapped around who we are like a double helix—unseen but always with us (Genesis 2:18). Belonging is central to who we are and how we interact, and unfettered, this desire moves us toward one another. But somewhere between that first breath and adulthood, we stop being so bold and outspoken about our need for one another. We stop knocking on doors and crying out quite as often. We get hurt and insecure and pull back, convincing ourselves that independence and individuality are good substitutes. As a result, we learn to swallow our loneliness, busying ourselves before we taste its bitterness on our tongues. We choose distraction in all its forms rather than let ourselves imagine that maybe this desire to belong is not some aimless pursuit, some flighty insecurity, but the truest truth about ourselves. Because if we really stopped and paid attention, we would see that the desire for with-ness has always been a part of who we are.

Learning to Hide

Until I was eleven, we lived on a slow street in the middle of town, the kind of street where kids were always popping in and out of alleys on bikes or playing with Skip-Its up and down the sidewalks. Every backyard was an extension of the others, and we would run from house to house until the sun grew lazy and parents called us home. In the days leading up to my sixth birthday party, I invited every kid on our little city block to join us (and then some). The decision was generous on my part, no doubt. The problem was that I forgot to inform my parents of the expanded guest list.

The day of the party arrived—and so did the kids. In fact, so many kids kept showing up that Mom and Dad had to drag three picnic tables together end to end just to make room, and even then, the adults still stood. That day, I imagine Mom crossed her fingers and prayed that Jesus would multiply our homemade cake like he had the loaves and fishes.

I do not remember much about that party beyond our family’s retelling and a few pictures, but I...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 11.6.2024
• Vorwort: Lore Ferguson Wilbert
• Verlagsort: Lisle
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Sachbuch/Ratgeber ► Gesundheit / Leben / Psychologie ► Familie / Erziehung
• Themenwelt: Religion / Theologie ► Christentum ► Moraltheologie / Sozialethik
• Schlagworte: acceptance • Christian Community • find your tribe • Friendship • Hospitality • human connection • Identity • life group • loneliness • making friends as adults • Practical Guide • relational wounds • relationships • room at the table • Small • spiritually formative • true self
• ISBN-10: 1-5140-0854-8 / 1514008548
• ISBN-13: 978-1-5140-0854-6 / 9781514008546