My desk is nestled right at the intersection of our boisterous, redheaded CEO’s office, and the desks of five other colleagues who like me have not yet earned the titles to be awarded private office spaces. The central location is a natural invitation to listen in on passing conversations. But I often choose not to participate in many of these, why?... because I prefer my Spotify playlist.

A lunch invitation, an inquisitive “Precious, how about you?”, a “How are you settling in?”, and a dozen other questions that would usually make me feel loved seem to put me on the edge these days. Whenever I hear another too curious inquiry from a coworker who’s taken it upon him/herself to get me out of my “shell”, I’m reminded that being in a shell is not the preferred state of being.

I don’t think I’m introverted. Neither do I believe I’m extroverted. I relish good company but also enjoy to hear myself think from time to time. Sometimes I say way too much and don’t listen enough; other times I simply have nothing to say and that’s okay, I guess, if you live in a society that doesn’t uphold extraversion to an obnoxiously high esteem. But I do live in one such society. And now that I’ve started working, it’s become very very important to laugh at co-workers’ jokes and say good morning and goodnight more than is necessary and offer to grab coffee even if it’s the last thing I want to do. But that doesn’t run the whole gamut. There’s also the part about actually feeling like a failure when people want to know how many new friends I’ve made since I moved to Boston and I realize I would be lying even if I said “one”.

When Being Called “Quiet” Feels Like an Attack

The other day at work I sat squinting at my computer screen, scrunching up my face in a way I often do when I want to ward off uninvited banter. It seems to work most of the time but this time the figure approaching me was relentless. As I looked up and locked eyes with the figure, my CEO, she stopped at my desk and to my amusement and disappointment said, “Precious… you’re so quiet” and then as if attempting to ease the impact those words heaped added, “It’s a gift.” Behind the lips that’d by now been stretched into a thin smile, I snickered “Please!”

For something that happens to me often, you would think I’d have a whole shelf on which to stow away these kinds of exchanges.You might also be thinking,“But it’s not that serious.” But that’s where you’re wrong because it is in fact that serious.

We live in a world where phrases like, “she’s full of life” and “she knows how to command a room,” are often used to describe boisterous women. So being called quiet does feel more like an indictment on my character than it feels like a mere observation on my reluctance to speak.

When Socializing Becomes a God

In College, I made no fare about my unenthusiasm for socializing. Even then I knew my frame and knew my limited capacity for staying faithful to friendships. So I nurtured few with young women who fed me with truth, patted my back with encouragement, and nudged my feet forward with rebuke when I needed it. When God would enlarge that circle throughout my time in school, I was grateful for an overflowing cup. Times have changed though and I’m increasingly feeling the pull to tend and pour into new relationships. I’m also realizing that this new pull might be something more sinister masquerading as virtue. It’s the desire to be somebody. To be known.

I realize this most on the days when my life feels inconsequential because the only thing I said all day was a “yes” in agreement with my 55 year old roommate that palm-oil is carcinogenic(is it?). The quietness drives me restless because I can’t help but to think of all the things I could be doing to disturb it. It’s a questioning, “how can my life be this still when the world out there is anything but?” But mostly it’s a condemning sense of emptiness that comes from feeling like I’m not doing enough-- that there’s a whole world out there waiting to be known, so many stories to listen to, and so many experiences to share in. And I’m missing out.

To be filled In Him

Meditating on what it means to be filled-up in God comes as an undressing out of the lies I’ve groomed myself into over these past 23 years. I’m learning that to be full does not not mean to have the margins of my calendar jotted in with things to do. Nor does it mean having something new to share every time someone asks me how I’m doing. Instead, it’s knowing who I’m lorded by and submitting to Him wholly and faithfully. It means loosening my grip on the empty ideologies that have crusted my eyes with dirt and condemn me every time I fail to uphold them. It means holding fast to Him in whom the whole body is nourished(Colossians 2: 19).

If there’s any way I can describe the freedom that comes from being known by God, I would say it feels sturdily weightless. I know that no amount of friendships and conversations I have will yield anything similar to the bond that exists between Him and I. And that knowledge frees and grounds me. That knowledge gives me rest.