My People

Several years ago, as I sat in the nosebleed section of an old church in downtown Minneapolis, Minnesota, I didn’t even bother to wipe away tears. Brené Brown, the well-known research professor, lecturer, author, and podcast host, spoke from her heart about courage and vulnerability, loneliness and doing hard things. She admonished about the ‘sorted-ness’ of our culture, about the destruction caused by dehumanization, and the power of speaking honestly with kindness, regardless of the outcome. 
Her words were powerful. 
And she got me thinking about My People.

“You’re My People!” I like to say. 
But it was suddenly disconcerting how often I used that phrase in reference to those who looked and thought and believed as I did. That evening in Minneapolis made me pause and consider a revision to my thinking. I needed to use this idea of My People with more generosity and greater frequency.

So here goes.

To the girl in the Walmart bathroom line with the gorgeous smile, the long black and pink braids, and the quiet words of encouragement for your friend when you didn’t know I was listening: you are My People. 

To the mover-guy who helped haul a piano into my house and commented on my tattoos, and then unashamedly flashed a few of your own: you are My People. 

To the new teen driver next door, doing your best to look both ways and watch out for your little sisters in the driveway, keeping your hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel as you take your new role as driver oh-so-seriously: you are My People.

To the old man railing and ranting about change in our community, desperately clinging to what was safe and familiar and comfortable—however broken—I see you, and I too know what it feels like to be afraid of change: you are My People.

To the guy and his partner, a table away at dinner last week, who raised a glass of wine and toasted to Life in my direction, smiling warmly, happy and safe in one another’s company: you are My People.

To the electrician to came over and help me sort out the details of a construction project, who offered a few tricks of the trade that will save me so many headaches, and who took the time, without condescension, to tell me my design was creative and well-thought out (even though you didn’t have to say a word): you are my people.

To the elderly woman at Starbucks, who admitted she wasn’t a coffee drinker, but stood in line for a cup anyway, “Because I need to chat with that girl behind the counter making everyone’s coffee—I can tell she's having a hard day, and needs some cheering up . . .” you are My People. 

And to the stranger who cried beside me in the nosebleed balcony that night several years ago as we listened to Brené Brown; who met my gaze without apology and acknowledged her need and mine amid shared loneliness; who hugged me tight as I hugged her back: you are My People.

And to the seen and unseen, the lonely and alone, the remembered and forgotten, the homed and homeless, the able and the disabled, the lost and found, the guilty and not, the afraid and fearless, the hopeful and hopeless, the whole and those in pieces, and everyone in between: you are My People. 

This world is big. And beautiful. And broken. And falling apart in so many ways and in so many places. But it’s not lost, if for no other reason than us. All of us. So, let’s keep on, yes? Maybe, if we can just acknowledge our need for one another beyond all our hurt, we’ll realize we belong to one another more than we ever could have imagined.