Feeling Slighted

Pam felt sad last Sunday because she thought I had given her the cold shoulder. After we'd talked it through, we agreed it was an object lesson in different perspectives.

Here's what happened: Pam and Mary were visiting near the door to the education building. I gave them a friendly wave as I passed. Pam said,"Hello, James." I replied "Uh...hi" and hurried on.

Without hearing the tones of our voices, it maybe difficult to read much into this transaction. Pam's perception was that she reached out to me in friendship, and I did not respond in kind.

For me, two things were going on. First, I had no way of knowing -
beyond subtle visual cues - how intense or personal their conversation was. I didn't want to interupt or impose myself.

Second, I was focused on a matter which had nothing to do with Mary or Pam. I was focused on catching Lee before she left. Lee and I are co-facilitating a book study (beginning this Wed), and we hadn't made time to plan. Typically, Lee doesn't stick around church very long, and it's hard to catch her at any other time. So, I believed this might be my only chance.

When I think I have a small window to achieve a goal, and feel anxious (they often go together), I can be curt. I honestly don't intend to be impolite. I simply don't always have the patience or presence of mind to say, "Hello, nice to see you. I'd like to visit, but I need to catch Lee before she leaves."

After I had explained my side of the transaction, Pam was blessedly
understanding.

Before I go on, I must say that I see that most of the weirdness between Pam and me as being my fault, if fault must be assigned. I knew she felt special about John. Experience had taught me that poetry is a highly inefficient means to woo a woman if she has been previously unaware of your feelings for her. Yet, I chose to write the "Twelve Poems of Christmas" for Pam anyway.

I started the project aware that I could be hurt, and that our friendship could be wounded. I decided that letting her know how much I cared for her was more important than all that. The grace in this is that Pam still wants to be my friend. In spite of sharing my poems to her with the whole friggin' cyber world. In spite of putting her in the position of saying the feelings weren't mutual. She still wants to be my friend.

I believe most of the work here is on my side: to acknowledge what a gift Pam's friendship is, and to accept that romance isn't a possibility. Any person who has experienced unrequited love is likely to understand what hard work that can be.

I consider it an additonal grace that Pam is willing to be present as I do this work. I don't imagine that it's significantly easier for her than it is for me.

I've filled almost four pages of my bedside notebook just to tell you this much. Believe it or not, I've shared all this so I could tell another story.

I got to experience Pam's side this past Saturday.

I can't be nearly so detailed about the history, although I have alluded to Sarah in previous entries. Simply put, Sarah and I loved each other, but she chose another (coincidentally also named John). For many good reasons, we agreed it would be best if we didn't contact each other after we broke up. We tacitly agreed to remain cordial whenever we did happen to see each other.

Sarah and I both belong to the same folk music club, which met this past Saturday (the club meets the first Saturday of every month). I always have mixed feelings about seeing her. I'm glad to see she's doing well and all, but I also mourn what was lost and what can never be.

After pruning my left middle finger Saturday morning, I really wanted to call Sarah. She's especially good at offering care and sympathy when faced with such boo-boos. But, of course, I could not. There are others I could have called, who might have been equally adept at care and sympathy, but I didn't.

I also wanted to ask her to accompany me as I sang for the club's open mic. As you may recall (from Saturday afternoon's entry), my wound prevents me from playing the guitar. We had performed together when we were lovers. Asking her to accompany me was too much like old times for comfort.

Wanting to see her so much made it all the harder when I actually did see her.

Now, as it happened, there were storms in OKC on Saturday. I later
learned the area where the club meets was under a tornado watch. I
didn't do a head count, but there were less than 20 people at the meeting (less than half of normal).

When I came through the door, Sarah slightly nodded her head, as if to physically acknowledge my presence. But she never said "Hi" or
"How are you." In fact, it seemed as if she turned away from me every time I came near.

And I still feel sad.

Oh, I realize there's all sorts of possibilities, which have little to do with Sarah's fellings toward me. But since I choose to honor that commitment not to contact her, I can't call (or e-mail) to talk it out.

I have to work through this sadness on my own.

I can hardly imagine a lonelier feeling.