I’ve found that I’ve been a man of few words lately.  Despite my genuine efforts, I’ve quite simply had very little to say, particularly in social settings.  This, from an attention-loving extrovert…

No details seem to be available when my wife asks me how my day is.

In a discussion with a friend yesterday, I was unable to answer simple questions about the week, and even the weather.

The funny thing is, I’m not in any kind of emotional distress.  Not angry, not agitated.  Actually fairly happy, to be honest. 

 

If I could choose one word to articulate how I’ve been feeling lately, it’s detached.

 

Ironically, I have words when I’m at work.  Perhaps it’s because I feel successful there, and so the risk of voicing my opinions isn’t terribly high.

It takes time to build momentum, but I get to the point where I have words when I’m talking to my wife.  Presumably, the safety she offers gives me the comfort to open up.

Due to a variety of experiences over the past few years, I’ve found that my safest place is one of withdrawal, particularly relationally.

It reminds me of my personal American Dream, where my definition of success is having a large ranch of several hundred acres, with no neighbors, no one to bother my family and me, and the roads all to myself for miles upon end.

Your American Dream may not involve a ranch, but I bet it involves some form of space, and peace and quiet, whether it’s having a large penthouse suite, an unobstructed ocean view with a private beach, or perhaps a gated property in suburbia.

We tend to desire apartness, so that we can have human interactions on our own terms, rather than have them forced upon us.

This is C.S. Lewis’ definition of Hell, by the way…

In The Great Divorce, Lewis talks of mankind being given over to their own individual desires without limitation.  These desires lead to everyone wanting their own peace and quiet, and therefore moving further and further apart from each other, to the point where everyone is in strict isolation.

And they end up miserable.

 

And yet, how many of us find ourselves doing the exact same thing?  I may not have the luxury of physically moving far away from other people, but I can certainly distance myself emotionally from everyone.

And this is what I’ve been doing.  For months now.

Sure, I’ve had bouts of relational connectivity, but on the whole, I’ve found it much safer to just keep to myself.

Lessons from the past couple of years have taught me that when I engage with people, one of two things is bound to happen:

 

-       I get terribly hurt

-       I hurt others terribly

 

And so I isolate, in an attempt to avoid the pain.

And in doing so, I create a personal Hell on Earth…

 

In my 20's, my best friend Mark died unexpectedly from heart failure.  It was the most painful experience of my young adult life.  Then a few weeks ago, out of the blue, I received a text from a friend I hadn’t seen in years who had a dream involving Mark:

I had a cool dream last night. We were all back in high school hanging out at your house in Yucaipa. It was weird because we were all ourselves - older, married, with life experience, but we were back in our teenager bodies. Then Mark showed up and we all took turns hugging him and crying with him and telling him how hard it was to lose him. But that quickly turned to fun and laughter. Mark and Bobby did a "talent show" and had us all laughing. At one point we all became aware that this was a dream that we would wake up from, and things turned more sentimental. I asked Mark what heaven was like and he said, "You know what - it's a lot like this." As I started waking up, I fought to hold onto it - to stay in it. Best dream I've had in a long time.

 

Community.  Laughter.  Connection.

Togetherness.

A room full of people willing to engage one another, in spite of the potential for two-way hurt.

As I look deep inside my feelings of withdrawal, and what motivates it, is a deep desire for Heaven here on Earth.  A place where pain is absent, and peace and serenity, joy and laughter abound.  And as I search for it, I find myself wondering how to get out of my Hell of isolation and into something resembling a little piece of Heaven.  And when I ask what that looks like, I find the answer simultaneously unsettling and freeing. 

What does it look like?

   

“It’s a lot like this”…