My doctor’s office is purple. Bright purple. The receptionist’s hair is turquoise, or sometimes lime green.
Wearing blue jeans, blue shoes, and a blue shirt, I feel monochromatic as I rest in the orange stuffed chair in the waiting room. I observe a tank of tropical fish, the purple walls singing behind them.
Despite the contrast of the reserve of my outfit and the risk of the colors around me, I feel at home here. Like I belong.
My doctor walks out of her office to greet me wearing a wide smile and, of course, purple. She always starts with the same question, “How ARE you?”, emphasizing the “are” as if I’ve maybe just survived an avalanche even though this is nothing more than a check-up. Once we are seated, she looks me in the eye and waits, pen poised above a blank page on her pad of paper. The white of the page stands out in such a many-hued room.
She is not a psychologist. She is a chiropractor, and she helps me manage my diet and supplements in order to combat food allergies. No matter your knowledge or opinion about holistic medicine, I can tell you that my doctor knows what it means to make someone feel like they belong.
But my purpose here is not to give a commercial for my doctor. I am reflecting with surprise that I often feel more at home in her office than I do many other places where I should, such as my quiet street, my boys’ excellent schools, and even sometimes my beloved church.
I wonder why. These other places are full of people like me. Here, I am different. I don’t dress like she does. We have different belief systems. We don’t cross paths outside of the office. Our families and home life are not all that similar.
But here, I am real. She listens to me. Her white paper fills with notes as I speak. I feel heard, known.
She is one of the people with whom I am authentic. And so, I belong.
What does it mean to belong? I look up synonyms for “belonging” and read this list: acceptance, affinity, association, attachment, inclusion, kinship, loyalty, rapport, and relationship.
I long to clothe myself in these words. Yet I realize that on earth they are temporary. Acceptance and loyalty unravel. Attachment is flimsy. Inclusion, kinship, relationship—they can be tossed aside.
I realize that belonging is not as much about being alike as it is about being known. I wonder if any connection here will completely fulfill my desire to belong, my desire to be known. And I realize that it won’t.
I only truly belong forever to one Person, and that is Jesus Christ. He is my most authentic relationship. After all, He created me. He knows me better than I know me.
I know that I belong to Him. I sense the work of the Spirit in me. I know that with Him I am accepted. I am known.
Meanwhile, as I prepare to leave my doctor’s office, the white pad of paper is put away for my next visit. Good-byes are said and hugs are given. I walk out past the tropical fish, orange chairs, and purple walls, and my heart is buoyed up by the colors.
Yet I am most thankful for that white pad of paper which my doctor fills with notes, notes on me. I am thankful for this space where I belong, where I am known.
I commit to create more of those spaces for others. When I’m tempted to form quick judgments or listen halfheartedly to a conversation, I try to picture a white pad of paper in my mind, a pen poised to take notes. I want to truly listen. So that I hear, remember, know the other. So they can belong.
Hope and Be.Longing
I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father; and I lay down my life for the sheep. (John 10:14-15)
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