The Way of Belonging (eBook)

I was born homesick. Maybe we all were.

Back to the Beginning

For as long as I can remember, belonging is a desire I have carried. Some people are born with birthmarks or unusually loud laughs, but I was born with a want for connection wedged into the deepest parts of my body. As a child, I pursued connection with curiosity and nothing less. Unhindered by expectations, the yearning flowed freely as I ran across the backyard, over the short fence, to ask whether my friend Emily could come out to play. I did not wonder whether Emily wanted to come over, what we would talk about, or how my disheveled hair cascaded wildly down my back. I had not yet learned how fragile relationships could be or the ways we tend to lose ourselves trying to fit in. I had not yet felt the sting of being on the outside. All I had was unfettered joy as I ran barefoot across the grass.

I often wonder if that’s what Adam and Eve experienced in the Garden. Prior to experiencing the pain of separation, was belonging simply part of their daily existence, as natural as the air that moved in and out of their newly formed lungs? Without shame in nearness or nakedness, did they run through the grass with arms extended toward God and each other? At night, as wind whistled through the trees and the rivers sang their lullabies, did man and woman close their eyes without fear or hesitation, knowing they were already home?

Even now as I imagine that kind of communion, I take a deep breath, a familiar wanting rising in my chest. Perhaps we are all just trying to get back to where we started, back to the place where we did not hesitate to run across the yard and find a friend. My pulse quickens at the thought of such safety and unbridled pursuit. Such purity of presence. What might it be like to return to our beginnings?

From the moment we come into the world, we are reaching. Our infant lips and limbs search for our mothers, craving attachment of body and soul. Without shame, we make known our need for the warmth and nearness of another person, tipping back our heads with primal yells and letting tears fall freely until we are safe and soothed. No hesitation. No second-guessing. All we know is that we want to be held.

As children, we looked for friends on playgrounds or down the street, because the desire for connection did not fill us with shame but moved us toward each other. If you were lonely, you simply asked to join the closest game of tag or knocked on a neighbor’s door or climbed onto a parent’s lap. Just last week my husband took our four boys to the park and our youngest son came home sweaty and eyes alight with excitement about a boy he met named Michael. They had played together only five minutes, but it was enough to call Michael a friend.

It is as if God’s words “it is not good . . . to be alone” are molded into our marrow, wrapped around who we are like a double helix—unseen but always with us (Genesis 2:18). Belonging is central to who we are and how we interact, and unfettered, this desire moves us toward one another. But somewhere between that first breath and adulthood, we stop being so bold and outspoken about our need for one another. We stop knocking on doors and crying out quite as often. We get hurt and insecure and pull back, convincing ourselves that independence and individuality are good substitutes. As a result, we learn to swallow our loneliness, busying ourselves before we taste its bitterness on our tongues. We choose distraction in all its forms rather than let ourselves imagine that maybe this desire to belong is not some aimless pursuit, some flighty insecurity, but the truest truth about ourselves. Because if we really stopped and paid attention, we would see that the desire for with-ness has always been a part of who we are.

Learning to Hide

Until I was eleven, we lived on a slow street in the middle of town, the kind of street where kids were always popping in and out of alleys on bikes or playing with Skip-Its up and down the sidewalks. Every backyard was an extension of the others, and we would run from house to house until the sun grew lazy and parents called us home. In the days leading up to my sixth birthday party, I invited every kid on our little city block to join us (and then some). The decision was generous on my part, no doubt. The problem was that I forgot to inform my parents of the expanded guest list.

The day of the party arrived—and so did the kids. In fact, so many kids kept showing up that Mom and Dad had to drag three picnic tables together end to end just to make room, and even then, the adults still stood. That day, I imagine Mom crossed her fingers and prayed that Jesus would multiply our homemade cake like he had the loaves and fishes.

I do not remember much about that party beyond our family’s retelling and a few pictures, but I...