What Does It Means to be Known?

Know me as I am known.

Who knows you?

Who knew you?

I was struck by a smile the other day.   It was on the face of a man who has, over the years, quietly slipped into dementia.   He sometimes smiles when he recognizes someone.  A connection made between his eyes, the maze that is his mind, and his mouth.  A recognition that he is known.   A deeper connection that he senses even when he doesn't fully remember.   What a privilege to be one of those who can evoke a smile.

And so I think about that.   How neat it is to be greeted by the smile on the face of one of your "peeps".  A smile (sometimes even a hug) because they know you and you know them and that connection is something that brings both of you gladness.

Like an onion, there are so many levels on which you are known.   We all long to be known.  There are very few people besides my siblings who have known me for the entire length of my life. Maybe my husband has known me the longest.  We've been married almost as long as I was single!! We have lived in Strathroy for almost 21 years, always on this same block, but before that I hadn’t lived longer than 9 years in any one place. 9 years in the Netherlands, 9 years in PEI, and 3 university years in Ontario. I have one friend who has the same immigration experience as I do, and came to Ontario like I did and then got married and also moved off the Island. It’s neat known someone who’s been through some of the same things that I have been through. Our dads have both passed away but her dad died when she was a teenager and mine when I was 30. Part of being known is sharing the same experience, coming from the same place, and experiencing community from the same perspective.

I miss being known by my parents. I miss the unconditional love and reassurance that you get from a parent. No matter what you’ve gone through together you know they’re always there for you. You could always call home. There are lots of things they never got to see or hear about; things I never got to share with them. Silly things like how much Dad would have loved it that I grew my hair out, but also how proud he would be of my school board work. My mom would have loved the Esther Bible study as much as I did, and it would have been so neat to share the things that I’d learned. She’d be so interested. The way moms are interested in the lives of their daughters. I miss being able to call home and share that I'm struggling with something and know that my Mom would be praying for me.  Now I’m a parent but I’m not someone’s daughter anymore. So what happens to that piece of me? Maybe at the times when I miss them, I miss that little part of my identity.  Part of being known is being loved for who you are, no matter what you do or don't do.

One friend loves canoeing and the back country as much as I do. He gets it. It’s neat to share a common love for something that’s not mainstream. It’s hard to share your enthusiasm about something that not a lot of people find enjoyable. (So it helps to have a good camera and share pictures on your blog!) Parts of being known are like islands, passionate bits that you share with other people, but with whom you share very little else.

Being known is not always easy.  Sometimes being known is difficult and painful. We get comfortable being known a certain way. We like being with people who know us. It’s comfortable. It’s like being polished by a microfibre cloth, nice and soft. It makes us shiny. But part of being known is having someone point out where something in our lives is not right. This is hard and painful but if we’re honest with ourselves… necessary. It’s like being rubbed by sandpaper, rough and gritty. But it smooths out a rough part and only those closest to us know these things about us. Part of being known is having someone want what’s best for you. Part of being known is experiencing pain and growth.

I love being known by my soul sisters; the ones who know me so well they can tell when what I say out loud doesn’t match what they see behind my eyes. I never pretend to be someone I’m not. What you see is what you get. With these friends I don’t have to have it all together. When I struggle, just seeing one of these friends is permission to “lose it”. We know each other on a level where we can share our hearts, be vulnerable, and have a good cry together. Part of being known is sharing when our souls tremble.

There is no one who knows me like my Heavenly Father.  I am fully, completely, and deeply known by One. I AM someone’s daughter still; a daughter of the King. He holds my soul when it trembles, invites me into the shelter of His wings, and covers me with His feathers. He has walked many miles with me…carried me too. The amazing thing is that He knew me before I was born. He knows all the days ordained for me before one of them came to be, and even knows when that last day on earth will be, and when I will enter His Glory. I am loved unconditionally by Him and He is proud of the things I do and loves it when I call on Him. No one else knows me like this, better than I know myself.