My life may be summed up by the fact that I go to the mall for eye appointments. On Sunday. During nap time. That’s where I was headed last week, and when I was taken back by the guy in scrubs who would do my “pre-testing”, it became quickly clear that I was dealing with the aspiring-comedian type. You know the drill: snide comments followed by a long stare to make sure you heard him/got the joke. Anything other than “fine” or “good”‘ as an answer to the “And how is yours?” I felt obligated to reply when he asked how my day was going. News flash, buddy: I don’t want to be here. So let’s cut the chit chat and you can focus on doing your job.

After I completed the second test, he asked if my eyes “always go back and forth like that.” “Yep,” I told him. “It’s called nystagmus.” I felt my defenses rising, born of lifelong explanations and insecurities. “I could’ve used a warning for that,” he said, to which I replied, “Oh, is it not in my chart?” All faux politeness with an unmistakable edge of stank thrown in. Thirty-six years of carrying this trait around, and I still get reduced to rough edges and self-consciousness when it’s noticed.

The next day, I finally put together the collage documenting The Kid’s halo experience while he refused to sleep upstairs. We headed out to the park, where yet another child asked about his collar. I can’t fault the youth as much for their lack of delicateness, but that doesn’t stop my hackles from going up on TK’s behalf, imagining into the future how this neck fiasco will play out. How much he will have to explain. How often he will be celebrated for what he has risen above, collage-like, and how often he will be treated the opposite–with points or stares.

And when I think about that for the 0.2 seconds I can before getting angry/weepy, something strange happens. I think about my own eye thing and feel a profound gratitude for it–an unfamiliar reaction to what has felt like a plague my whole life. Because when TK comes to me with his insecurities or frustration over his personal affliction, I can tell him I have a Thing too. And that the truth is, we all do, it’s just that some people’s are easier to hide.

What I’ve found, though, is that when we seek to hide a part of ourselves, other stuff–good stuff–gets thrown in too. Vulnerability. Sensitivity. Sense of humor. We can’t hide ourselves without paying a price, and that price is being known.

The Bible-toting set, we love to quote Paul’s words on weakness and strength, But the interpretation is usually limited to those weaknesses that include a limit, an element of control, a lack of personal stigma. We prefer to hide the kinds of things associated with fears of being exposed. Qualities that aren’t as easily declared as prayer requests among groups–the things about ourselves beyond our propensity for speeding and our too-infrequent praying.

I’m afraid I’m a terrible parent because I can’t stop losing my temper.

I’m afraid my depression is going to push everyone away and leave me alone.

I’m afraid I’m not loved because my life is a disaster.

I’m afraid I’m going to fail.

“Our brokenness reveals something about who we are,” writes Nouwen. “Our sufferings and pains are not simply bothersome interruptions of our lives; rather, they touch us in our uniqueness and our most intimate individuality.”

I think about all the times I’ve let the weakest and worst parts of myself become confirmations of worthlessness, of failure, of unlovability. And then I remember the times I’ve refused to hide them–when I’ve spoken them, shared them, written them–and that there was always a community of others feeling the same thing. That’s when weakness and strength become more than theories and platitudes. As though grace were waiting to take me under its wing with a piece of itself perfectly fitted to my shattered edge, my wonky segment. Brokenness becoming part of a puzzle that ends not with condemnation, but invitation. Affliction as gift.