Once a friend admitted a dark fear.

 

"If anyone knew what a failure I really am, they would mock me."

 

My heart broke. This person is outwardly successful, has a loving spouse, and captured my devotion years ago. I tried to glob on reassurance, but it stuck no better than a band aid on a wet palm. 

 

The college John and I graduated from celebrated their commencement last week, admittedly two seasons tardy. But circumstances have pushed higher education to be creative about large gatherings, and this was their solution. The speakers were articulate in their messages.

 

One described his own health crisis a few years back, which catapulted his family into medical intervention and dire predictions. Yet a brief thirty months later he sauntered onto the stage with only a cane to steady himself, and said that he is grateful. The virus that hijacked his routine transformed him. Slowed him down. Taught him to live simply, and to be kind. 

 

The valedictorian arrived in white crocks. He shared a quote from a high school teacher that has stuck like duct tape. 

 

"If you knew everything about another person, you could not help but love them."

 

A startling claim. Considering the great lengths many of us go to to hide our imperfections, exposure sounds dangerous. He told a story about a time his first impulse was to be annoyed at a stranger, and felt softened by the suggestion. His mind trailed toward possibilities for how the offending character was lovable after all. The graduate quoted Brene Brown, the renowned author who has brought vulnerability to the next level. 

 

I thought back to my friend who was clutching the protective mask, afraid of being found out. It turns out that the One who does know us intimately, completely, deeply, feels nothing but love.