From the drafts folder, written 12-3-08:
The other day the Cobbler and I were talking about impatience. I'll just copy-past the relevant portions here (removal of unnecessary line breaks and names):
Me: I must work on that one. At least we complement each other that way.
Him: How so? I'm not so much patient as slow. 8^)
Me: You don't seem to get impatient with me, at any rate. I'm trying to think of how to express that. Because you do get impatient with the world and with stupid people. Just not with people who are loveable but annoying. 8^)
Him: What annoying?
Me: See? That's exactly my point. I am a very annoying person. I annoy myself.
Later on in the coversation, I said: You know, one of these days I'm going to stop trying to convince you that I'm an unloveable person and just accept the fact that you love me.
How hard can that be, to just believe that he is telling the truth when he says that he loves me and I am beautiful and wonderful?
Really hard, it turns out.
It's not a problem I haven't encountered before. In high school I had two good friends (they're still my friends) who basically got 2-3 years of Teenage Angst Uncensored. And still they loved me. I used to scold them for it. How was it that they saw my guts and still thought I was beautiful enough to be loved?
Shortly before the above conversation with the Cobbler, I was at Mass and during the homily the priest talked about the loaves and fishes and how the barley loaves are like love--you don't know how much you have until you start to give it away. (Maybe there's a reason I slept through the morning mass that day.)
Imagine Christ coming to you and saying, "Feed all these people," and you only have five little barley loaves. But then you give them away, and it turns out there is enough and more than enough.
I am so small and inadequate for this thing called love. Why would I let anyone see my tiny, paltry little contribution?
Because the act of giving makes it enough.