Ken

Ken knew more about my darkness than anybody. Not because I was talking about it - I was hinting here and there, but I wasn't really ready to say actual words - but because he created space in which he could hear what I wasn't saying. 

The first time we met, I was giving a mission report in my local church. There had been a debate as to whether a female could give the official mission report, but it was decided that since I was a minor and was willing, it would probably be okay; it wasn't real teaching or preaching. (I broke a lot of barriers in that church, but they all came with major discussions behind the scenes.) 

It was Ken's first Sunday with us as associate minister, and we hadn't met yet, but he sat somewhere near the back, near some friends and encouragers of mine who, apparently, fed his ear all night with stories about me. At the end of the service, I went to see those friends and get my church hugs, and they introduced me to Ken, whose first words were, "You're deep." 

Over the next few years, I would spend a lot of time just hanging out in Ken's office. Sitting. Mostly quiet. Shooting the breeze. Deflecting the demons. Creating a safe space. He knew - I knew he knew - but he was waiting on me to speak...most of the time...without requiring that I do so. 

My dad had died not so long ago, and I was buried in the trauma of the world I was living it. Buried so deep that at times, I could hardly breathe. Unlike most seeds, when I'd been buried, I'd developed an even harder shell. 

Ken kept telling me I could talk. He kept telling me I didn't have to. He kept picking up every hint that I ever dropped. He kept deflecting the darkness. He kept telling me what an amazing person I was - not only in spite of my trauma, but sometimes because of it. He kept telling me all the things that it didn't seem to have changed about me, or perhaps that it seemed to have refined in me. He kept pointing out the gifts that were pouring out of me at a time when I couldn't see any of them and couldn't believe what he was saying. 

His intuition into my heart was so much of what formed that sacred space. His ability to hold truth and silence and trauma and encouragement all in the same breath made it a safe place for me. It's why I liked to be there - it wasn't painted over; it was always embraced; but it was always tempered with greater things, bigger truths, holy realities. 

The way that Ken heard me when I wasn't speaking, the way that he heard the heart that underlaid the words I did say, and used that to create our space has shaped the way that I listen to the silence in our world. That I listen to the souls that are crying out. That I have learned to balance silence and trauma and truth and heart and words. Not just in my own life - finally, by the grace of God - but in the lives of others. 

I always find myself wondering if God has sent someone into my space who just needs a place to sit for awhile. Welcome to speak, but not required to do so. Respected. Honored. Dignified. Encouraged. 

And above all, simply accepted for wherever life has them right now, which doesn't diminish a single iota the totality of who they are; indeed, it enhances it. 

Because of Ken, I have learned tremendous lessons about creating sacred spaces.