The people outside the box 

Denise Trull explains how she learnt to roll away the stone of her prejudices to experience a resurrection in her relations with ‘the others’.

Sometimes in life, perhaps more in later life, we are surprised to discover that those we have considered ‘our people’ all this time are nothing of the sort. 

We make an understandable assumption early on that, because we have so much in common, we need to stick with this group only. They become our tribe, so to speak. 

Perhaps we share the same faith, or they are our own age; perhaps we think they are strong leaders in our churches and we happily support their spiritual projects. 

Perhaps we share a vocation or a talent or a political party, or a ‘world view’ or  a moral compass. 

Maybe we just don’t have to constantly explain our large family, or our decision to home school. We are easily understood and life is manageable that way. We assume we are in the obvious and safest place for us. 

Over time, we back ourselves into this sensible box and shut the lid. We don’t even entertain the possibility that warm, understanding hearts and minds exist outside this lidded perimeter. Hearts Jesus Himself might have meant for us to meet one day, though they may seem shockingly different from us. 

An odd thing happens if we close the lid. We begin to grow afraid of the ‘others’. We dare not raise the lid one little inch, because ‘they’ might be out there ready to pounce on us and infect us with their otherness. We stick safely with our own. 

But Aslan is not safe, as Mr Beaver reminds us. He is good. Christ came to save the whole lot of us. The whole world of men. And that’s what Easter brings to our attention.

He lives, as it were, outside our box, gently coaxing us to follow Him in a perfect love that casteth out fear even to the ends of the earth. We cannot stay under the lid, or in very truth our safe and tidy little world becomes a tomb. We must roll away the stone to truly become an Easter people.  

I experienced this kind of resurrection in a concrete way, in my life, and have found, to my joy and surprise, that people who seemed not my own ended up being totally my people.

I count it providential that I landed at a workplace filled with what I might have called the ‘others’.

I came face to face with people whom I was pretty certain shared none of my beliefs but, oh so strangely, shared a fellow feeling and an artistic sense of things I had not found anywhere before. 

I admired them. I connected in quite an emotional way with them. They were young. They were old. Some funny as the dickens. Some generous with their time and knowledge. Lovers of nature, botany, and beauty. None of them were frightening as I had pre-assumed. They let me be me. It was refreshing. 

Some of them had been scarred or wounded or even had their souls crushed by organized religion gone wrong when they were very young. 

Some were victims of an agendized public school system beyond their control, who, astoundingly, still had astute little ideas about the world around them. 

Some were poor artist types bravely trying to get themselves through college all on their own. They had gauges, tattoos, hair in myriad colors and styles, and most had a penchant for veganism. 

They were shocked that I had seven children and actually loved it, flummoxed that I loved my faith, that I believed what I believed; but they didn’t stop talking to me. I intrigued them. They told me so. 

One evening I was working crowd control at one of our garden festivals with a co-worker, she with the sea green hair and fabulous Doc Marten boots, who daily rocked that thrifted style. 

She turns to me – that would be me of the graying hair and the sensible New Balance tennis shoes and Mom jeans – and she says, “Ya know, you are a real mix of wholesome and bad ass! We can’t quite peg you. But that’s a good thing.”

I took it as such. I admit I liked being thought of as a bad ass, though that might be the only time it will ever be said. I chalk it up to my William Morris tattoo. 

Outside of work, all were gifted musicians, fine artists, photographers, craftsmen, and some were master gardeners. 

We did not agree on marriage, big families, or much of anything ‘big’ at all. But we agreed to disagree and found other common ground that was fruitful, deeply human, and beautiful. 

For we are none of us just ONE thing. No one is solely one big lump of sexual orientation or a single solid wall of political leanings. 

Humans come all mixed up and it is in that mix that connection follows. Art. wonder. Compassion. Humor. Fellow feeling. A shoulder to cry on. 

Sure, we can and must disagree with each other over non-negotiables, but if we remain afraid of someone for one single facet of their whole wonderful mix, we will miss out on a plethora of lovely adventures that bring us to a shared joy in being human. 

We can’t force anyone to change by our words or actions or judgements. Change for the good comes through grace and the workings of Christ. But we can delight in what is delightful about each other. And this is still love. A love that leaves fertile ground for Christ to plant his seeds one day. A love that is not killed by fear. 

All my best experiences in this regard prove this to be true. In the end we all desire to be seen and heard. Our people are the ones whom we have caught watching, hearing, and most importantly, responding to us in a deep, loving and beautiful way. They will sometimes be those whom we least expect. They were for me. 

There was the CT Scan technician named Abbey, to whom I was delivered unceremoniously by a nurse after waiting six hours in a freezing emergency waiting room with scary complications due to chemo. 

She was so competent and easy going, albeit covered head to toe in tattoos. When she saw me, she simply said, “Oh, sweetheart!” and went straight away to get a heated blanket and wrapped me in it while I waited for her to set up the scan. 

She gently helped me up, wrapped me tighter in the blanket, and told me to keep it while I waited for the results in the waiting room. 

She was homey and warm and kind all rolled into one. I felt so cared for. She just knew what to say, what to do, and how to do it – and all she had was a heated blanket and an arm covered in tattoos. 

She certainly was my hero that day and though I may never see her again, she was my people. 

There is my deliciously snarky friend John, who, when he found out I had cancer, just enveloped me in a very tender “Oh honey, oh honey” and then – slight pause – promptly put his hand on his hip and said, “Wait. Is this some elaborate ruse for getting out of working the evening shift?” 

I laughed out loud. If I had started bawling he would have not felt awkward, but would have hugged me through the ordeal without batting an eyelid. His was a sympathy so earnestly and easily given. He has a rare and beautiful gift for being comfortable with suffering. It is genius. 

I can guarantee that Snarky John and I do not in the least have intersecting world views, but our particular brands of humor are sympatico and we have yucked it up through many an eight hour shift together. 

He has also graciously saved my computer challenged self in many a pinch. He has asked me for my banana bread recipe and he brings me produce from his garden to try. We talk avidly about poetry. And nobody, but nobody says “Oh honey!” the way he does. Snarky John is my people. 

Then there was the day I wore my black Scottish brogues to work. I was fumbling my way through a mysterious something called ‘Point of Sale’ on my computer screen when this cheerful voice next to me suddenly gushed, “I LOVE your shoes!” 

I looked up in puzzled wonder. Suddenly a gaggle of lovely, hipster, twenty-something girls gather around me. And they are all about my shoes. Where did I get them? Love the fringe flaps. Oh, and the SOCKS, too. It’s such a great look! 

After I got over the shock that I even had a ‘look’, I didn’t exactly preen, mind you, but I did feel quite pleased with myself.

It never occurred to me that my own ex-hippy kind of style was a look that caught any eye younger than sixty. 

My admirer was truly and honestly impressed. And suddenly I am getting recipes for lentil, goat cheese, and winter squash salad texted to me. And in the headiness of the moment I make the rash promise to try her homemade Kombucha. 

These young things? They didn’t have to say anything of the kind to me. They might have written me off as the old lady who works with them on Saturdays and that would be it. We saw each other across the years and the gap got narrower. My people. 

Then there was that other day. It all started with a conversation on color. Favorite colors. Every person I work with is some sort of artist by trade: be it writer, painter, sculptor of iron, textile arts, or creators of online ‘Zines’. They are each working part time to fund their real passion – art. 

So, needless to say, there are some unique and interesting conversations.This day it was the subject of Cerulean Blue. My favorite color. 

One young Vietnamese fellow with a head of gorgeous jet black hair told me his favorite color is deep shocking pink. He had a coat to prove it. And he looked amazing in it. 

It was a slow day, so we got to talking about the fine art of dying hair in the ‘off the charts’ colors. He showed me a picture of his black, spikey haircut all tipped in bright pink all across his head. I found myself – fascinated. 

Then G. joined us. Her hair is all tucked into a bright teal French braid. She told me her next color would be deep dark red with tendrils of lighter red in front. I looked forward to seeing that creation because the present one was so tasteful and beautiful.

Then they asked me: what’s YOUR favorite color? I must confess, I was only prepared to be a passive participant in this conversation. Listening, albeit fascinated, but mostly with no real ‘skin in the game’. 

But they really wanted to know. So, I said, “Cerulean Blue. The one that Van Gogh and Renoir use all the time.” They both ahhhed in satisfaction. But, I added quite hastily, “Of course, now, I am too old to do such a thing as to dye my hair cerulean blue.” 

They answered in unison and with immediate and genuine feeling, “NO YOU ARE NOT!” Their complete sincerity and sweet indignation at the thought warmed me down to my toes. 

And the wonderful A. of the jet black hair said. “Confidence is key! Wear it with confidence! You are not limited by your age! Ever!” 

What a dear, dear boy for thinking such a thing. And then G. told me that having gray hair was a plus because the dye would end up in cool patterns wherever it was on my head. 

My mom bequeathed me a really interesting gray pattern in my hair, said G. and she thought it would be amazing. 

I was shocked off guard at their open support. At their age blindness. At their enthusiasm. At their kindness and their sweetness to be having this conversation at all. I loved them so much in that moment. 

There is something so refreshing about young, gracious, kind, artistic hearts. I am never anxious or nervous around hearts like this. 

There is no agenda. Just this freeing kind of creativity that finds a place for your own without judging you, or criticizing you, or competing with you.

Well, I did dye my hair Cerulean blue. Very lightly, mind you. My tip of the hat to their confidence in me. They were all tickled to bits when I surprised them at work. It was a good day to be a human. Confidence is indeed key!

Another time I was getting my hair cut at the same place I always do. But this day the Great Clips was strangely empty except for two stylists. 

They each were unique. The young woman looked like a striking version of Stevie Nicks. She was dressed all in black. She had gauges in her ears and some fabulous and thought provoking tattoos of bees on her arms. 

The man had a Z Z Top beard, also had gauges and tattoos, and dressed all in black with chains hanging from the loops at the top of his rocker jeans. 

And then there was me. Me with my Vera Bradley purse which matched my top. The young woman smiled a genuine smile at me and invited me to sit in her chair. She had the gentlest hands and the most lilting voice.

Then something quite magical happened. I felt like I was among my own. We entered the easiest conversation I have had in a long time. 

She told me about the small farm she had just bought, and how her dream to keep bees had come true. 

She told me how she would go out in the morning and just look at the sky and feel happy. She asked about me. But she asked like one who was really going to listen and be interested in what I had to say. 

I tentatively threw out that I had seven children and I had home schooled. I thought that would kill the conversation cold and I was prepared for it as I always am. 

But she was genuinely interested and….excited to hear what I had to say. That was a new reaction for me and I felt myself physically relax into her kindness and genuineness.

That is when the young man came over and said, “Wow. I wish I had been home schooled.” He told me about his life and we talked about all the old rockers that he liked and that I KNEW from the 70’s. 

He told me how he had done hair for all the visiting bands playing at the local venue, and how he was a whiz at the Mohawk style. I found him fascinating and full of interests in many things. He told me about his sick mom and how Covid was really scary for him because of her. My heart melted at his true concern for her.

There was this ease and familiarity between us three that I can’t even explain. And for one solid hour I was filled with comfort, peace, and the joy of hospitality given so freely. 

I felt as though I had found my people in these two wonderfully different people nothing like me and yet very MUCH like me. 

They didn’t judge my age, my clothes, my Vera Bradley purse or my old lady shoes. 

They met me where I was and I felt so loved by two complete strangers who were nothing like me in age but lacked all judgement and pre-conceived notions. 

I was so surprised by this gift of human feeling. It stayed with me a long time. I felt more one with these two young people than I have felt with those ‘of my own kind’ in a long while. 

It was a gift. It won’t be duplicated. It was too wonderful. But I thanked God for it. It was like being taken care of in a welcoming inn on my journey. God is good. So are stylists at hair salons – like honey from the rock.

All this is to say, do not be afraid of ‘the others’. For the ‘others’ might very well be your people. 

Be who you are. Be absolutely unashamed to tell them what you believe and what you find important and listen to them in return. 

Do not apologize for your life, but do not stop talking to them, learning from them, rejoicing in their astounding gifts, connecting with those who might seem so other than you. 

I guarantee you will find treasure outside the box that you never dreamed existed. And Christ may be working through you and these connections that seem so odd. 

He is a God of surprises. Let Him surprise others through you, but also let yourself be surprised by the people you never in a million years thought would be your own, but mysteriously are, outside the box. Open the lid! Rise!

This is a slightly abridged and edited version of an article first published by Denise on her Substack The Inscapist, where you will find many other delightful articles by her. It is republished in Adamah Media with her permission.