Judgment is something I know well. It’s been a companion of sorts for quite some time. No actually, a long time. In the beginning, one might say. As a religious person I’m a recovering Calvinist.

Too early I learned the language of fear and the hellacious nature of God. That being said, I judged many people, but never more so than myself. Maturity, and life’s twists and turns, led me to become a theologian rather than just a heretic. I unlearned a judgmental God and found, as Luther advocated, a gracious one. But even Luther, brilliant as he was, fermented judgment and harm in all the wrong places. But that’s another story.

I learned in later years the softer side of judgment, which is discernment, a sorting, reflecting process which requires compassion and a heavy dose of humility. It’s hard to shake the early nuclei of self-judgment though: too many muscle memories still linger from the old dispensation.

Nowadays, despite the sound bites of yesteryear, I rest my judgment in kindness, and when I’m really feeling strong, compassion. Love and judgment are not incompatible if it means making right choices, doing no harm, seeking the good in others, and oneself as well.

So, I rest in discernment praying whatever muscle memories of fear and self-doubt remain they will continue to weaken over time. Until the last judgment, which I now trust is not to be feared, but embraced, knowing the softer side of love and the deeper side of joy.

August 18, 2022  (Written in 15 minutes in response to the prompt: “Beware Rough Edges” during a Dare to Write Seminar online with other writers

How to walk back into that history I often wished had been a dream? How to sort the sadness’s, the fears, the depressive writing, the failed poetry? All of it promised to bring insight, perhaps, even hope. 

In truth, I haven’t always been able to cull the edges that once proved too cruel for my sensitive soul. I have a dear friend whose work involves supporting gifted and sensitive people. Apparently, it is a thing, an important and necessary thing for communities to thrive. 

Someone has to be able to see beyond phony facades, or feel the depth of another’s pain. Not for “the hell of it”, but to bring truth to the sadness of others: To listen deeply and mirror back the pain, so those who are hurting can begin to feel and in feeling take a step towards healing. One step and then another. 

I say this because in discovering I am one of those sensitives, I have learned to outlive the many rough edges that once undid me. 

“Beware those rough edges!” she laughed. Fortunately, I was free enough to laugh with her then walk into the garage ready to do battle. This time, thanks to her loving care, I knew I would return lighter and freer to see tomorrow with greater appreciation of who I have been. 
 
“Rough edges beware…here I come!”