It is rare for me to complete a blog post and hit publish without second-guessing myself. The act of oversharing cuts both ways – it’s incredibly cathartic and connects me with kindred spirits I might otherwise never have recognized, but also leaves me feeling exposed, fragile, and painfully human. It’s the price of being known, I suppose.

I don’t strive to fool anyone into thinking I have it all together, but I know that when I don’t let people in they often incorrectly surmise I’m more on top of things than I really am. I try to remember it’s not only a relief to me, but a reassurance to others, when I write about some of my more human moments. Am I still embarrassed? Absolutely. Do I ever wish I’d left my facade intact? Sometimes. Would I take any of it back? I don’t think so.

I’m working on a sermon that unpacks the story of Mary Magdalene not recognizing Jesus on Easter morning until he calls her by name, so I’m all up in my thoughts about the importance of being known. I remember telling a boyfriend once how much it meant to me when he used my name instead of a term of endearment. Anyone can answer to “honey” or “sweetheart” or “dear” – but using my name let’s me know you’re speaking to me. It’s powerful knowing someone is speaking to you and no other.

This blog doesn’t have a huge audience, so I think I know most of the folks who read it. Maybe you knew me in high school, when I barely knew myself. Maybe we worked together several jobs ago and you only knew me professionally. Maybe we were friends for a season or our children know each other or I filled a pulpit and you found me on Facebook and followed me here. Whatever our connection, thank you for reading and for not flinching when I let my humanity show. It’s the next best thing to hearing you say my name.