When I was in 8th grade, my teachers voted me the most congenial girl in the class. I was the unexpected choice from my more likable, outgoing classmates. I could sense the surprise when my name was called for the award. After all, my efforts outside of my world were minimal at best. Sticking closely to a small group of friends was what I preferred. Regardless of whether that title was deserved or not, I have now spent years trying to understand how to be just that. Congenial. Pleasant or agreeable because of a personality similar to one's own. I think of Christ who was able to engage such disparate groups of people - from the poor to the marginalized to those high ranking or religious. Here's what I've learned in attempting to connect with others:

1. Address people by name. It's a small gesture, but inserting a person's name is huge when it comes to acknowledging another person. It reminds me that this person has worth and value. I've learned that people also love to hear their name, even the most inconspicuous.

2. Speak with others what you know is on their hearts. Engage people where they're at. Be interested in what they're interested in. When you don't know a lot about whatever that is, ask questions. People get extra chatty about things that are near and dear to their heart.

3. Listen more than talk. It may be harder for some of us, but be mindful of  dominating a conversation. I have walked away from conversations where I realize in hindsight that I was completely self-centered. If we listen more, we make a statement that we mutually respect and care for the other person, so it's not all about us. It's not rocket science, but listening is more nuanced than we realize, and the implications of doing it well strengthens our relationships.

I probably won't ever receive another award for congeniality, but there is still greater motivation for me than ever (1 John 4:19), even without the title.

Part of being a perfectionist is presenting myself in the best light possible. I can't have you see anything less than lovely of me, and maybe, just maybe, I'll have your acceptance and you'll think I'm worth something.  It goes against all that is rational for me to acknowledge that while we were less than lovely - dead in our sins and lost - that Christ died for us (Romans 5:7-8). What love is this, that we are worth everything without having to be anything. I don't get that. I don't get why God would love the world in this way. I don't get why He would love me in this way. 

But in the moments when I do get it, my worship deepens. Insecurities are shed. Faith is strengthened, and hope abides. 

I am less loving than I seem. I know this because of the lengthy inner dialogue and wrestling I undergo to love people around me. 

"It's easier to survive this life on the surface, brushing up against people gently, rather than doing the mess of intentionally loving them." - Jennie Allen, Restless

This is so me. I can do without the mess. I would rather be around people who don't require as much effort, yet I seem to cross paths regularly with those who require more. It seems almost humorous when the respite I seek cannot be found even in my concerted attempts to avoid people - taking the short cut to the printer to avoid unnecessary conversation, slipping on earphones to signal my don't-talk-to-me public transportation mode, or avoiding all eye contact to escape human interaction. 

If Christ did not enter the mess of humanity I'd be dead in my sins. My pride has no grounding, as being loved  compels my love for others (2 Corinthians 5:14-15). 

This is my reminder to get messy. 

I've learned an excellent way to love is loving the things that other people love. I think of Christ and his admonition to Peter to feed His sheep. Peter, grieved by the thrice repeated question of his love for Christ, misunderstood the point (John 21:15-19). For Christ, to love Him is to love the very things He loves. I hope to love like Christ does. I cannot pretend to have gotten close, but as I attempt, there are particular causes that have become near to my heart. One of them is not a popular cause of advocacy in my city (or elsewhere for that matter), but one that makes me weep and say this is a grievous thing to which I must respond.

The cause I speak of is that for the unborn child. That God holds human life in the highest regard is apparent throughout Scripture, from the very creation of man in the image of God (Genesis 1:27). It is inconsistent to say that a life in the womb is anything less than human. "For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb." (Psalm 139:13) We celebrate this week leading to Easter that Christ was the one who died to give us life. What more powerful act do we need to realize that God loves humanity?

I have stood alongside good friends who have steadied their faith through difficult and also lost pregnancies. I am confident not one of them would say that they felt anything less than love for that unborn child. Early in my teaching career, a student approached me with vague tears, and I uncovered that the root of her tears was an aborted pregnancy. Her grief was inconsolable, and I realized abortion could never be the idealized solution of its advocates. When I lived overseas and my language was good enough to recognize that they were playing abortion commercials on the bus, my heart broke over the mechanized, routine taking of human life. There are over 13 million abortions annually in that country alone.

What breaks your heart? Is it something that also breaks the heart of Christ?