I never thought I’d be able to fit in with my new CG — there was always this sense of awkwardness (maybe it’s just me), all too long stills in the conversation and all too many faces without names — ones I’d heard and forgotten too quickly. I’m used to this. At some point in the last twenty-seven years I’ve come to realise that there’ll always be this part of me that still feels a little out of place in new social situations, when it comes to making new friends or meeting new people; yet there’s a small part of me — a tiny one — that feels a little sad when I understand that some of these once-strangers will become strangers once again, and that all those wonderful worlds and experiences and imaginations contained in them will never be known to me.

Don’t you think it is such a terrible waste then, when we meet people and we dismiss them in our heads by some illusionary flaw they possess, when I believe each and every one of us has some modicum of brilliance within, a sort of light that can enchant or captivate, like stories about how they have lived and loved or about that  singular moment they felt so fiercely and so passionate that it opened a whole new world or planet or universe?

If I could, I want to sit with you with good coffee or even the diluted bandung I ordered to quell the spices burning my tongue or the teh-o ice limau I steal from my girlfriend, and I want to listen to you tell me your stories. All of them. Whether they are your triumphs or your losses or your careless dreams or your fistfights or your sad face at midnight; if I could, I want to hear about all of them, all these stories that belong to you, because that would mean you let me into your world and lead me through it.

I think something happened tonight. What exactly, I don’t know.

Maybe it was Paul, who towers over all of us like a great big bear, who sang out of tune but at that precise moment made me wish I was as brave as him. The same Paul who couldn’t help tearing when he shared about his mission trip, the things he saw and the things he felt, and how it had changed his life forever. Or maybe it was Alex who shared about his dream about playing the guitar in a previous meeting and when he picked it up at the end of today’s I realised I was looking at someone who looked so perfectly happy and so perfectly in his element that I rejoiced in my heart for him, honoured to see a prayer answered. Maybe it was speaking with Jon at supper and how his eyes came alive like fire when he spoke about joining the music ministry again. Or maybe it was hearing a beautiful voice during praise and worship from somewhere behind me and realising it was Merrini who later said her hobby was singing. Maybe it was watching Yosh speaking to a few girls and seeing how they were listening intently to her, simply glad to be in her presence.

Maybe all of that, and more.

I think one of the greatest privileges to be in a caregroup and be surrounded by your brothers and sisters is seeing how all these broken lives have come together and been united through the perfect Love of a perfect Saviour. I can see your heart written across your eyes — that deep yearning, that intense joy — and I wish, oh how I wish, that I could write down all of it; write about the glory that has been set upon your life and the greatness that your life shines because of Him.