Here are three related needs. First, every human being has – not just a desire – but a need to be known. In the movie Avatar, the Na’vi greet one another by saying, ‘I see you.’ There is something profound in this acknowledgement. There is an irrepressible urge among people to be known by others in a deep and intimate way. Second, all of us have old, emotional wounds that need to be healed. No person can live in the fallen conditions of the present age without getting injured by the mutual exchange of one sinner bumping up against another. In 2 Corinthians, Paul refers to believers as jars of clay. The image is apt. No matter how tough we appear in public, the unavoidable truth is that we easily chip and crack. Third, all of us need help interpreting the stories of our lives. One of the peculiar features of human beings is that our identities are understood and communicated through story. No snapshot can ever do justice to the depth of a human identity. To know me, you cannot just study my present habits and preferences. The depth of my person can only be revealed in the telling of a history.
Now all three of these needs are interconnected. For me to be known, you must know my story. And, yet, often my story is bound up with past wounds that are still painful to touch. Due to touchiness, we often avoid sharing much about our past with new friends. But this leads to a further problem: emotional wounds, unlike physical wounds, are subject to interpretation. Few things are more dangerous than trusting my own eyes while reviewing the hurts and scars of the past. It is far too easy to miss the redemptive arch of a life story and instead hold the camera on moments of acute resentment and overwhelming shame. When this happens, the very part of us that most needs to be brought into the light and shared with loving friends is instead crammed into the darkness. No small portion of sinful behavior is an attempt to anesthetize festering wounds that, in fact, will never be healed until we find the courage to undress them and present them before the compassionate eyes of a friend.
It is for such reasons that all of us need a friend who is a co-author of our life story. Now the image of a co-author may raise some initial questions. Is not God the ultimate author of our lives? The answer to this question is, yes, of course. And yet one of the unique difficulties of being a Christian is trying to figure out how to weave together the bumps and bends of life into a coherent plot of steadfast love and grace. So often, what we feel to be a crisis in life is, in fact, a sudden lapse of the plotline. An event occurs that we just can’t make sense of. Somebody dies; addictive behavior sets in; a promising future disappears; someone we trusted hurts us. In these moments, the whole of a life story can suddenly feel as if it unravels. Instead of moving along a clear path like a pilgrim headed to a fixed destination, we hit a cull de sac. The human response in such times is uniform: We inevitably look back to try to figure out where a wrong turn was made.
It is for such junctures in life that we need a friend who is the co-author of our story. To make an obvious point, a friend will have a different perspective than we do. This perspective will enable him to listen carefully to the story we tell of our lives while spotting details – even themes – that were hidden from our view. What to ‘me’ might be a meaningless moment of pain may to ‘you’ take on a redemptive hue. A friend may spot an invisible hand at work in our lives, which like the fingers of a potter, is producing – not just a vessel of clay – but an ornament of glory (c.f. 2 Cor. 4:13-20).
It is through this process of unveiling myself before another that three things occur. First, I experience the joy of being ‘seen’ by another. As much as we like to wear masks before a crowd, the truth is, we all long for opportunities to be known transparently. This occurs as I share more of myself with a friend. Second, old, emotional scar tissue is broken down. Those wounds that had become nagging injuries are slowly unknotted and given time to heal. Finally, my identity is transfigured. What appeared within the narrow gaze of a lifetime to be a tragic or pointless incident is set in the light of God’s eternal purposes. A friend will help me see that, when God is Author, no detail is wasted. Even if all pain does not subside in the present, hope is left intact. God’s faithfulness remains. With the help of a co-author, I can weave grace and hope within a still unfolding story. A friend can help me believe that, when looking back on the past from the height of God’s throne, my soul will give testimony to a transcendent theme: ‘All things work together for good for those who love God’ (Romans 8:28).