No sea malita—don’t
be bad. Big brown eyes. A whining tone. Don’t tell me “no.”
I can’t say how many times I’ve heard
those words. No, I can’t buy candy from you (I want to, but how do I know it is
you it will help, and not some guy who’s beating you up?) I’m not being bad
when I say no.
How many times have I wanted to hear the word yes when
someone says no?
How many times have I said yes,
when I needed to say no? Sure—I can’t tell you that I can’t talk now, that’s
unloving. Sure—I can’t tell you I can’t work an extra hour, you really have no
solutions. Sure…but I don’t want to, I’m doing it because I have to. Sure, but
it’s not really me choosing to love you.
People say that the first word children learn is “no.” (Or “mine”
but we’re not dealing with that word today.) And yet, it’s somehow the word we
least know how to use, or accept.
I was
eighteen when boundaries in close friendships formed. A dear, dear friend of
mine told me I could ask—but only if she could tell me no. No, I can’t read
your writing right now, I’ll read it later. No, I can’t come pray. No, you can’t
keep saying things like that. No, you can’t do that.
No. No. No.
But then she said yes. Yes, let’s eat breakfast, and when we
ate breakfast we both wanted to be there.
Yes, let me hear what you wrote.
Yes, I can pray for you, what for?
Yes, you can text me when you need something.
No… because I want to give you something real.
No—but I still care. No—I think you’re capable and kind
enough to respect my boundaries. No— I don’t like hugs; don’t hug me all the
time, but when I hug you, it will be a real one.
I love you too much to give you what I can’t.
