so... do you have a dog?

I don't struggle with conversation all too often. A semi-secret talent is my ability to talk two or listen to three convos all at the same time - its a gift I inherited from my grandmother Genevieve. So finding myself incapable of keeping a conversation alive is somewhat of a rarity for me. But it happened recently. I found myself drowning in a sea of awkward conversation (or lack there of, as was the case) with no lifeguard on duty to jump in for the rescue.

I could have asked any number of substantial questions, but I choose to stay in safe territory and hit the high points of any surface conversation: "What you been up to the past 5 or 6 years? Oh, same old, same old... Okay... now where are you working these days? Okay, same place, that's great. You enjoy that? Ummm hummm.... now where are you living? Okay, yeah, that's a great area.... So... do you have a dog?"

I don't know why I think this is so hilarious, but I do. I thought it was funny at the time, and I have been giggling about it since I asked it. "So... Do you have a dog?" I mean really? Surely there were a gazillion other meaningful questions I could have asked... and while I have found myself giggling over the dog question, I have also found myself thinking about the conversation as a whole. Not once did I stop to consider the needs of the person with whom I was speaking. In fact, I was irritated at how difficult it was to keep the conversation going. The dog question was my desperate attempt to keep it on life support, because I knew regardless of the response I received, I could pick up and ramble on about Rosie for hours. It was a selfish question. It was easy for me. Truthfully, I just needed to keep this thing alive until the lifeguard came back on duty (aka, until my friend returned from the ladies room) and I was thinking about myself. I was thinking about the fact that I didn't want to stand in awkward silence with this person, around whom I already felt a little insecure, and feel even more uncomfortable. So I forced a conversation that may have actually made someone else feel uncomfortable.

It's ironic how easy it is to revert to former versions of myself. To find myself in these moments where I lose sight of who I am and who grounds me. Moments in which I succumb to insecurity, fear, self doubt, anxiety, and inadequacy. Moments that the enemy preys on my humanity, and that in my humanity, I strive to control life rather than surrender to the one who has given it to me. Moments - many moments - that I make it all about myself. Moments that I place way too much value in earthly, temporary things or other people's opinions. Moments that I seek to draw strength from within myself, rather than from the one who lives IN me. And in my humanity, I fail. Time and time again. These failures are a blessing, a beautiful reminder of my need, and of the truth that, alone, I fail. I will always fail alone. In Him, I triumph. With Him I will always triumph.

How easy it is to forget that truth and go at it alone.

Note to self: must remember, alone I fail. Alone I say things like, "so... do you have a dog?"