Two guys, friends, walking down a road … to a place called Emmaus (uh-may-Us) … thinking through, talking through, some crazy stuff that … stuff that had brought about disruption. With authenticity in their discourse, no comments were made like “Oh, I know how you feel …”, or “You think that’s tough, you should hear about what is going on with me …”, “Believe me, I know what that is like …”
Hypothetically: if you are talking to me I am not compelled to say “I know how you feel …”, because I don’t know how you feel. How could I? I am not you; I was not “there”; I don’t have your wiring …
There is no reason to compare my story with yours, to “trump” your story. Story is sacred, private, personal. If someone is telling me their story I am grateful, honored, and privileged. Attempting to trump their story … What does that make me?
One’s choice to tell me some sensitive pieces about their pain, relationships, disappointment, is a courageous and a profound choice. I am a fool to express that I know “what that is like”. I don’t know what it is like.
Your shoes? No, I have not walked in them. And, it is also true, that you have not walked in mine.
I listen; I watch; I search; I sense … And if I speak, I hope it is not a waste of one’s time, or mine.