“You’re too sensitive, Eula,” she said with frustration. “You’re just too sensitive!”
The words hit me unexpectedly, like a punch in the gut. I stood looking at her face, her eyes filled with rare tears, and heard Jesus say to me,
“Just give her a hug.”
It’s seldom a compliment when someone tells me how sensitive I am. The observation is usually made more gently, but few seem to find this trait admirable. We live in a hard world where only the tough survive and feelings must not influence.
Still, I wonder what life would be like without sensitive people.
Will you find the signature of a “left brain” on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? Is it a linear thinker who takes a ball of wet clay and turns it into fine china? What if Jane Austin had given up because someone labeled her a hopeless romantic?
Think of it. Lullabyes would go bye-bye. Opera would be no more. If creativity were obsolete, television would be reduced to stock reports and football scores. Even the evening news would disappear—but that might be a good thing. They never tell the truth anyway. Horror of horrors, Match Dot Com would go belly up! Who cares if you make a heart connection when the heart is unimportant?
All that would be left is black and white with no gray. I can hear the outcry now—we all know that even an accountant needs an office with a window.
So maybe the arts are essential and beauty does matter. Then the question I have is this—how sensitive is too sensitive? Where is that line?
I may never know and I may never care. I choose to be who I am. And will always offer a hug to anyone who has tears in their eyes.