In My Right Brain

“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.