Have you ever tripped over your own feet? Once upon a time, I could twist while flipping and land on my feet. Now, walking in a straight line is challenging at times. I fall up the stairs in my own home. Yes, I said fall up. An invisible, stair troll causes me to catch my big toe on the third stair from the top and topple like a house of cards on a regular basis. I plan to wring his scrawny, little neck if I ever catch him.

Our trolls keep us humble, don’t they? We never know when our next slice of humility will be served. It seems, too, that most trolls believe humility is best served en flambe and in public places. It is a truth that gives me pause.

Last week I attended my first Christmas gathering of the year. In my world, people from across town and who aren’t related get together on December 1^st and call it a Christmas party, like we did last Wednesday.

I know there are lots of people who play games as a regular part of daily life. I do not. I love to be there. I love to laugh along but playing drains me dry of life-giving energy. Playing games, especially games that require being out in the spotlight, makes me feel like I am being bled out one drop at a time. With each minute engaged, I feel weaker.

At some point during adulthood, I learned to just play the game. I realized that, though I may feel death is imminent, the party must go on. Unless I am living a truly strange afterlife, playing games has yet to cause my demise. I always manage to drive away. And, I must add, I do so having not been patronized or browbeaten into playing. It is far more comfortable to feign excitement and bleed energy than suffer the embarrassment of judgmental stares.

The Christmas party thrown by Wednesday’s group is quickly becoming the stuff of legends. Exactly once a year, Christmastime(ish), we play Pictionary. The rest of the year we take ourselves seriously, most of us anyway, and gather to discuss God, explore faith, and support each other as best we can.

Pictionary, this year, did not disappoint. We minted shiny, new inside jokes. Afterward, we were so vulnerability-numbed, we pressed on straight into a game of Guesstures. By then, we had nothing else to lose. Suffice it to say, the wheels came off. I can’t unsee some things I witnessed on Wednesday.

Apart from the comical drawings, wild gestures, and frantic running about, I noticed something else. I noticed a vulnerability-borne kinship among us. Without needing to ask, I knew I was not bleeding out alone. Sure, there were extroverts among us living their best lives. I dialed in, though, to glowing, embarrassed cheeks. Players on the hot seat muttered doubt in hushed tones. We fidgeted uncomfortably in our seats while our trolls circled.

In the midst of the merriment, forced or otherwise, I heard my friend laughing. She has the most infectious laugh. I don’t remember the last time I heard her laugh. She is a healthcare worker, stolen from us by the pandemic. Her absence at our gatherings is always as felt as our own presence. On Wednesday, she was able to come. At that moment, right there on team right-side-of-the-room, a troll with kind eyes served me a giant slice of humility in the form of understanding. I suddenly understood deeply why sometimes bleeding out is the best thing. I understood how contributing to the community, even in a small, uncomfortable way can help make the magic that someone else needs.

I would play Pictionary for 8 hours straight if that is what my friend needed to chase off the heaviness in her heart, to lift her tired spirit, or to get in a good belly laugh. Those things are well worth my energy.

In life, we don’t always get the inside scoop. We can’t know all the fires people are fighting personally. What is guaranteed is that personal fires abound. Sometimes, our willingness to be vulnerable, to do the thing we don’t enjoy, is the conduit that delivers the flame retardant. I want to be there for that.