When I was a professor at a small university during the worst parts of COVID, we had a team-building exercise. We read and discussed a book of curated essays from NPR’s This I Believe program. The book was titled This I Believe: The Personal Philosophies of Remarkable Men and Women. Then we wrote our own essays. I finally got around to editing mine, so here it is.
My first boyfriend spoke nervously as we walked outside on a sunny day. “Can I hold your hand?” he asked. Just as nervous, I said yes, and we reached out to make the mutually chosen connection. There was something that made that moment inexplicably happy, and it’s probably not what most people would assume. There was a special thrill because he asked permission.
I’m the second to youngest of a large family, and (at least while growing up) I was the quiet one. Other people’s voices and choices usually outweighed mine. I was a clown for a costume party because a big sister wanted to dress me up as a clown. The annual Christmas letter was my mom’s interpretation of what was going on in my life. Of course, now that I’m an adult, I can dress myself for a costume party and am (usually) allowed to edit the letter before it is sent.
However, childhood left an impression. I still bristle inside when someone puts food on my plate that I didn’t ask for, or someone grabs my arm and pulls me across the room to see what they want me to see instead of asking me to come look. It makes me indescribably happy when someone asks, “Would you like more water?”—and waits for a “Yes”—before refilling my glass. It makes me feel respected when someone says, “Would you like a hug?”—and waits for a “Yes”—before embracing me. And I nearly always ask permission before placing my hand on the shoulder of a friend who has asked for prayer, even though I believe that there is a special grace in that connecting touch during prayer. Furthermore, I cringe inside if I as a professor forget to ask permission of a student before writing a suggested next step on their in-progress math problem.
Even if I’m thirsty for water or for affection (given or received), and even if I know that explaining the next step in a math problem is easier to understand when written rather than spoken, I want choice more. I want to ask and be asked permission.
At first I thought that my belief would be something more spiritual, since faith has long been central to my thoughts and choices. I was surprised at how easily another value rose to the surface: I believe in asking permission. But speaking of faith, even Jesus asked permission: “What do you want me to do for you?” he said to a blind man. He waited for the blind man to ask for the sight he wanted and only then healed his eyes. Because only a gift that has the freedom to be rejected is truly a gift.
