I used to be a journaler. And then I wasn’t. And then I was, but only sporadically. But in the last few months I’ve come to value my journaling time as a precious gift.

I’ve begun a practice of journaling three pages first thing every morning. These pages contain hopes and dreams, frustrations and feelings, prayers, thoughts about life, blog post ideas, book ideas, thoughts about the day ahead, thoughts about the day past, and several scrawls of “I don’t know what else to write.”

One day I noticed that I never, ever write my thoughts on the top line of the page. I may occasionally write the date, but nothing more. The top line just sits there, unused, totally pointless, a waste of ink.

I began to question why I always ignore the top line, and I even tried to write on it. I couldn’t. Writing on the top line made me feel exposed, like my words might make an escape out the top of my journal and be out in the open, free to go wherever they desired, made available for anyone to read.

The date. The date is a perfectly acceptable notation for the top line. It doesn’t matter if anyone sees the date. There’s no vulnerability, no risk of accidentally stepping out of my comfort zone, no risk of exposure.

But the real stuff, the real words that reflect the real me, must never be given free reign. I might be unmasked, uncovered, unprotected. People might not like what they see. They might not appreciate the authentic me. They might balk at my ideas. They might laugh at my prayers. They might squash my dreams, invalidate my emotions, and ridicule my thoughts. Best to keep all those things under wraps, safely ensconced below the line.

My Facebook friends know that my husband and I are hikers. I’m constantly posting photos of our latest exploits, which look quite impressive if I do say so myself! We’ve scaled peaks and seen the most magnificent vistas from altitudes that most will never ascend. We are simply amazing!

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Except that we’re not. What no one sees are the frequent rest breaks (sometimes after only 25 yards!) to let me catch my breath and slow down my heart rate before the organ pounds its way out of my chest. We appear to be amazingly fit! Yet I struggle with my weight. We make impressive elevation gains! And hobble and limp on weak knees and ankles all the way back down. We push ourselves to the limit! And can barely move a muscle for the next day or two.

That’s me being vulnerable. Not so impressive anymore, am I?

One of the dangers of social media is that I often mistake a person’s posts for the real person. I see the perfect family photo, and not the struggling relationships. I see the awards and honors, and not the “passed-over for promotion.” I see the precious baby pictures, and not the “I don’t know if I can do this anymore” moments. I see the new houses, and not the late mortgage payments.

My misperceptions are not limited to social media. Nor are my misrepresentations. How many times have I answered, “I’m fine!” to the oft-queried “How are you?”, when really I was barely holding it together? To be sure, there is a time and a place to bare one’s soul, and the question doesn’t always coincide with the appropriate time. But when it does? Do I answer honestly?

Going a step further, how often do I ask the question without expecting a genuine response? Do I really want to know how another person is doing? Such knowledge may require action on my part. It might require a sacrifice that I’m not prepared to make. It may require a listening ear when I’m in a rush to be on my way, to complete my agenda.

Man looks on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart.

1 Samuel 16:7 (English Standard Version)

I have a friend who has an amazing gift for seeing another’s pain. He recognizes the hurt that hides behind the smile, and he ministers to the lost and lonely before they ever say a word about their condition. How I long to be a Harold—a person who looks at the heart, who sees past the “I’m fine,” and who practices vulnerability in relationship with others.

The Apostle Paul exhorts us in Galatians to “bear one another’s burdens” (Galatians 6:2). How can we carry each other’s burdens if we don’t know what those burdens are? The practice of this scripture requires a certain degree of vulnerability. It means taking the risk to share my burdens, as well as being willing to let you share yours, knowing that either may come with a cost.

It’s not merely the burdens that are waiting to be shared. It’s the peaks as well as the valleys, the joys as well as the sorrows.

I’m a sucker for a good Hallmark movie. I love feel-good moments and happy endings. A few nights ago I watched Christmas in Vienna, about a widower who was reluctant to open up and move on with his life, even as the “perfect woman” stood before him. The woman, Jess, challenged his walls, his lack of vulnerability. “No one can know the song that’s in your heart unless you let them hear it.”

“Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15). Isn’t that what real relationships should look like?

What would happen if I started living my life “above the line,” revealing the real me, taking the risks inherent in honest, genuine, transparent interactions with others? I want to be more of a risk-taker, as well as a safe place for others to take their own risks.

Don’t expect my social media posts to change. Though I may get personal from time to time, I don’t plan to make a practice of baring my soul in so public a forum. But know that there is always more to a person’s story than what you can see in a photograph.

And feel free to challenge my vulnerability (or lack thereof) on my blog and in personal relationship. Who knows? I might just return the favor!

Is it simply me? Or will you join me in accepting the risks (and the joys!) of greater vulnerability in your relationships? Are you willing to live “above the line”?