I like my happy little comfort zone. It’s called a comfort zone for a reason—it’s comfortable. It’s not scary. It’s my own bubble with just enough space for me, with no place for the scary or the different. Those things aren’t allowed, because they’re not comfortable.

But the bubble isn’t opaque. The outside world is still visible, and sometimes even tries to work its way inside. Right now, that world is filled with all those things I like to keep far away. There are a lot of people who think differently than I do, even people I’m friends with, and they’re angry. I don’t understand a lot of it, but I have my comfort zone, so it’s okay. I make my tea, curl under a blanket, and retreat into that zone.

Because facing things right now is scary. In the past, it was okay for people to have different opinions. We could sit down and have a civil, intelligent conversation. I would even share my tea. It was interesting to see things from another perspective. Now, and especially with the ever-growing social media trend, people just want to aimlessly yell and not listen.

So I retreat further into the bubble, because I don’t like yelling. I don’t like being accused of things, especially when the accusations aren’t true. But I don’t know enough about the facts to defend my point of view. I keep it simple, but even “I follow God” is seen as a black mark on my permanent record. People have their own opinions on what being a Christian means, and most of it is untrue. But I’m powerless to break down their walls of anger to even try to explain.

So I retreat even further into the bubble, because I don’t like confrontation. I remain silent, because they’re going to believe what they’re going to believe. Because “I can’t change their minds, anyway.” I offer no opinions. I comment very little. I share only things that are inoffensive, because if I were to share anything that could spark an opinion, I’m viewed as hateful.

What have I done that is hateful?

I try to paint the walls of my bubble, to block even my view of the outside world. But somehow, people are scraping off the paint job. “Don’t be so blind to the truth,” they say, which confuses me, because I have the ultimate Truth already. “You’re being oppressed!” they shout. “You should be angry like we are!”

But why?

So I turn to God. I don’t tell them that, but they don’t have to know of my prayers. They don’t have to know that I pray for their healing, and for my own strength. They don’t have to know that I’ve asked God to watch over them, because they have no need to depend on anything but their own self-constructed strength. But I don’t have that. I would go so far to say that they don’t, either, but I don’t want to offend them. So I say nothing, out loud.

Sometimes, though, it seems a miracle happens: Someone comes along, offering a whisper of encouragement. “Me too,” they say. “I agree with you.” They are few. Or, they are many, but are also afraid to speak up, like me. They’ve formed their own little bubbles, but we can communicate between them. We can talk, and be comforted in the knowledge that we’re not alone. God has answered our prayers, not yet for the healing of others, but for the comfort of ourselves. He begins building our strength, by binding us together.

It’s not an army. We don’t want to fight. Mostly, we don’t want others to fight. We can comfort, even if we disagree. We can try to retain friendships, even when we feel pushed away. I’ll remain in my bubble, for now. I don’t look forward to the day God pops it, because then people really will be unhappy with me. I don’t like angering others, but at least He’s offering His strength to all us bubble-clad people beforehand.