So...I'm just gonna write about stuff...maybe

Have you noticed that there can exist both a positive and negative component in just about every personality trait? For instance, friendliness is a lovely attribute to possess, but problems can ensue if one is overly friendly...add naivety into the overly friendly batter and you have a dangerous concoction in the making.

A characteristic belonging to me that has brought forth both triumph and woe is my competitive spirit. I push myself hard. My adrenaline levels climb at Cheetah racing speeds when I'm presented with a challenge. When I commit to a project I strive to achieve the best results. And, I don't rig games of Candy Land just because my opponent is five.* Yep, I'm competitive alright.

When properly harnessed, my competitiveness can propel me toward great accomplishments like:

• Winning seven out of ten available scholarships that helped me pay for my college education

• Moving to Orlando, FL two weeks after college graduation with two suitcases, $500, and no job

• Remaining in Orlando after I lost my first job and lived on blueberry muffins and Cream of Wheat hot cereal for nine days when my checking account boasted only $1.27

• Walking up and down two flights of stairs (repeatedly) while 9 cm dilated in order to avoid a C-section

• Winning public relations awards within my first year in the field

I'm not bragging, just setting the stage.

On the flip side of my competitive coinage lies some not so pretty events:

• My husband refused to play Scrabble with me for five solid years because I got too nasty whenever his wooden letters landed on the triple word score square...especially when one or (shudder) more of those letters was worth 8 points. Hell hath no fury like a wordsmith outsmarted by her left-brained, former math majoring husband.
  

• On more than one occasion I disregarded the feelings of colleagues and dominated work and school projects to ensure that my ideas were implemented and praised.

• I once stayed up until 3:00 a.m. baking and decorating Christmas cookies so that everyone would oooh and ahh over my creations at a church social.

There are more examples...some much uglier than what I shared. I'll spare you.

My competitive edge also has advantages and disadvantages when it comes to my writing. Throughout the past decade the quality of my writing has improved. That is a plus.

On the minus column is the fact that when it comes to blogging I have hit a wall built by my drive to out do myself each time I post. Yes, it is my heart's desire to write for God's glory and not my own...yet still I sometimes allow my perfectionistic tendencies grip control.

In an effort to break free from the rut I am currently in, I have decided to write more...yes, I still want to go for quality and of course I want to continue to grow closer to Christ and help others who share that journey, but not every post will be devotional in nature...not every post will have a lesson.

Every post will still be honest, transparent, and a documentation of my becoming.

I hope that you will keep reading.

Blessings, Angela

* I am not always mean...I have allowed my kids to beat me at board games ocassionally.

She Speaks - The Beginning of Becoming

Prologue:

Last fall, my friend Julie asked me if I would consider attending the next She Speaks Conference to be held July 31 – Aug 2, 2009. The She Speaks conference is an annual event for Christian speakers, writers, ministry leaders, and bloggers; and is sponsored by Proverbs 31 Ministries, headed by Lysa Terkuerst.

I told Julie that I would love the opportunity to attend and would begin praying for a way to make it. I also explained that with our finances severely limited, my chances for attending would be slim.

Recently, I learned that Proverbs 31 Ministries is holding a writing contest in which the winner would receive a conference scholarship. Immediately, I wanted to enter. So, I prayed. Then, I talked to my husband. Prayed again...and asked others to pray for me. Finally, I sat down to write. The process was tough. As I wrote, I also fought fear and those pesky “what ifs.” I kept telling myself that the competition was fierce (it is), and that if I did win, there would be a chance that those who chose me would end up regretting the decision--I've always feared that I come across better on paper and monitor than I do in person. I took a few deep breaths, shushed away those negative thoughts, and kept on writing.

I do not know if God intends for me to win the scholarship or if this is even my year to attend, but I do know that He wanted me to complete the process. My entry is below.

The Beginning of Becoming

Recently, I watched a science fiction television series in which a major character grappled with her identity--literally. She and others questioned whether she was truly human. At one point, out of sheer frustration, fear, and confusion, she tearfully screamed, “What Am I?” My eyes moistened and my heart thumped as I witnessed the character's inner turmoil. As outlandish as it may seem, I understood.

Twenty-months ago, a broken, abashed, and frightened version of me tugged at my disheveled hair and faced my reflection. I barely recognized myself in my bedroom mirror. The physical attributes remained the same as in years past, but my eyes...they appeared hollow. Loosening the grip on my hair, I allowed my hands to slowly slide down my face and rest just below my chin. I stood quiet and looked at myself. Although my legs and heart trembled, I felt as though I were frozen. With tears meeting my fingertips, I silently, agonizingly, cried out, “God help me. What am I? What have I become? Am I a mother or a monster?”

While many of the events surrounding my nervous breakdown are now blurred and distant, I remember the dark moments like that one. Moments when the failure sweeping through my soul left me feeling vacant. I questioned my humanity. In the throes of Postpartum Mood Disorders, on top of adjusting to a cross-country move, I was too weak and disillusioned to battle the lies that had assaulted me for decades and had come at me again with Herculean force. Perfectionism, along with feelings of worthlessness, inferiority, and displaced anger pummeled me; I waved the white flag of defeat.

Therapy sessions with a Christian counselor were one aspect that led to my recovery. As I spilled my thoughts...the dark, the garbled, and the hopeful, my counselor helped me learn how to replace lies with truth. I had already known Jesus for decades, but I didn't truly believe Him. I believed in Him. And I believed what He said about other people, but somehow I thought I was an exception...that Christ loved me, but a little less than He did others.

When I emerged from that dank trench of dejection and desperation, I felt like a hibernating mammal that had awoken during a glorious spring morning. It was my clean slate, so to speak–my midlife do-over. I had escaped perfectionism's prison and embraced the opportunity to become who Christ intended me to be. And, I am still becoming.

For me, part of becoming is sharing with others where I have been, where I am now, and where I am going on this journey to be more like Jesus. Writing has always been part of who I am, but, after I became a mom, I buried that piece of me. After my breakdown, I felt the Holy Spirit whispering to my heart and telling me that it was time again for me to write, even if I didn't have a large audience. Even if I wasn’t paid. I just needed to write.

More than a year later, the impetus of my writing has not changed. I write openly and sincerely about every experience that God calls me to share, even the ones that showcase my flaws. Actually, mostly about the ones that showcase my flaws; because, it is in those moments when God's strength magnifies. I write to help others know that they are not alone...not in this world, and not in the mistakes they make, or in the circumstances that crash upon them without warning. I write because truth is too beautiful to not share. And, I write because it is through the writing process that I experience some of my most precious moments with my Savior.

Attending the She Speaks Conference would be an opportunity for growth. I would obtain information to help me to hone my craft. And, I would be learning from women who are not only at the top of their game, but who go to their knees and humble themselves before the King of Kings; because, He is what they most desire. I don't merely want to learn to write better, I could take classes anywhere if that were my only goal. I want to learn how to use my gifts and talents to better serve my Creator.

Twenty-months ago, I questioned my identity and who I was. Now, I know. I am not a monster. I am a flawed but forgiven child of God. I am a writer who sits in front of a computer screen and types words not only about Jesus, but also for Jesus, and because of Jesus. I want to allow Him to stretch me even when it hurts. My desire is not to become a Christian writer...it is to become a woman of unshakable faith who writes, not for her own fame, but to bring glory to the King Eternal.

Contradiction

Recently, I was reminded of the awkward girl who inhibited this body of mine more than 15 years ago. Yes, I’ll admit, her body was leaner and her stomach flat. Hardly, the body I see in the mirror today. But less recognizable to me is her personality. She barely spoke above a whisper or made eye contact with others. She walked stiffly, wore a veil of rejection and held a basket of fears.

Perhaps that girl reminds you of someone whose reflection flashed in the mirror of your youth. I think those character traits are shared by many female teenagers. And even for those of us who tightly closed the doors of the past, there are still reminders. Not necessarily painful memories, because true healing is the best pain reliever, but more like souvenirs from a different lifetime that hint toward progress and validation. Knowing who we were then helps us better identify who we are now.

However, for as much as I have changed for the better (and I owe that change to the grace of God), a few ragged remnants remain. I long for the day when I finally throw those scraps away. What a contradiction of character that I still hold them, unable to assign them to the trash heap in which they belong. One tattered fragment that still yields power is perfectionism. Granted, that power is waning, but it’s still present.

Frankly, it’s almost silly that it hangs around. Perfectionism is nothing more than a form of pride, even though I often mistake it for “caring about others." It’s perfectionism that causes me to put on the verbal boxing gloves and berate myself for a lapse in judgment.

Tonight, I was reminded that I’m going to mess up. I’m going to fall short. Despite my best intentions, I’m going to mildly offend some people and tick off others. Some of the mistakes I make will be huge and marred with selfishness. Others will be small, unintentional blunders like forgetting someone’s name or speaking out of turn.

What I’m learning is that while it is absolutely necessary to accept responsibility for my mistakes…even the innocent ones and especially the ones that hurt others…it also is absolutely necessary that I not dredge up those errors as a means of self-deprecation.

In other words, I’m forgiven. I’m forgiven even if the person I grieved chooses not to forgive me. I’m forgiven even if I choose not to forgive myself, so how silly of me to not do so?

Here’s something else. I’m loved. I’m loved even if the world calls me a fool and my friends abandon me. I’m loved the same amount whether I’m volunteering in a nursing home or cussing because I stubbed my toe.

And, here’s one more…I am understood. I’m understood even if someone looks at me like I’ve parachuted in from another planet. No, God doesn’t always agree with my thoughts and actions. But, He understands my heart. He made it. He speaks to it. He pieces it back together after it’s been wounded. And He holds it…He owns it…and He has made it whole.

“But when full understanding comes, these partial things will become useless. When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things. Now we see things imperfectly as in a cloudy mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.” -- I Cor. 13: 10-12 (NLT)

A snake by any other name

(The story below is my adaptation of Aesop’s fable “The Farmer and the Snake.”)

“Snow in April,” sighed Kara. “This afternoon it looked as if spring finally arrived.”

“False alarm. Weather changes quickly in the Eastern Adirondacks” answered Dr. Gibson, while examining the ears of a stray Golden Retriever in her care.

“Do me a favor Kara,” continued Dr. Gibson, “please return Buffy to her crate before you lock up this evening. I need to scurry or I’ll miss Lily's recital.

“Not a problem, Dr. G.”

Kara viewed locking the clinic a perk of her job as a veterinary assistant. An avid animal lover, she considered herself a friend to all God’s creatures and took care making sure each patient was tucked safely in its crate before she went home.

Stepping over an icy puddle to open her car door, Kara noticed a long, dark, slender object resembling a garden hose. Wiping the moist snow from her eyelashes she bent over for a closer look and realized that the garden hose was actually a nearly frozen snake.

“Look at you,” crooned Kara. She recognized the reptile as the endangered Timber Rattlesnake and decided to take it inside the clinic. Removing a gray flannel blanket from her trunk, she wrapped the coiled snake. “C’mon buddy, I’ll warm you up just in time for mating season.”

Laying the wrapped snaked on top of the old radiator, Kara found an empty reptile cage large enough for the 30 foot slithering creature and prepared it for the new occupant. She returned to pick up the snake and held it to her bosom. “Aww, you are getting better already,” she said. As she lowered the snake into its temporary home pain flashed through her arm. Dropping the reptile in its cage while reaching for her cell phone Kara cried, “Why did you bite me? I’m your friend and I saved your life.”

Flicking its tongue the rattler hissed as if to say “Silly question from a silly girl, you know I am a snake.”

I first read Aesop’s original fable The Farmer and the Snake as a seventh-grader, but it wasn’t until I heard a recent retelling involving an older woman and a talking snake that Aesop’s point pierced my mind. In my days as an allegiant perfectionist, people pleasing became a duty. I would often forget my own likes and dislikes as I concerned myself only with gaining the approval of others.

Ironically, the path of a people pleasing is jagged and disharmonious, yet fear and mistaken identity kept my feet on that rugged road. I met several hurting souls who I thought I could love out of their misery. And each wound I earned in the process confused me. How could they? I thought. Why me? I pondered.

As I enter this new phase in my journey to become the me Christ intended, the film-covered lens through which I once viewed life has been cleaned. For the first time ever, I understand that I cannot change other individuals. I can pray for them. I can, with boundaries, love them. But, I cannot and am not meant to be their all-in-all.

So here's what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. Don't become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You'll be changed from the inside out. Readily recognize what he wants from you, and quickly respond to it. Unlike the culture around you, always dragging you down to its level of immaturity, God brings the best out of you, develops well-formed maturity in you. Romans 12: 1-2 (The Message).