Monday, November 8, 2010

Where I've come from

I think it's indicative of my generation to be very self-analytical, very good at introspection, bordering on self absorption. I try to balance that with being a good listener, and curb the impulse to be needy and want to focus all on me-me-me. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it works so well that I find it hard to open up when the possibility of sharing, and bearing with one another, is presented to me.

So imagine my surprise when last week I got a near literal bolt from the blue.

One of the things that I've always felt I had to work at was understanding my childhood. It's formative, you know? Thinking patterns, reactions, habits, they all started somewhere. Some in good circumstances, some in not-so-good. I thought I had a handle on most of it until last week, when I realized something in my approach to God.

It's always been a struggle for me to 'go to God', in prayer, in worship, in anything, really. Even though I KNOW God to be a God of love, mercy, compassion, grace, forgiveness, etc, there's a large part of me that approaches not unlike how Dorothy approached the Wizard of Oz. Fear, trembling, cringing, trepidation, desiring to run but having to overcome the cowardice. Much like how Dorothy's experience in Oz was tainted by her real life (or was it?) my view of God has been shaped by my family, and my views of familial relationships.

First things first. I love my parents. My mom and dad are my biggest supporters. I go to them for advice on just about everything, even when I know we're going to approach it from very different perspectives and worldviews. I love that we can be honest and vulnerable about things together, and while I have yet to directly speak to them about my addictions, they know there's something there, and that I've attended groups over it, prayed about it, and generally bear the thorn in my flesh as best I can. But as wonderful as they are, they are not all powerful. They were not able (nor should they have been) to stop the events that unfolded when I was a kid, and we became estranged from my dad's family.

We've talked about it, since growing older and having to lay to rest both of my dad's parents, my Grandma Rosemary and Grandpa Doc. And we've all come to a certain measure of peace about it. If I still sometimes want to write a long impassioned email or letter to certain relatives bawling them out for it all, I have managed thus far to restrain myself. Some wounds have been healed, like those caused by one of my uncles, and those of my grandparents very passive attention to us. It's hard to remain upset when you know that things weren't as they seemed at age 7, 12, or even 16. And it's especially hard to feel anything but pity when you know that your grandmother suffered from bladder cancer for over 30 years, longer than I've been alive. When I think about how much was lost in all of it, I do want to cry a bit. But I've tried to let it go, and move on.

The revelation I had in particular is tied to my father. My father is one of the kindest people I know. I've gotten my tendencies to be anal retentive and grumbly from him, but I've also gotten my work ethic, my desire to help people, and my willingness to compromise. But it didn't come without a cost.

When I was in 6th grade, my father sold his half of the family business to one of my uncles, and took a year off work. He went from working 60+ hours a week, to being around to take us to sports practices, pick us up from school, to being involved in our lives. And at the tender age of 12, I began to learn who he was. I knew who mom was, because we spent a lot of time with her family, and the history, the stories, they were absorbed by osmosis. I look a lot like my mom. We think a lot alike. I knew who she was, but I didn't know Dad. And the process of learning him, his taste in music, that we shared an ability to debate and converse even when we were really just BS-ing, it was a wonderful thing.

And so it went. But the thing that only occurred to me this past week was this. I gained my father, but at the cost of all the pain that had gone before. All the events that led up to him selling the business and being so available, they hurt all of us. My older brother was cut off from cousins, my dad from siblings, my mom through my dad, and me through all of them. Most of the rage I've felt over the years at the estrangement was on their behalf. How dare someone not love my family like I did. How dare they treat them like crap. It made family gatherings, the few we attended and were invited to, very interesting to say the least.

But remember Dorothy. She was fearful of the Wizard. Why? His real life counterpart had just foretold pain into Auntie Em's life. And it hurt Dorothy enough to grow up, and return home like she should.

I was always more 'grown up' than my peers. At least in my own mind. I never was interested in the same things my age group was concerned with. I resisted some hallmarks of growing up, but skipped over others completely. I preferred books to any form of socialization. Still do, come to that. But in any case, I think the pain I saw in my family, in how I came to grow close to my father, convinced me that there really was no gain without pain.

Sometimes, though, I just really wish it was easier than that. Fearing pain as a result of stepping out, being vulnerable, it's draining. Fear, in general, is draining. So is anger. Being afraid makes me angry at myself, and knowing where some of that came from, at least on an unconscious level, I am hoping will give me the freedom to try a bit harder. Not every situation is like the ones I had growing up. When I was around 8, I knew there was division, but I also knew it was between Aunt L and Mom and Dad. I thought I was well out of it. Until one day. I was ignored. Completely and utterly treated as though I didn't exist. I doubt anyone but me remembers that day, but to be made a victim of someone's wrath as a byproduct of a feud they had with my parents seared into my brain. It was probably the first time I really understood how unfair life was. And it went on from there. If I saw certain relatives about (some worked where I shopped), it was awkward, and a bit scary. What if the kid gloves came off, and rather than feeling it all as a byproduct of anger directed at another, it would be directed at me?

Clearly these things have come back up for me. I've cried over it all, prayed over it all, journalled and journalled over it all. If I've come to any conclusions it's that we never stop being shaped and defined by our pain, in some way. We just have to get past the thinking that it's a bad thing.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Accidentally Purple

I don't blog on political topics, or generally controversial ones, but I have something to say today.

So, you might have seen or heard about today being Spirit Day, as a sort of awareness/memorial for the kids who recently committed suicide as a result of bullying. Bullying for their sexual orientation. While I don't believe homosexuality is right, here's what I do believe: Bullying is absolutely WRONG. In any context, by any person, and towards any difference.

When I was young, I wore the most awful glasses. Being severely nearsighted, they looked like someone had lopped off the bottoms of coke bottles and put them in frames. Since I was 3 months old, I had those glasses, until I was 12 and was able to be fitted for contact lenses. That was probably the best thing my parents ever did for me. Because if I hadn't been able to get away from that image of myself, I might have tried to commit suicide.

Sounds extreme, right? Just wearing glasses made me a target. From the time I was old enough to be in school, on through to graduating high school, I was bullied, picked on, made fun of, and generally looked down on for my glasses and appearance. I was called medusa, I had a classmate whose mother was my teacher in 6th grade call me a bitch less than 10 feet away from his mom, who did nothing. I was subject to grunting ape noises in late middle school, rude nicknames, and I'm sure if I'd been less self-aware, I would have been subject to a variety of pranks I saw being done to my other misfit classmates and friends.

My response to all that was to turn glacially cold to everyone. I had few friends in high school, and the people I was friends with were subject to the same sort of treatment. My best friend, P, once said he understood what the kids who committed mass murder at Columbine must have felt like, to do what they did. I don't excuse or condone it, but I GET IT. Push a person so far, and you will get some unpleasant results when they snap.

I never did. My friends never did. We survived, moved on, found people who weren't awful to us. But the scars remain. And to all my classmates who were bullied that I never tried to help? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

I tried to be a bully, once. When I was in 4th grade, I drew a nasty picture of one of my classmates and passed it around. Another classmate, far more compassionate than I (or far less insecure, who knows) reported me, and I got in serious trouble. I never bullied again, because I took the consequences of that seriously. So many kids today don't. I remember when I did that, how much it was to try and bolster my own self-esteem, to try and make myself look good to the people who so looked down on me. I wanted to belong. And to a degree I get that kids do the things they do for the same reasons, but a lot of them don't learn to STOP IT. I did, but I never learned to stand up against it.

So even if I get nothing else out of today, I got the reminder to stand against bullying. To stand against any sign of man's inhumanity to man. I don't want any kids I know to think it's ok to do that, to be victimizers or victims. I want us all to be people who love. Isn't that more important than looking cool?

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Choice

In May 2009 I went to LeakyCon, a Harry Potter fan convention in Boston. I know, I know. Laugh all you want. I love the Harry Potter books, and wanted to take the time to A)Be around like-minded people, B) meet some friends I've made online because of our mutual love of the books, and C) visit with my old college roommate who lives in Boston.

While there, the girls I met online joined me in getting Harry Potter tattoos. I know I know. Scold all you want. I'll do a post some other time about my thoughts on tattoos. In any case, mine was fairly straightforward. I got my favorite quote from the book series around my left ankle. I'd post a picture, but it's a bit difficult to get a wrap-around shot :)

"It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."

Some friends noticed it this past weekend, and asked about it. Now, I've had it well over a year, but sometimes I forget why I got it. Not just because it's a Harry Potter thing, but because the sentiment it expresses is something I constantly need to remind myself.

I choose. Because we do, right? We choose to get up in the morning, we choose to eat that piece of chocolate, we choose to watch that movie, we choose to go down that road, even though we know it's not where we want to be. We choose the things that define us.

In March 2001 I chose Jesus. I chose to walk His walk, to talk His talk. I chose to be grafted into His kingdom, to love like He loves, to seek His will.

Sometimes I forget that as much as I made those choices, He made the choice for me. He choose to save me, He chose to indwell me. Sometimes all I can see is my own choices, or the lack of choice in a situation. Not that there ever isn't a choice, however hard it might be. Its just easier to think of the hard road as being not an option.

Maybe I need another Harry Potter quote tattooed on me. "Soon we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy."

So today, I choose to follow Jesus. I can't say if I'll do the right thing and follow Him tomorrow, or worry about my choices yesterday, but today, I choose Jesus.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Repetition

In the Bible, when God wants to hammer something home, He repeats it. A LOT.  Its really not that different for us in today's world. God will repeat Himself until we get it. Something to be grateful for, even when you want to escape the message He's sending.

Between the sermon yesterday morning, the Sunday School lesson I taught, and today's entry in My Utmost for His Highest, I'm getting a very clear picture.

Obedience. God wants me to obey. More than that, God wants me to CHOOSE to obey, to CHOOSE Him and His Will.

Yeah, this makes me ouch a bit. Because I haven't been choosing for God for a while now, I've been choosing for me. And for my selfish reasons.

I was talking a little bit to a friend yesterday about why I have this tendency to cover up when I'm struggling, or not address it, or share it, or anything that would make the problem... well, not go away, but give it over to the One who can do something about it. For me, it's people. I know how flawed people are, yet I love them all the same, and the thought of disappointing people, or angering, or just letting them down is a bit terrifying to me. I've dealt with rejection all my life, and most of the time I know God won't reject me. Most of the time, it's not God's rejection I'm worried about. It's His body's rejection I fear.

If you identify as a Christian, you don't do so in a vaccuum. It can be as much about fellowship as it is about relationship with God. People who try to sustain a faith by themselves away from a church hurt for the lack of community. I know, I've been there at times. It is why I worry so about how my actions are perceived by the community of believers I belong to.

God takes me as I am, addictions and all. People don't have to. They can try, because they want to be like Jesus, but they don't have to accept me. And there's times I expect them not to accept me.

Being alone isn't the same as being lonely. When you're lonely, there's something you can do about it. You can choose to change your circumstances, to be with people. When you're alone, you feel like that's not an option. You're locked into your isolation, into a prison of your own making. God guarantees we will never be alone. But that doesn't mean we see it that way.

So, God's asking me to make some choices. Make a list. Affirm what I know He's told me, what He's done for me, what I can believe even when I don't want to or think I can. He wants me to see that my will is nowhere near as great as His will. He wants to give me His will. It's one of His greatest gifts, after the sacrifice of His Son. His will is what carries us through our sanctification.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Perspective

I'm the only daughter in my family, flanked by two brothers. We're all grown, but growing up together we didn't have a whole lot to do with each other. We are all very different people. My older brother went military, is very athletic and aggressive in ways my younger brother and I are not. My younger brother is a dreamer, only has his feet on the ground part of the time, and is very laid back compared to my older brother and I. Me? I'm the one who strives to do things right, to understand things, to control my world through knowledge. About the only thing we have in common is our love and tolerance for our parents and their crazy ways.

For the first time in four years, we were all together. Not since my grandfather died have we all been in the same place. And Saturday night, after walking around the desert museum, we came home, and started talking. Reliving our pasts, if you will, and connecting as grown ups in a way I haven't done before. Not as a family, that is. I've made my peace with both my brothers and parents individually, but never as a group.

And it was really eye-opening, seeing your childhood or key moments through another's perspective. Things that happened around me that I thought I understood were different. I had a relatively uneventful childhood, things only getting stirred when I got involved in the drama of my relatives and siblings. But to see it now as an adult who can't be hurt by it was really something. I'm not sure what I'd call it. Revelatory, I guess.

And I wanted to write about it here because it is one of those experiences I think that will prove to have changed me. I feel it profoundly now, the connection of family. In the past I always longed for it to be more than what it was, but that's not something I'll have with my siblings, my parents. I can create that, someday, but this bond has been cemented, not in the what might have beens, but in the what was and what is.

Still, I do wish I saw them more, if only for the hugs. We're a tactile family, and I sometimes feel starved of human contact, despite being surrounded by people.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Become Who You Were Born To Be

Growing up, my birthday always got reinforced by the fact that it was always followed by Mother's Day. And as I've gotten older, it's been more a time to reflect on my relationship with my own mother who, to my knowledge, doesn't read this. Which might be a good thing, heh.

I love my mother. Growing up, she was one of my best friends, and someone I could always confide in. She got me through eye surgeries, psychosomatic stomach ailments (fifth grade was a rough year), puberty, high school, and into college, where the ties changed. Where I used to place my parents as the most important influences of my life, I learned the hard way that they weren't the end-all of knowledge. Surprising, right? I was a late bloomer in that respect. Most teens learn that and have a rebellious period as a result. I didn't get that until I was about 19, and it didn't sink in until I tried to reconcile what my parents believe and what I was taught to believe, with what God said. It wasn't pretty. Sometimes there's no reconciling these things. My heart ached, and I felt gutted by the fact that we were so diametrically opposite. I cried over it. Many times. Still do on occasion. But nothing I've done has changed how they thing, and I pray, fervently, that nothing they do will change how I see God.

Which might not make a whole lot of sense, if you didn't know my parents are very New-Age, relativistic 'honor the god in all of us' sorts of people. They are loving, they are kind. And they are wrong.

When I started college, I thought the way they did. I followed a lot of the ideas they'd learned, meditated, sought comfort in all manner of new agey ideas and practices. And NONE OF IT WORKED. I had a horrible roommate situation as a freshman (as do most of us) and would call home nearly every other day, if not daily, because it was so lonely, so awful. The changes college was going to bring weren't happening. Meditating, using symbols and calling out to spirit guides, none of that helped. I was as alone as I've ever been. I was seeking something that could not be found in what I'd been taught was true. Or relatively true, as my parents don't believe in universal truth.

And then, I was invited to a Christian para-church group. Didn't realize it, but was so starved for friendship, so needy for connection, that I went. And initially regretted it, because I didn't want to be among THOSE people, those CHRISTIANS.

But the pastor said something that just struck me to my very soul. I'd been trying for so long to connect, to truly find God, and I couldn't, not of myself. I needed a bridge, something to span the gap between my frail human self and God's infinite self. And the bridge was Jesus.

Now, my family is mostly Catholic, so we would do the Christmas and Easter thing, but I didn't really get it. Not to the depths that I began exploring it as a college freshman. After going home for Christmas, and coming back to a room change because of my uncongenial roommate (and trust me, that's the nicest thing I could say about that), I asked my friend Laura, one of the RA's, if I could go to church with her. I don't know if she knew how hard it was for me to ask that, for me to open my eyes and ears and heart to hearing something I hadn't believed to be true. I thought it was exclusionist, something that people used to separate themselves and lord over others. I truly didn't get it, for all that I grew up occasionally going to church as a girl scout, or when Mom wanted to get in touch with her Catholic roots, or when my Mamaw wanted to take us kids to church, or when I went to VBS as a grade schooler at the church the next block over, or for all that I read a kid's picture bible. It's like I was storing all this data, but didn't have the program to make it run.

So I went to church, and things were starting to make sense, here and there. I even understood the theological arguments behind predestination and the elect, which came up at a college lunch fellowship. But it still wasn't real. Not really.

My spring break trips in college were very tame by most standards. Mom and one of my aunts and I went to Florida to stay with my grandparents. In a retirement park. Very thrilling stuff. But it was right after I got back from that trip, that I had a life-changing experience. I heard from God directly. I know it was God because a) I wasn't going to get up for the altar call at the event I was at, no way, but somehow I was at the front, and b) I was weeping like I had never wept before in my life. I was transformed.

This all is sort of a long story to explain to you what happened next. I went home, still emotional, still crying, and I called my parents. They'd been my best friends for so long, I thought that maybe they would understand, and that my not getting it before was just me being oblivious, not them failing to share it with me. Because why wouldn't they share with me the greatest news ever?

They didn't understand why I was crying, didn't understand anything I was trying to convey, and told me to call back when I'd calmed down.

That is still the most heartbreaking phone call I've ever had.

It's been over nine years since that night. Since Jesus changed my life. And since my perception of my parents has been forever altered. Especially my mom. We're a lot alike, you see. We've had a lot of the same health problems, a lot of interests in common, read a lot of the same fiction, watch a lot of the same tv and movies. And I've always thought it wouldn't be such a bad thing to be like my mother when I grow up.

Except, my mother thinks my persistence in focusing on Jesus to the exclusion of all else is a phase I'm going through, that I will someday grow out of Christianity, like she apparently thinks she did.

And nothing terrifies me more.

Because I don't want to ever think I don't need Jesus desperately. I would love to be less prone to sin and addiction, but not if it means making something other than Jesus the answer to all life's problems. I don't want to think crystals, or spirit guides, or dowsing, or aromatherapy, or meditating, or energy healing will do the work that Jesus did on the cross. I don't want to find something to appease my spirit for a time, when I can have a Redeemer fill the God-shaped hole inside me. When I DO have a Redeemer who's already filled the God-shaped hole inside me.

And one of the saddest things is that there's nothing I can say to my family to change their thinking, because a prophet is without honor in their hometown. But I can trust and hope in God's plan for them. I let go of control years ago, now if I can only let go of how much it hurts at times.

But for now, I'm growing to accept that I have a lot in common with my mother, better or worse.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Step up

Sunday our pastor started a new series, one about Jonah, and about our Mission. Not THE Mission, though that does factor, or should, into everything we do. But Our Mission, the one personal to each and every one of us, that defines us as we go throughout life. Some people are meant to be teachers, some people are meant to be leaders, some to serve, etc.

And some of us aren't entirely sure. It's one thing to say follow your passion, and make that central to your calling. I honestly don't know what I'd say my passion/calling is. Sad, huh? I mean, there's a lot of things I'm interested in, and a lot of things I can do and do well, but I don't know what I'd say my life's goals are.

There's a lot of things I could blame for that. A lot of excuses. Laziness, for one. Every time I think on something to give me direction in life, I back away because it seems too hard, or too big for me. It's not been by choice that I'm still a secretary at my university: It's apathy. EXTREME apathy.

Take last night. I got a call from a friend who's about 5 1/2 months pregnant needing an emergency sitter so she could run to the doctor. And I hesitated in saying yes.

Thinking on it now, I'm appalled at myself, for thinking for even a minute that anything I might have planned to do would be more important than safeguarding the life growing inside her.

God spoke to me in that moment. If you think your mission might just simply be to serve, why aren't you serving?

So I said yes, jumped in the car, and started over, only for her to call back and say it was fine, she'd wait til her husband came home.

But talk about a wake-up call. I've gotten so lazy in terms of how I relate to people, how I value people...

We learned at our church's women's retreat that "to the extent that we love is the extent that we worship." Worship is an outpouring of our love, for whatever we're worshiping. And if I'm being truly honest with myself, I don't worship anything, because I don't love anything. Or, if I'm being brutally honest with myself, I love myself more than anything else, and all my time and attention is going towards things that make me feel good, for however long it lasts.

God wants me to make a covenant with him. One that puts him absolutely first, and me absolutely last. Pray for me that I find the ability to give over to Him, and let the Holy Spirit take control.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Next

Ever notice how much God is a God of completion, but yet it seems like there's always something more to be doing? Sometimes it's the basics of relationship with Him: prayer, bible reading, worshiping. Sometimes its bigger things, like letting Him change you in fundamental ways, addressing sin in your life and bringing you out of something you struggle with. Sometimes its learning to wait on him in big and little things.

But there's always something. A catch, if you will. God demands, no, REQUIRES, our focus.

I read today's My Utmost for His Highest and as usual, it was pretty spot on. Coming off the women's retreat at church, it's easy to be confident in what God has done in you and slip up in the things you didn't think you were shaky in. And man, did this get me: "The Bible characters fell on their strong points, never on their weak ones." How often is that true?


I remember back when I first became a Christian. It was such joy to dwell on God, to think about Him. Mentally playing through worship music, scripture, the ongoing conversation with Him was just so great, that when I slipped and went an HOUR without thinking about God, I was pretty horrified with myself.

 But it grows, doesn't it? That un-focus, the little neglects. Our hearts for God dissipate, and it gets harder and harder to get back to that place of being just delighted in Him. Pretty soon we can go a whole DAY without thinking about God, then a week, month... pretty soon it's just Easter and Christmas, isn't it?

I've slipped, I'll admit it. It is a slippery slope after all, that leads you ever downward towards the things you think you're strong enough to handle. Until one day you see yourself and know you can't handle it. Can't be a casual drinker, or occasional porn viewer, or sometime drug user, or any number of things. We say all things in moderation is key. "Everything is permissible, but not everything is beneficial."

So what do you do when you're at the bottom of the hill and the road you're meant to be on is at the top? When you've stopped moving, lost focus, and are incomplete?

I'm going to find out. I'm going to put forth an effort to THINK Jesus more each day, TALK to Jesus each day, tell Him about everything I've done or am doing, and let HIM decide what's right. Because it won't be my strength to get out of the valley. It won't be me that's strong enough to stop drinking altogether, to stop looking at porn or indulging all the vices I've built up as being okay because it's just a little bit, nothing huge. I know I can't do it. I've tried. I slipped further, because instead of talking to the one who can rescue me, I was talking to myself.

So let's start over, shall we? Hello, my name is Jen, and I'm a failure. I can't save myself. But I'm a failure with a Saviour, and that will lead me to completion.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Red Bricks

When I was a junior in college, my best friend and I took a film class together. One of the films we analyzed clips from was The Wizard of Oz. When Dorothy sets out from Munchkinland to the Emerald City, she's following the yellow brick road, which starts in a spiral, along with a red brick path. We jokingly wondered where that red brick road goes. Since then, I've used that as the title of my blogs anywhere. Where does the Red Brick Road go?

You see, Oz is a fantasy world in Dorothy's mind. One that has built her up to be a heroine when, if you recall the black and white beginnings of the film, she's nothing more than a spoiled brat. She's young and immature, and it takes the journey of Oz for her to learn that it's not all about her.

There's no place like home. So, where's home?

Not here. As my pastor pointed out the other Sunday, when it was a beautiful day in Southern California, this is as close to hell as we'll ever get. Ironic to me, because moving to CA was my definition of hell nearly six years ago. I was leaving friends, family, and a faith that had grown in the safety of a college environment that was more conservative than not. I didn't mean to leave that faith behind, honest. But there was something about CALIFORNIA that loomed large and scary in my mind. I'm a country girl. Give me farmland and trees, and weather. I felt suffocated moving to CA, even to such a 'conservative part' like Orange County. I clung to the life I'd known in PA, to my friendships and tried to live with my heart separated from my body.

If home is where the heart is, my heart wasn't in me.

It took a while for me to learn to hang on tightly to the memories and the love, but to let go, lightly, of the day to day things, the parts of life I couldn't connect with anymore. My best friends, my chicas, were 3 hours behind me, timewise, and in a whole different world from me realitywise. I had to make new friends, new family, and I have. My journey wasn't on the yellow brick road. I took the red brick one, to California, and beyond that, to a place where I don't live comfortably on this earth.

I learned that lesson the hard way, not to be too comfortable where you are. I don't know all the reasons why, but I do know that as rooted as I once was in BC (Before California) my life is IC (In California), and it is as temporary as all life is. BC might have felt permanent, but it isn't. None of it is. So I'm following the Red Brick Road, wherever it leads me. It will eventually turn to gold, but that's for another life.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Like This, Like That

When I was young, my mother, in one of her new holistic health kicks, started giving us vitamins, supplements, and all sorts of weird stuff. I remember swearing to myself that when I grew up, I'd never take anything so bizarre as Kelp.


I take it every day now.


Funny, isn't it? How we are determined to not be 'like that'. I work on a college campus, so a lot of my 'like thats' center around the current fashion trends of the still-teens going to their classes. I won't dress 'like that', wearing ballet flats *looks at feet, cringes* or leggings, or multiple flimsy layers. *avoids mirror* But how often do we hold true to those things? And does it really matter, our attempts to be unique?

When I was younger, I would get my hair cut by taking a picture to the stylist and say "I want to look 'like this'." Rarely would I, though. How it looks on Jennifer Aniston isn't how it will look on me, sad to say.

Nowadays I just tell the stylist how I want to to look, but without the expectation that her scissors and comb will magically transform me from ordinary to extraordinary by a few snips.

We have a lot of 'like this' moments. And 'like that'. We know what we want to be, how we want to look, down to the nitty-gritty of what's okay and what isn't. We all know what we'd change about ourselves if given carte blanche with a plastic surgeon, right? A nip there, a tuck here, a lift or a snip. We all carry with us an image of our ideal selves. If you're anything like me, you avoid looking in the mirror so your bubble doesn't burst as you realize that yes, actually, that shirt sort of does make you look fat.

When I was in 6th grade, I was pretty much through puberty, unlike a lot of girls in my class. I remember at one point being proud that I had curves, a shape, and wasn't a twig like a lot of other girls in my jazz dance class. But then came the recital. I saw myself in comparison to everyone else on stage, and suddenly, those slender limbs were graceful, and my heft was grotesque. I felt like an elephant trying to be a gazelle.

I went from being glad I didn't look 'like that' to wanting to look 'like this'. And it never stops. We don't live in a vacuum. I'm always looking at my hair, my clothes, my shape by comparing myself, and sometimes I feel good, but I'm doing so at the cost of putting someone else down, if only in my own mind.

Beauty isn't a mountain to climb. It's not about looking better than the person beneath you, or trying to look better than the person above you. It's about looking your most you, whatever that may be. So what if my bangs looked better on Tiffani Thiessen. Or that my shirt looked better on my mother. Or my shoes looked better on someone with smaller feet. I could come up with a million 'like this, like that' moments, but I can't let them define me. My gaze has to stop being so external, and start being more internal.

I started this as a response to Sarah Markley's challenge to blog on beauty, but in thinking about it, these attitudes about beauty are only symptomatic of a larger problem. We worry about beauty, but what we really need to be worried about is pride. Wanting to be something we aren't, letting our gaze be judge, jury and executioner to all we see, that just leads to unhappiness, and ultimately, death. To see anything, anyone, as not beautiful, is to condemn them, and I don't think that's how it's meant to be.

It's certainly not how God sees us. he didn't create the world in six days and spend the seventh tinkering to make it just so. It was GOOD, just as he had made it.


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