Letting go of perfection…. February 24, 2008

Do you ever think it is dangerous to let the real, mistake-making you show? I did, so I fashioned a disguise, a mask called perfection.

Perfection can be defined as an unhealthy pattern of thoughts and behaviors that we use to conceal our flaws. It has two dimensions, relational and personal. On the personal level it serves to compensate rather than conceal. Relationally, it is intended to conceal our flaws.

A perfectionist fears failing in any area of life. And when we do fail it results in self-criticism which leads to loss of self-esteem.

Is it possible that perfectionism is a rejection of biblical truth about our sin-brokenness?

We may look like butterflies to others but for the perfectionist we know we are really just caterpillars, only no one has noticed yet. Shame bound perfectionists live with what I’ve heard described as the Imposter Phenomenon.  It’s a name given to the experience of an individual who has the feeling that if they did achieve something of significance or importance, they really just faked their way through it. What’s more, eventually someone is going to recognize it and label them as inadequate and unworthy at any moment now.

Having lived this way for years I can testify that there is hope. The sense of relief and freedom that came once I was released from this bondage was worth the effort it took to change. But change came only as I made new choices.

The kingdom of God is truly a paradox, and being released from feeling shame over my own imperfections is found in embracing these paradoxes and when I do, they are liberating.

The liberating paradox of my worth: I must accept that I am unworthy but not worthless. We may spend a lot of time trying to figure out who we are. But our Creator has the truth and we find His answer at the cross and the liberating paradox that it represents.

The liberating paradox of God’s grace: I spent so many years trying to hide the fact that there was anything wrong with me. It’s when I can acknowledge my own sinful imperfection and trust Jesus that I receive God’s grace. Embracing this liberating paradox releases me from shame because it shatters the chains that kept me from being all God plans for me.

The liberating paradox of potential: Perfectionism paralyses. When I can embrace my limited potential it frees me to achieve more of my potential. If I can accept the truth that neither myself or anyone else is perfect it then liberates me to dream, take a chance, dare and be more than I ever could be when constrained by the grip of perfectionism.

As we grow, we learn more about the dynamics of functional and dysfunctional families and that enables us to perceive our childhood experiences more accurately. And as we understand the effects of those childhood experiences we are better able to understand why we make the current choices and relationships. I learned to exchange my “perception”.  I had to recognize that I so often attempted to create my own self-righteous perfection rather than accepting God’s way and exchange the truth of God for the lies.

Yet, as believers in Christ we all too often skip over the most powerful resource we have, the indwelling Holy Spirit. He goes unnoticed or unused by us when we so desperately need His guidance and wisdom. Quoting Dan B. Allender, “God’s path is paradoxical. We are drawn to Christ because we want life, and want it more abundant. He gives us life that leads to abundance, via brokenness, poverty, persecution and death. The life He invites us to lead causes us to lose ourselves so that we can find ourselves, to lose our life so that we can have life.”

The work of the Holy Spirit does not lead to sinless perfectionism. That awaits us in heaven. Change is possible but not perfected until heaven.

If we are going to recover from our perfectionist why of thinking and behaving we need to understand that it is a continual choice based on truth. This truth sets us free from the oppression of trying to live up to the impossible, high self-imposed standards we’ve set for ourselves.

I am learning to not fear imperfection realizing that it doesn’t reveal my unacceptable difference from others. It reveals I am human. Choosing to be real instead of perfect is far easier and better for me….it allows me to enjoy life as a journey rather than perfection as a destination.

The Father’s Compassionate Heart February 21, 2008

Yet the LORD longs to be gracious to you;        he rises to show you compassion.        For the LORD is a God of justice.        Blessed are all who wait for him!  (Isaiah 30:18 ‘The Message’)God has been awakening something deep inside me that I’ve been protecting myself from for many years.  I have become aware, partly through this blog, that my particular wounds have cut me off from God’s compassionate heart.  Unable to feel compassion for myself.  Unable to accept compassion from others.  Unable to feel authentic sympathy for people.  Unable to believe that the words spoken by Isaiah could represent how God feels toward me.  He longs to be gracious?  He rises to show compassion?  I wish there were an easier way.  But intimacy, friendship, relationship, love… are just meaningless words unless we can share our pain as well as pleasure.  God wants honesty from me; and I’m trying my best to get there.

Kobayashi Maru February 18, 2008

In Star Trek© II there’s a scene from a Star Fleet© Academy training simulation. The cadet doesn’t know it, but the simulation she’s in is a no-win scenario. No matter what action the cadet takes, she will lose. It’s called the Kobayashi Maru and it’s a requirement for graduation. The test is designed to see how the cadet faces death. Admiral Kirk tells her “The way we face death is at least as important as the way we face life.”
I have one memory that particularly haunts me. It’s not the worst thing that ever happened to me, but it tenaciously holds me in its grasp. It’s my Kobayashi Maru. When I was about fourteen, I was afraid of two people. I was afraid my brother would stab me with a knife and kill me. I don’t remember how I came to feel this fear, but I clearly remember feeling it. I was also afraid of my mother. I was afraid she would kill me by stopping me from breathing. I was afraid she would either hold something over my mouth and nose, stopping my breathing until I died, or that she would strangle me by putting her hands around my throat and pushing down until I was dead. Sometimes, she acted out killing me without going all the way. I could see that she desperately wanted to kill me, but that she was too afraid of the consequences to do it.
One day I made one of them angry. Really angry. Try as I might, I can’t remember which one it was. My memory fails me at that point. There was one safe room in the house. It was the only room that had a lock on the door. It was the bathroom. If I could make it to the bathroom, I could live. When I knew I was in danger I ran as fast as I could, and I made it. I just barely closed the door and locked it. The big angry person outside the door couldn’t get in, and I was safe. I sat down on the floor with my back against the wall and hugged my knees. I waited for the angry person to calm down, give up, and go away. They always did.
I waited and waited, but the pounding on the door didn’t stop. Instead the pounding and yelling grew louder. I sat there watching the door shake. The door began to strain. I nervously eyed the door jam by the lock. It began to bulge. I started to cry. Maybe I wouldn’t make it. Maybe the angry person would get in. Maybe I would die today.
I sat there crying and rocking and hugging my knees. I was terrified. Soon I realized I was crying too hard. I couldn’t get enough air. I gasped and gasped, but no air came. The harder I tried to breathe, the more I suffocated. I had hyperventilated.
I knew what to do when you hyperventilate. I was always the one who knew what to do. When you hyperventilate, you’re getting too much oxygen. You’re supposed to breathe into a paper bag. This tricks your body into thinking that you are breathing, but by taking in your own exhaled carbon dioxide, your body is able to bring the level of gasses in your blood back into a normal balance. Once you have a normal level of oxygen in your blood, your autonomous nervous system gives your lungs permission to breathe normally again.
I knew what to do. I needed to go to the kitchen and get a paper bag and breathe into it. It was simple, but it was impossible. If I unlocked the door and went out, I would probably die. The angry person was still outside the door, still pounding. I couldn’t go out. But I couldn’t stay in. I was there alone and I couldn’t breathe. My hard breathing only created a feedback loop which made breathing even harder. I was becoming dizzy and the edges of my sight were starting to blur. I began to think that if I stayed in the bathroom, I would die anyway. They would find me, dead and cold on the bathroom floor after they broke down the door because I had stayed in way too long. It was a no-win scenario. There was no solution. Kobayashi Maru.
That was the day I got my first headache. My headaches are like a toddler having a temper fit. The toddler lies down on the floor of the grocery store and screams, and the mother can’t go on until the toddler lets her. When I get a headache, my world stops. I can’t pretend I’m OK. All I can do is take painkillers, lie down on my bed, sandwich my head between two pillows and wait. I rest, I pray, and I submit to the pain. Sometimes I wake up in the morning after a headache ready to take back the reins of my life and discover that the headache is still there. It says, “I’m not done yet, you’re not ready yet, you haven’t learned yet.” Headaches are time-outs for grown-ups. I always come away from a headache a little bit smarter, and a little more determined not to get one again.
I get headaches when I’m in no-win scenarios. I get a headache when I’m forced to make one of two impossible choices. I get a headache when I’ve committed to do two things, but only have time for one. I get a headache when I’m forced to choose between two people I love. I get a headache when I’m forced to choose between being true to myself and being true to my Maker.
That last one is not real. It’s a figment of being raised by someone who told me what to think, what to want, and how to feel. It’s a phantom pain from an emotional limb that was amputated long ago. My head knows that God accepts my feelings. He created feelings and He expects me to feel them. My head knows this, but my heart denies it. So the headaches still come.

The Butterfly Lie continued February 15, 2008

I’d always believed that as the Lord healed my wounds I would one day be transformed from feeling like a caterpillar to being a butterfly. But I am coming to realize that since we do not live in a butterfly world perhaps we really are all just caterpillars- in metamorphosis….in process….we are in-process people. Perhaps that is what we are intended to be….maybe that is what we will always be.

Is it possible that as we journey throughout our personal metamorphosis our Heavenly Father sees us complete and perfect if we are Christians? I believe that God is not displeased or disappointed with us or even surprised that we are not completely perfected in our present lives. I am reminded of a quote I heard years ago that said God loves us so much that He accepts us right where we are. But He loves us too much to leave us right where we are at.

So maybe God has a plan for me, for you, His caterpillar Christians, and He calls it transformation. (the Greek word for transformation is metamorpheo)

Romans 12:2: And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God. So as I ponder this I am coming to understand that this transformation/metamorphosis is the result of a lifelong process of mind renewal.

For me, having lived so much of my life shame-based it is freeing to realize that I don’t need to settle anymore for a “transferred” life but instead seek to live a “transformed” life. And this is a continuous, lifelong process….shifting my devotion and obedience from the world and family rules to Christ Jesus and His truth. This is what sets me free to receive God’s gift of a new concept of myself based on His grace.     

Quoting author Sandra D. Wilson, she says: “One of God’s purposes for His children is that we renounce our loyalties and obedience to the ideas that shaped us and move into the “renewed” thinking that promotes our transformation process. A major piece of our old thinking includes the beliefs that shaped our personalities and concepts of self. God wants to bring us out of our painful, shame-full way of thinking and living. And this is where mind renewal and self-denial embrace. Part of denying ourselves means denying the old thinking patterns that molded us.”

The journey of recovering from perfectionist thinking and behaving is a process of continually making new choices based on truth. And the truth enables me to live free from the oppressive task master of perfectionism….always trying to live up to impossible high, self-imposed standards.

I will leave off here for now and talk more later about my personal mask of perfectionism.

The Butterfly Lie February 14, 2008

Do you often feel like a caterpillar in a world full of butterflies?

Meal times were always stressful in our home growing up. We never knew if it was going to be a peaceful mealtime or a time filled with stress. The mood of my uncle was our barometer. If he was in a good mood, then we were all in a good mood, laughing and joking. Yet we knew that atmosphere could change in an instant. So we learned to eat quickly and behave, never wanting to be the “one” to cause a sudden change in his mood.

One very vivid memory stands out in my mind. I believe this is where the lie of perfectionism took root for me. Or at least it ingrained it in my mind that day.

This particular mealtime was a happy one, peaceful even. We were enjoying our food and were somewhat relaxed that evening. I innocently asked for more milk. My uncle suggested that I pour my own glass.

In those few moments everyone waited to see what I would do. We all new this could be one of those times when we were being set up. If I refused to pour my own milk he could get angry, the mood broken. And if I chose to pour it myself and spilt the milk then there would be hell to pay.

 I made a decision and took my chance. I cautiously and with great care lifted the milk jug and poured milk into my glass, careful not to spill a drop. I, even at age 8, meticulously accomplished the task. I was quite proud of myself. But I should have known it wasn’t good enough.

Too late I realized my mistake. It mattered not that I’d poured the milk into the glass not spilling a drop, what mattered is that I didn’t hold the jug and pour it the way “he” thought I should….the façade of peace around the supper table exploded. My uncle, in an instant rage, began yelling in my face, spit flying from his mouth, eyes dark with anger and the next thing I knew the perfectly poured glass of milk was thrown in my face.

The rest of the family sat in stunned silence, too afraid to even breathe. I quietly and obediently sat still in my chair with milk dripping down my hair and face. All the while tears pouring from my eyes, silent tears as I uttered not a sound. I was too frightened to move, to speak, to breathe, because I knew if I did I would then feel the end of his cowboy boot as he sent me to bed without any supper.

And so we all finished our supper in silence. The jovial mood broken and it was my fault. Why could I do never do anything right? Why couldn’t I be perfect?

I was terrified of making choices. No matter what I did I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. That night as a little girl I learned that it was more important to be perfect than to be real. If only I had done it perfectly I would not have been hurt, and somewhere the lie took root that if I could live a perfect life then the pain would go away and I could avoid future pain.

…to be continued……

Letting Go of the Lie February 14, 2008

This is going to be short.  I just wanted to share a small victory I had today.  I wrote down a lie I had accepted about myself and set the paper it on fire.  It’s gone — the chains are broken and I am free!             May we all look at ourselves with our Father’s compassionate heart!         Peace! 

Love For What It’s Worth February 9, 2008

Have you ever seen the ‘Antiques Roadshow’?  People wait in line for hours with their old musty trinkets to ask an expert in a big auditorium how much their stuff is worth.  Then an old guy with glasses comes on and says something like, ‘at auction this item could bring anywhere from 3,000 to 5,000 dollars.’  It often leaves me wondering how close the guy’s estimate really was.  It’s not like we can go back and complain like we can with the weather report.  Hearing his guess is not very satisfying.  I’ve gotta know, how much is old Aunt Sally’s broach really worth?  The answer is (as I’ve heard many times) it’s worth as much as someone is willing to pay for it.

How much is love worth?  Love must be given freely or it is not love.  Love under compulsion is repackaged fear.  In order for true love to exist, we must be free.  And our freedom comes at a terrible cost.  Because if we are free to love we are also free to hate and from that hate flows every evil act that has been committed from the beginning of time.  In allowing evil to coexist with his beloved children God pays a terrible price for love.  That staggering price testifies to the truth that love is the most important, valuable, worthy, and precious commodity that exists in the universe.

We all pay for love everyday.  Every scar, every bruise, every dashed hope you’ve ever had is a payment you’ve made to allow love to exist in the world.  The price has been paid and the gift has been purchased and that gift has been placed in your hands to do with as you will.  What will you do with the gift of love?  Will you love for what it’s worth?

All That Glitters February 6, 2008

       My mother’s father is a very quiet man. While serving his country on a minesweeper in World War II, he learned several important skills that he still maintains to this day. He learned to eat rations. He learned to take 90 second showers. Most importantly, he learned to keep his head down and his eyes deep to avoid explosions.
     My grandmother, his wife, had toxic relationships with all five of her children. Her youngest daughter, my aunt, lived with her parents for several years without once speaking to her mother. They used grandpa as a giant human sticky note for the most important messages… “tell your wife I’m going out of town”… “tell your daughter I have cancer.”
     Like I said, grandpa never had much to say. Once when I was a young driver he gave me a piece of good advice. It was summer and grandpa and I were driving to a local strawberry farm to pick berries. I was still a little nervous about knowing when it was safe to pull out into traffic. Grandpa said, “If you wait long enough, it’ll be clear.” I call that Grandpa’s Law of Traffic. I got another nugget of wisdom from my uncle one day about kids’ art projects. I call it My Uncle’s Law of Glitter. He said, “No matter how much glitter you have, it’s too much!.” I have kids of my own now and I know how true that one is. I’ve got my Grandpa’s Law of Traffic and My Uncle’s Law of Glitter on a special shelf in a room inside of me. It’s my “I Wish I Had a Dad to Give Me Good Advice” room. There’s a lot of good stuff in that room: Aesop, Solomon, Tolstoy, the Reader’s Digest. I’ve been making deposits there since I was a kid.
     Since Grandma died, Grandpa started sending me Christmas Cards. He writes four words: “Merry Christmas, Love, Grandpa.” Grandpa turns 90 this year. I wonder how many more Christmas card’s there’ll be from him.
That makes me think about my dad. I see my dad regularly: about once every five years. We usually spend two days together. After two days we run out of things to say and one of us looks up and says, “Well, I guess I’ll be going now.” My dad’s now in his late sixties. I wonder how many more days there’ll be with him.
      I get jealous when I think about my dad. I’ve held a grudge against all girls named Melissa ever since the day my dad married her mom and she got to be with him instead of me. That marriage didn’t last very long, but I still feel jealous when I think about her. I’m jealous of the guys my dad worked with in the factory. They got to hear his corny jokes and his silly laugh day after day. My dad always laughs harder at his own jokes than anyone else in the room. Those guys had no idea what golden nuggets those laughs would have been for me. How I would have traded almost anything to be there to hear them.
     I guess the truth is I really miss my dad. I miss him in a way that even being with him cannot fix.

How Can I Keep from Singing? February 2, 2008

I have a version of this American hymn sung by the Rochester College A Cappella Chorus.  I can’t stop playing it.  It’s breathtakingly beautiful.  It feels a though the writer of the lyrics has walked with me on this journey to be at peace.  The original words to this hymn have entered the public domain so I’ll post them here:

My life flows on in endless song;
Above earth’s lamentation
I hear the sweet though far off hymn
That hails a new creation:
Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear the music ringing;
It sounds an echo in my soul—
How can I keep from singing?

What though my joys and comforts die?
The Lord my Savior liveth;
What though the darkness gather round!
Songs in the night He giveth:
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that refuge clinging;
Since Christ is Lord of Heav’n and earth,
How can I keep from singing?

I lift mine eyes; the cloud grows thin;
I see the blue above it;
And day by day this pathway smoothes
Since first I learned to love it:
The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart,
A fountain ever springing:
All things are mine since I am His—
How can I keep from singing?

The Fire February 1, 2008

Outside.  Running down the hill in my bare feet.  Cool grass between my chubby toes.  Warm sun on my round face.  I was a good girl.  I was a smart girl.  I was a pretty girl.  They all said so. 

Inside.  The special room.  Straight even lines on the carpet.  Clear plastic on the couch.  Glass shelf.  Shiny things.  They were for looking not for touching.  One was round and clear and sparkly.  I wanted to hold it.  I imagined picking it up and feeling its weight in my hands. Oops.  Warm heavy feeling in the back of my pants.  Accident.  Other things on the shelves.  One looked like a deer.  It looked very pointy but I wouldn’t touch.  I would just pretend.  Grown ups talking.  They liked to do that.  That child is old enough to sit on the toilet like everyone else.  If that were my kid I’d rub her nose in it.

My arm pulled HARD.  We walked FAST to the bathroom.  The door slammed SHUT.  Her face was RED.  Her voice was LOUD.  Her hands were SHAKY.  Her words came FAST.  My pants came off rough.  Her hands held me down.  Bad smell.  Warm smelly poop on my nose, my cheeks, my forehead.  Final raging words:  “IF YOU ACT LIKE A DOG I’M GONNA TREAT YOU LIKE A DOG!”

At that moment a new sensation burned in my heart that I had never felt before.  It started as a spark, then grew to a small flame, and finally became a raging wildfire.  Before I knew it the forest of joy, love, and optimism that grew there became an empty, smoking landscape.  The hungry fire consumed every inch.  Although good feelings would take root and sprout again, they were mere shoots, not the tall glorious trees that once grew.  And the fire’s name was Shame.