Step

"Change has to come for life to struggle forward."

  ~Helen Hollick, The Kingmaking

I wrote, some months ago, about the new reality that can be created in our lives by "hit-and-run" experiences.  In that post, I talked about how the survivors of these experiences must work to get to our feet and walk away, to live in the new "after". The thing that is necessary to do so, I said, is constant forward motion. 

Sometimes that forward motion comes in sudden, drastic jerks and leaps--sometimes in small, subtle increments--but either way, as we put one foot in front of the other, we move farther and farther away from the conditions, relationships, and surroundings of the past, and into a new and changing landscape.

In the wake of life-altering moments, many changes tend to come in rapid succession, and often they are unwelcome, unwanted, and even unpleasant. When this happens, we tend to look for refuge in stability. We neither want, nor make, any unnecessary changes—we have all we can do just to adapt to the ones that have been thrust upon us. And for a time, this resistance provides a good and necessary protection.

The refuge of stability has been my watchword for the last four years. I have kept my house, raised my boys, done my job. I’ve devoted myself to the making of a home, the welfare of my family, and the things that are mine to sustain and care for. I have minded my business. But the present becomes the past with surprising speed, and almost before it seems possible, we survivors can find ourselves living in what we once--seemingly such a short time ago--considered the unknowable future. And in the future, where we are now residents, change must come.

Many of you have asked me, over the last couple of years, about seeing someone new. You have known that I’m not out looking. I’ve told some of you—probably all of you—“I’m too old to date.” You’ve argued with me. (And I love you too, kind people.) But I meant it. To be clear, what I have meant by this is that I am no longer in a season of life where it is appropriate, desirable, or in any way appealing to seek out a stranger, whose character, history, and integrity are unknown to me, for the purpose of starting a relationship. I am not a young woman with my life ahead of me and nothing to lose. Too many of my years have already passed, and the ones that remain are too precious to gamble away in that manner--or maybe I simply understand their value better than I did when I was young. Besides, I am no longer traveling alone. I have my boys, and not only do I no longer have the time or the interest to spend in discovery, but any risk to my traveling companions is an unacceptable one. Any possible new relationship for me has meant someone who would be a known quantity--in character, in faith, in integrity, and as a friend and advocate for both me and my children. But I have believed, in the past four years of living and parenting alone, that in the future there would somehow be room for a new relationship in my life. In some ways, I suppose the future is where I expected it to remain. However, the future, almost without my knowing it, has crept up on me.

Stepping out, however slowly, into change, is a good development. Moving forward is what accomplishes the work of healing. But the work of healing, for all of us, is messy, and even when it brings long-term rewards, they are not without accompanying risks. Confusion, fear, grief, and pain are the companions of the joy, gratitude, and healing that are within reach if we can embrace the change in front of us.

It’s easy to understand, I think, how intimidating the future can sometimes seem. Navigating the unknown is always uncertain, often confusing, and sometimes downright scary. For example, the practical considerations in learning to approach an existing friendship in a new way are puzzling. A lot of odd conversations happen, especially around events of common interest, or with mutual friends, that we are now going to together, but both would have attended separately in any case. (My favorite? “How Will We Know We Are At This Thing Together”. Notice who we are concerned about making it clear to. We just do not know how to do this.) But change creates complexities for everyone, and this means that in addition to the confusion and uncertainty of finding a new path forward for myself, there can be anxiety and even fear when it comes to involving others. There is something intimidating about initiating a change in the way others understand my situation; and I’m discovering it can be even more complicated for friends and family to absorb the shift in an existing relationship than it might be to simply accept the presence of a whole new person in my life. Other people’s reactions to change in our lives can be a scary-seeming unknown that rivals, or even exceeds, our own.

In the face of all this, staying safely in the status quo can seem appealing. But not only would that mean missing out on what the future might have to offer, it’s only in moving forward that we discover the hidden things that have been holding us back. The older I get, the more I learn that approximately 73% of conquering fear is just figuring out what you are afraid of. In my case, I have been both surprised and alarmed to discover how much I have believed that moving into the future would somehow demonstrate proof of a lack of commitment to the past. I remind myself forcibly of someone who has suffered the death of a person close to them, and who fears that letting go of their grief will say to the world—and to themselves—that they never really cared for the one they have lost. I have had to realize, as I find myself waiting with fear for that judgement to come, that it exists only in my own heart. It has been difficult work to learn that, unless I can free myself of its expectation, staying safely sheltered in the sameness of the present is simply a way of making my life a shrine to the past.

And the past—oh, the past. Braving the uncertainty of the future and rejecting the false security of the present can be nothing to facing the pain of the past. Healing from old hurts is difficult enough when they are the only things in view, but they can bring pain in a whole new way when they are thrown into sharp contrast with new experiences. That first confirmation of a reality that has never been yours is like nothing else I know of; little compares to the surprise, the disbelief, and yes, I might even say the wonder--but few things can cause you to realize more deeply the extent of your loss. As a result, every moment of joy that comes with a step forward into the new and good can bring with it deep accompanying sadness over wounds inflicted and time lost; tears of gratitude are often equally mixed with those of grief. And yet, as always, there is no way out of our past but through. Full healing can never come until we have discovered the full extent of our wounds. And often, it's our very woundedness that refines us for the life that follows, deepening our wisdom, and heightening our appreciation.

Long after we have picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off, and walked away from the wreckage, the promise of what might be requires us to keep moving, forward through struggle, uncertainty, and fear, feeling our way into the unknown, and ready to meet whatever obstacles we find there. If that's to be possible, this is what we have to know--our past doesn't need to define our present, but we can use what it teaches us to work toward our future. And thankfully, we don't have to have it all figured out to take a step.

On Politics And Promises

I have a favor to ask. But before you get nervous, don't worry, what I have to say may not apply to you. For the moment, I want to speak only to my own faith community, to those who consider themselves Christians of any denomination, and are therefore my spiritual family. Brothers and sisters, this is for us.

I try, so hard, not to talk about politics. But this year, things are different. They have escalated to the point of being unavoidable, and there is something I really need to ask. It's about the way we are talking during this election season.

You may be voting, or not voting, for any political candidate for any of the following reasons:

• National security 
• Globalism or nationalism 
• Constitutional interpretation 
• Tax policy 
• Education 
• Military spending or deployment 
• Fiscal conservativism 
• More/less expansive role of government 
• Second amendment issues 
• Border security 
• Healthcare 
• Supreme Court concerns

I'd like to ask you to remember, as you speak publicly about your choice, that all of the above are political issues, not spiritual ones.  There is no Scripture anywhere that dictates a stance on these matters; they are subjects of liberty, not of doctrine. They are important issues, to be sure, and your opinion on them is important also, but it is just that--your opinion. Be intentional about making the distinction.

Also, when you talk about opponents of your candidate, or you disagree with others who support a different candidate, please do so with a respect that is becoming of you, whether or not you think it is deserved by the person you're speaking of or with. Choose substance and compassion over insults and mockery. Avoid name-calling. Don't openly revel in things that cause harm or pain, even to those with whom you disagree. Be intentional about using language that shows your allegiance to your King, not your candidate.

You may be wondering why I think I can ask you this. And as a sister in our shared faith, I would have ample grounds to implore you not to jeopardize the reputation and integrity of the church, by binding her to such concerns, or doing so with loose and unbecoming talk. But the reason I am asking is actually much more personal.

You see, you are helping me raise my children. You are the community of faith with whom I have surrounded them, the models I have given them for growing up to be faithful men of God in a broken and hurting world. We are a team, you and I. This business of raising them is hard work, and I can't possibly do it on my own; it really does take a village, and you are the village we live in. And what I want for them is to be strong and healthy, to be independent and mature. I want to raise men who think deeply and carefully about the important things, and consider all points of view. I want them to know that there is sometimes more than one right opinion to have about things, and there is always more than one worth understanding. I want them to learn from you, not what to think, but how. I want them to use the language of love and respect, not the language of hate and fear.  I want them to cling, tenaciously, to the essential truth of the Gospel--which means knowing that the way of Christ is grace over law, compassion over dogma--and when what they're hearing isn't Gospel, I want them to know the difference.

They will learn these things, not just by looking to me, but by looking to you. When you conflate political opinion with spiritual wisdom, you confuse and mislead them. When you talk to and about others in ways that we would correct and discipline in the classroom or the schoolyard, you invite them to do the same. These are the ways we break their trust, let them down, lead them astray. We cannot continue.

I understand it is a lot to ask, for both of us, but this is our responsibility to each other. This is what you promised me, what we promised each other, when we accepted each other into this family, this body of Christ. When I stood there before you as a new mother, hopeful and terrified, with my babies in my arms, I asked for help for a task that was beyond me, asked for a host of mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, to nurture and teach and raise my sons in the faith, and the preacher asked for the ones who would watch over this child, and all of you answered with one voice, "We will." You pledged yourselves to me, and I trusted you with my little ones, who are little no more. Please, church. Keep your promise.

That's Just Perfect

This OCD joke is everywhere now--mugs, memes, t-shirts, and even on an embroidered pillow I saw--but the first time I encountered it was at least 10 years ago, before all that, when it was a cartoon in Reader's Digest. A friend of mine, waiting in the dentist's office, read it, and told me later, "I saw this--it made me think of you!" I guess maybe it was because she had been present to see the look on another friend's face when, on an earlier occasion, they were browsing through my recipe box, and the second friend suddenly asked in consternation, "Wait. Are these in alphabetical order?"

OK, so I have a bit of a reputation. I like things a certain way. The right way.

I like to think of myself as a "recovering perfectionist", however. I hope I'm getting better. After all, I only spent *cough numberofminutes cough* looking for a version of this meme with proper punctuation! Seriously, though, I admit that the siren song of perfectionism has always held a certain lure for me. There is something so appealing about the idea of doing everything perfectly right. And perfectionism, although a futile pursuit, is one that our culture affirms and even idolizes.

Sometimes I think that those of us who are prone to perfectionism tend to think that the only thing wrong with the desire to be perfect is that it's impossible. We all know we can never get there, and that trying will ultimately prove futile. But the truth is, I think it doesn't even matter that perfection is impossible to attain, because even if we could accomplish it, I think we'd find that the accomplishment would let us down. Here's why.

1.  Perfect doesn't touch what we need it to touch.

When we think about being perfect, we have the idea that it means always being right, and always doing right. But in actual fact, to be truly perfect requires something different. Real perfection is not about "rightness"--moral self-improvement. That kind of perfection is actually a lowering of standards, because it's only superficial; it's on the outside. Real perfection would be through and through. In order to be truly perfect, we would need something to touch much deeper--to perfect our hearts, our souls. To make us patient, kind, joyful, humble, forgiving, unselfish. We would need not only to be right, but to be good.

Our real struggle for perfection, then, is over the primacy of self. Removing ourselves from the place of greatest importance is the only path to genuine goodness of heart. And, in a supreme irony, this is the one act that perfectionism will never allow us, because at its heart, perfectionism is all about self. The relentless pursuit of our desire to justify ourselves by our own means, through our own efforts, will yield nothing but an obsession with ourselves and our own outward appearance.

2.  Perfect can't grow what we want it to grow.

But what if I'm mistaken? What if we can achieve goodness through striving for perfection? People smarter than I have certainly thought so. Benjamin Franklin, for example, went to great lengths to record his detailed plan for mastering 13 essential virtues of the heart, including humility. However, I think on deeper examination, we have to acknowledge that even Franklin had to accomplish his plan through trial and error--and it turned out to be a lot of error. In fact, if you read Franklin's journal, you'll find that one of the primary things he learned during his attempt was finding himself "so much fuller of faults than I had imagined", and that is a very important piece of discovery. And in the end, not only does Franklin conclude that it is impossible for him to reach the perfection of virtue he has been striving for, but that, with regard to the problem of pride in particular, "even if I could conceive that I had completely overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility."

So we see that even if we look deeper, past external self-improvement, to a higher standard or different definition of perfection, the virtues we then value can't be developed through a self-focused act of the will. We might, as Franklin says he did, make some improvement in the mastering the appearance of them, but not the substance. Patience, humility, perseverance, resilience, grace--all these are traits borne of suffering, trials, discomfort, surprise. In order to really grow and change, we have to mess things up, make fools of ourselves, fall down and get back up. We can't become the person we envision without making mistakes. True perfection--or the closest thing we can reach--is only arrived at through the experience of our own imperfection.

3.  Perfect won't do what we want it to do.

But why do we really want to be perfect anyway? I think it's because the idea of perfection isn't appealing only as an end in itself--its attraction is in what we think it will do for us. Deep down, we somehow believe that if we just do everything right, we can somehow make everything else go right too. Perfectionism is an effort to gain control, over ourselves and over our circumstances. If we can just do everything exactly right, we can make sure of the outcomes for the people, interactions, situations, and relationships that make up our lives. Things will always go the way we hope. Certainly, at least, no one will ever be able to look down on us, criticize us, be angry with us, or dislike us if we are perfect. Being perfect will make us good enough, in our own eyes and in the eyes of others. In other words, we believe that our perfection will protect both our loved ones and ourselves from the unexpected, the undesirable, and from failure, pain, and rejection.

The unfortunate truth is that perfection can't cause any of this to happen, or keep any of it from happening. Life is unpredictable, and the world is sometimes a painful and scary place. Bad things happen. They happen to us, and to the people we love. Sometimes this is because we make mistakes, but not always. Sometimes it's because other people make mistakes. And sometimes it's just the way the world is. It's broken, and we can never fix it all on our own. We can only do our best, and even then, even if our best was perfect, it is no guarantee that things will go right, or that others will love us, accept us, or approve of us. As long as we live as broken people in a broken world, there will be tragedy and loss--we will hurt each other, and things that no one understands will sometimes happen. No matter how perfect we are, nothing can change this.

So what can we say then? If the pursuit of perfection is empty, what good can we take away? I think there is still something. The beauty in the complete barrenness, the empty promise that is perfectionism, is that it reminds us who we are. We are the Beloved. And as the Beloved, it is not our job to do any of the things we have tried to accomplish through our own perfection. We cannot save ourselves from pain, failure, or loss; we cannot make ourselves loved, accepted, respected; we cannot ensure that everything in our world will go right; and we do not have to. We were not created for this purpose. As the Beloved, we were created to be loved. And so we are. We need do nothing to earn it, and nothing that we or anyone else can do, say, or think, can change it. Our value is secure--our welfare is assured. Perfection can never offer us either.