People tell me I'm an open book, and I see where they're coming from- I'm honest and affectionate and my heart is eternally on my sleeve, whether I like it or not. And yet for all the talking I do, for all the Something my words are able to create out of Nothing, I am somewhat hidden away.
I love words. I am fascinated by their ability to build stories in the same way a musician puts notes together to create a song. Writing is my instrument. Words are the music I make. Words can create beauty in one sentence and tear down someone's castles in the air in the next. Words set me free- I process my emotions by writing them down or talking them out.
At the same time, however, words hold me back. I spend more time talking about what I should do then actually doing it. I write whole to-do lists that never get crossed off. I am the talker, the motivator of others who sits tentatively in the corner, writing furiously about a life she is too scared to try living because she can't let herself make mistakes.
I guess you could say I'm a terrified perfectionist with a desperate craving for love. I aim so entirely for the approval of others that I don't quite know what it means to live. My life is centered around how I look to other people, and I've spent so damn long trying so damn hard- to be the good role model, the perfect daughter, the best friend, the Christlike young woman. I wanted to be perfect, and when I made mistakes I let them haunt me, lurking perpetually at the corners of my memory like monsters that only come out at the most inconvenient times. I expected other people to be perfect as well, and when they inevitably messed up I subconsciously held it against them, festering all the deeper my stubborn pride and self-righteousness behind a facade of calm naivety.
I'm a pretty crappy Christian. I expected perfection -from myself, from those around me, from the world- because I thought God couldn't love what wasn't perfect. I completely ignored the presence of the grace which is so central to the faith I profess.
My middle name is Grace. My full name literally means "victory in grace." I think God had a hand in my parents' picking of my name. He foreknew my struggle, just as He foreknows what tomorrow will bring and when the first snow of this winter will come and who I will marry. He knew I'd suffer from not comprehending the depth of His grace, and that as soon as I began to feebly grasp its concept I would be set free, unbridled and blameless to share in His victory. I have lived nearly nineteen years with the answer to my anxious battle right under my nose- typed neatly on my birth certificate, scrawled on the inside cover of my beloved Jane Austen novels, printed boldly on the abundance of mail I received from the college of my dreams. There is power in this mess of grace, and that power is the ability to bravely live, unafraid of making mistakes because God's forgiveness is incomprehensibly vast.
I need to let go. I have to love other people, especially when they mess up. Sometimes all you can do is watch as the glass rolls off the countertop and shatters into a million pieces, trusting that the mess will get cleaned up eventually. I cannot save people, only Jesus can.
I have to be brave enough to admit that I am not alright. I am very tired and broken and far from good. I have had my innocence completely stripped away and that's okay. This world isn't perfect, and what happened to me was inevitable- I need to stop running from my past, because the longer I run the longer I let it dog me. I am not the perfect daughter. I set a crappy example. I can be a terrible friend. I misrepresent Jesus on a daily basis. And, you know what? Thank God. His intention was for me to be imperfect- if I was blameless, I wouldn't need Him. And I need to need Him as much as I need to breathe.
I can make a few mistakes, and that's okay. I am allowed to be wrong. To be wrong is to be alive, and I anticipate the start of my living as I anticipate my ability to look back one day and say I lived, and I loved well, and the grace of God was my safety net that caught me every time I fell on my face.
