Emily Wierenga invited her readers to answer this question: “Would you hang out with your younger self?” I’ve been mulling that one over for a week now. . . and here’s where I landed.
I can see you in my mind’s eye: tall and awkward, outspoken and uncertain and so worried about keeping all the rules. The ones summed up in your mom’s favorite half-joke: “Beware the unguarded moment.”
So that’s what you spent a lot of time doing, isn’t it? Staying on guard. Yet, as I recall, it came sort of naturally to you. Number one child to parents you adored, big sister to two brothers, one right behind you and one far back. You learned early to be bossy, to take charge, to direct events in your small world.
There was a circle of girl friends in high school, mostly the brainy kids, but not all. And there was the church. Oh my, yes, there was the church. As wary of leadership as you were in the school setting, you jumped in with both feet at church. You felt safe there, bounded, encouraged. The youth group was large and active, about 200 kids. And there were adults who cared about you, who invested in your formation as a Jesus-follower, and who knew how to have fun.
You went to confirmation and memorized pieces of the catechism and became a voting member of the congregation at the ripe old age of 14. And you sat in the balcony of that beautiful old Gothic brownstone, writing notes to your friends and trying hard to stifle the giggles. Yet much of the message somehow got through all that stifling and note-writing. You were blessed to hear the sweet notes of grace mixed in with the heavy bass line of rules, and, over time, that’s the tune that stayed with you the longest.
Sadly, however, you did not learn how to sing that song to yourself very well. Yeah, that nasty inner critic started a long, long time ago, amplified by the anxieties and expectations of others.
I look at pictures of you from back then and I sigh loudly. You were quite lovely, but you hadn’t a clue. Not one. All you could see were the bumps at the top of your thighs, the terribly dry skin, the bigness of your frame. Insecurities ran rampant in your spirit and you didn’t date much. Somehow the ones you liked never reciprocated and vice versa. You didn’t get your first kiss until the summer after high school graduation and you liked it. Yeah, you liked it.
Laughter you were good at. And singing. You loved being in those choirs! It got you out of the hothouse world of the brainiacs and threw you in with a group of people who thought differently about life and who were also loads of fun.
Athletics? Fuggedaboutit. I remember that you were marginally successful at badminton and bowling (yes, we had a bowling team at our high school) but everything else pretty much terrified you. There was always that fierce, gut-level fear of any round object coming at you, which pretty much pushed all kinds of team sports into the does-not-perform-well category. And performance was key.
You were a good girl. You did what was asked and expected. You were frightened to color outside the lines and you did not kick against the pricks. Occasionally, you wished you lived a more dramatic life, that you had a kick-ass conversion story to tell, an I-drank-til-I-was-blotto-every-night-until-Jesus-saved-my-soul story.
But that story is not yours. The boring story – that’s the one that belongs to you.
But, here’s the thing, honey. Your story is just fine as it is. Just fine. And yes, I would hang out with you. You were an interesting person, with a mind that was always searching and a heart that was always reaching. You didn’t do either of those things perfectly, but you gave it a mighty good shot. When I first began to think about you and the calm adolescence you enjoyed, the only adjective that sprang to mind was the one I’ve already given you: ‘boring.’ B O R I N G.
The longer I live, though, the more I know that boredom is not necessarily a bad thing.
Sometimes, the drama queens flame out. Sometimes, the rebels do themselves irreparable harm. Sometimes, the straight-arrow, follows-the-rules, never-really-rebels girl ends up with a very good story, indeed. Because grace is still grace and God’s love is most certainly still God’s love, and even the good girls need it desperately.
And then came college — a big, multi-cultural university — and that changed your life in every way I can think of. You still followed most of the rules – that piece didn’t shift until your late 30’s, and even then, it was more about busting stereotypes than breaking rules. But in college, you began to come into your own and most importantly, you began to own your own life, and to see it as God’s unique and holy gift to you. Baby steps at first, but over the next two decades, those strides became bigger and more confident.
We’re still workin’ on that inner critic, still trying to sing the melody of grace in every situation, to every person, including us. Because you, dear, sweet, innocent girl — you are a part of me, forever. Because of who you were then, I am who I am now. Not perfect — not even close — but still searching, still reaching, and still laughing. (And singing occasionally, too.)
Can you see her in there? If I squint, I can just make her out.
“Because grace is still grace and God’s love is most certainly still God’s love, and even the good girls need it desperately.” Yes! and it took me awhile to get over my “boring” story, but eventually I recognized mine as the long and agonizing conversion to the “older brother” type found in Luke 15.
Thanks for adding to the conversation, Diana. Responding to Emily’s prompt produced compassion in me toward my younger self, and that was a blessing.
So sorry for the confusion around the posting of this month’s contribution, Kelly! Somehow, I goofed and it went live last week instead of onto the schedule. So I went in and took it down and you, quick-draw Chripczuk, had already been here! Thanks for your encouraging words – and I’m glad you had a similar response to emily’s query. I think all of our younger selves need our adult compassion – growing up is not easy. (and neither is growing old!!)
Yes, and it feels like reflecting on that adult compassion (hopefully!) deepens my compassion for my oh-so-un-adult children. Another cause for gratitude.
Yes, quick-draw, at a keyboard anyway, none of us introverts are quick-draws in real life.
Lovely, Diana, both then and now.
Thank you, Bethany. So, would you hang out with your younger self? I found that an interesting question to consider. . .
Love this, Diana.
Thanks, Jess. Always glad to see your sideways glance in that avatar. :>)
oh Diana. so beautiful the way you have accepted yourself, even back then. i feel like most of my life is spent reacting to whatever i just ‘came out of’ with passion. like trying to chop off that part that i see now was wrong, instead of giving grace to the self of old, who did what she could.
your presence is so valuable in the blogging community. thank you for sharing yourself.
‘giving grace to the self of old, who did what she could.’ EXACTLY. Thank you for these kind and good words, Kelli. I’ve spent a lot of years (and a fair amount of money, too!!) learning to accept the various pieces of my own story, my own self. And it is one of the strongest calls of the Spirit on my life to help others do the same with themselves. Mercy is a quality we do not easily extend to our very flawed selves – but this is what we’re promised, this is what we’re given in the great gospel story we share. And that mercy needs to start with us if it is to be authentic when offered to others. I think maybe that’s why the 2nd commandment includes the words, ‘as yourself.’
I have been struck recently too, Kelli, by my own habit of “dismembering” myself, not just in the past, but in certain settings, but I think something about redemption is a re-membering process, so that nothing is lost, only transformed.
Madeleine L’Engle used that very phrase -’re-membering’ in one of her books in telling a story about receiving communion. The gathered body remembers – and re-members itself in that loverly ritual. And nothing is ever lost in God’s economy — over time, it is all redeemed. I believe that, with my whole heart.
Another highly meaningful post, Diana. Our former selves shared many of the same experiences–early conversion, the desire to please, fitting in best at church within an active youth group, mentoring by mature, caring adults, etc. My older self can serve up grace to my younger self because I now realize: no one reaches perfection–especially before age eighteen! Yes, I made some foolish choices and mistakes, but God has redeemed my life. His grace has indeed been sufficient to guide me, persevere with me, and forgive. Hallelujah!
Thank you, Nancy. SO true – we are not (and cannot) be perfect, only in process. And I’ll join you in that hallelujah.
You are still quite lovely, you do know that, don’t you? And it’s more than skin deep. I think boring is the best testimony. Good and faithful. That’s what the boring will be called
You are so kind, Laura – always. Thanks for these good words – I’ll hang onto those a while.
I love Glynn cause he always sends me out on the net.
What a wonderful inward look this is — a what a good prompt by Emily. {that Emily –talk about a smart cookie for one so young].
So much of what you wrote reminds me of my older sister — I was the youngest, and well, pampered, protected, and looked at differently — but my sister took on the role of responsibility in our family, a role she didn’t necessarily love bud did.
Your transparency — your willingness to lay it out — I clap for —
I’m glad I visited. I’ll need to bookmark you. Hugs.
Thanks so much, Harriet. And I’ll need to scurry over and thank Glynn for the mention!
Miss Diana, this was great, not boring, just great. I’m glad to read your words… it’s been a long time.
Blessings.
Thank you, Darlene. I appreciate your stopping by. And it has been a long time.