30 Going on 13

It really started in junior high. As a 4’7” painfully scrawny, be-speckled and braces-clad principal’s daughter who hadn’t grown into her red curls or out of children’s clothes and was more interested in Shakespeare than snogging boys, I knew what it was to be teased and ostracized. Every day was a circus sideshow act of name-calling, pitying looks, and ridicule. So I got tough. I got good at not caring and letting it roll off me like water off a duck’s back. When girls brayed at me like a donkey in the hallway, “imitating” my singing ability, I’d look them straight in the eye and deadpan, “I’m sorry, do you have something in your throat? Cause you might want to have that checked out.”

That attitude carried me through high school and even into my early college years. I was hard as nails. Disappointing, heart wrenching betrayals by so-called friends and my first real love only hardened me more. I lived up to the redheaded temper stereotype and was proud to do it. I was fiercely loyal to people I loved, but break my trust once, and we were done. Look twice at the boy I was interested in, and it was all-out war. I sussed out other girls’ insecurities and failings with one glance and was quicker with a bitingly snarky (and scathingly true) one-liner than anyone else. Dynamite comes in small packages. You know not with whom you mess.

Then God called me to England as a college junior in 2003. And there, He broke me.

After enduring loneliness like I never knew possible, and then finding an incredible church full of the Holy Spirit and genuine, loving Christian friends, I came back from England humbled and softened. It didn’t happen overnight, though - I was broken for a long time. It took another two years for Him to fully strip away (most of) my volatility and split-second instincts to act defensively and push people away. But He did it…because He brought me, and still continues to bring me, closer and closer to Himself. I pray He never gives up on me.

I recently had an experience where I felt like I was back in junior high. It blindsided me a bit, to be honest. Back amidst those girls who shared despising glances and turned their backs to me. Except now, we’re 30. (Well, I’m not, yet. Heh.)

And it broke me all over again.

My heart ached at the silence, the coldness, the obvious dislike, when I wanted so very much to be liked. I bristled at a “joking” comment about my height. I felt awkward, unwelcome, out of place. Worst of all, I felt it creeping back up again - my old hardness, my walls of defense. It wounded me. I know all too well how to play this game…but I couldn’t. Not now, not again. So instead of throwing out biting, passive aggressive comments shrouded in the fuzzy, prickly sweater of sweetness, I bit my tongue. All I had done the whole day before was pray for God to work through me, to speak through me, to give me grace and maturity and peace. And by Heaven, I was going to stick by that - even if it meant I didn’t say a single word the whole time.

Instead, I stood back and listened. Listened to the insecurity. The fear. But more than anything else, I heard myself in their dialogue. Myself, eight years ago. Myself, trembling in terror. Desperately trying to one-up the other girl. Desperately trying to make myself look better. “You stay away from my future husband!” I know I said that at 20, probably verbatim, about my now ex-boyfriend. Myself, striving to do anything I had to do if it meant my own “happy ending” would just be within reach. It shocked and humbled me.

I couldn’t say anything. I went home feeling numb, with pain and yet also with a strange sense of relief. When I crawled into bed that night, I crawled up into God’s lap and asked Daddy to hold me.

Don’t get me wrong, I still get angry and jealous and insecure sometimes – a lot, actually – but now, it only hurts. It aches. It’s not right, and God swoops in and convicts me within seconds. I back down from arguments rather than starting them. When snarky comments roll off my tongue, they burn on the way out. If I start getting at all puffed up with myself and my own virtues, God wastes no time in very obviously reminding me of my quite helpless estate and utter dependence on Him.

I know what it is to be that girl. I know exactly how all of that feels. And praise Jesus, thanks to my merciful, loving Daddy and Lord, it’s taken more than two decades, but I’m not that girl anymore.

...or just this one.

"...and it doesn't matter if I have ten thousand more moments like this... or just this one." -Love and Other Drugs

As I watched this movie on Friday night and Anne Hathaway paused in the middle of that line, I whispered "or just this one" before she even said it. I was pretty pleased with myself - maybe I had actually learned something in the years I spent studying screenwriting. Well, I'll be darned.

But I didn't learn that in a classroom.

So many of us find it easy to pray when things are confusing or troubling or don't make sense, but forget to thank God when He rains down blessings on us. It's taken a long time and a lot of trials, but most of the time, now, I remember.

Most of the time, now, I nearly fall to my knees in gratitude when He gives me even the smallest of moments - a story of mine that results in tears of laughter, a hug like one I've had hundreds of times before. Little, fleeting moments that I will cherish forever.

Because I know things change. People change. Circumstances change. People fall out of my life for one reason or another, leaving a hole where they once were and leaving me missing them terribly. All I can do is play through the video recorder in my mind of those moments we shared, and praise God that He blessed me so very generously with them at all.

And so, Daddy, I want to say thank You. Thank You so, so very much for the moments You've given me, whether I get ten thousand more...or just this one.

Saturday Morning Teatime: The Sick Girl

I rented "Love and Other Drugs" from Redbox last night. (Be warned, if you're interested in seeing it - it's rated R for a reason.) I found it to be, albeit heavily peppered with sex, very deep and emotionally charged. It's nothing like a "typical" romantic comedy, that's for sure.

Anne Hathaway's character, Maggie, has early-onset Parkinson's and meets drug rep Jamie (Jake Gyllenhaal) at the doctor's office. They fall into a no-strings-attached fling which (predictably) deepens as the movie progresses. But, of course, Maggie's symptoms start to get worse, and will only continue to do so. Repeatedly throughout the film, she calls herself the "Sick Girl" and Jamie hears a lot of advice to find himself someone who's healthy, from her and from others, too.

(I'd go into a screenwriter's critique about how the script was, interestingly, far more centered on Jamie and his own personal bildungsroman than about Maggie at all - she was really just a catalyst - but I don't want to bore all you normal people out there. You've been spared!)

The "sick girl" thing, though, really got to me.

See, I was born six weeks prematurely and, after the incubator and then the oxygen tank at age 2 and the doctors telling my parents I wouldn't live until I was in elementary school and open heart surgery at age 5...well, I'm a stubborn little mule, it seems. And also, of course, God works mighty miracles! But I only ever got to an adult height of 4'10" and have suffered my entire life with severely reduced lung capacity. As a child and teenager, it was around 10% of normal - now, my pulmonologist tells me it's up to 50%. I take inhalers every day. I get winded a lot. Running and going up long flights of stairs can be challenging. Smoke and bonfires pose real threats if I'm not careful.

I'm like Maggie, though, in that I just want to get on with it. I can manage. I don't want to be treated differently or pitied. I don't act needy. I don't know any other way of life so I just live. It might take me a little more time to walk places (short legs also don't help that), but I'll get there.

Maybe it was the late hour, or the long week I've had, or lots of other reasons, but the climax of this movie really made me cry. Maggie cannot ask Jamie to take care of her as her Parkinson's gets worse, so she pushes him away. It takes him several weeks and a new job offer in another city, but he finally realizes he wants to step up to the challenge and goes to find her. She's on a bus to Canada with other patients who can't afford their medicine. He gets the bus to stop, and outside, they have this dialogue (with some slight edits on my part, by the way):

Jamie: I'm full of crap, okay? No, I'm...I'm knowingly full of crap. Because, uh...I have never cared about anybody or anything in my entire life. And the thing is, everybody just kind of accepted that. Like, "That's just Jamie." And then you! You. You didn't see me that way. I have never known anyone who actually believed that I was enough. Until I met you. And then you made me believe it, too. So, uh...unfortunately...I need you. And you need me.
Maggie: No I don't.
Jamie: Yes you do.
Maggie: No I don't.
Jamie: Yes, you do.
Maggie: Stop it, stop saying that.
Jamie: You need someone to take care of you.
Maggie: No, I don't!

Jamie: Everybody does.

Cue the waterworks.

And that's when I realized it. I'm not nearly as sick as a Parkinson's patient (praise God) and my condition isn't going to get any worse. But, as much as I hate to admit it, I'll always be just a little bit of a sick girl, too.

Turst and...what now?

Earlier in the year, I had a decision to make. After starting a new job in January and settling into it by March, my work schedule finally allowed me the time and opportunity to pursue an avenue that I’d been considering for awhile.

Now, I had to decide just whether or not to do it. I was rather indecisive about it, having gotten differing opinions from different friends, and I just wasn’t sure. I was leaning towards doing it simply (and, in my view, most importantly) because it felt like it would be a step in obedience to what God has spoken to me in the past - even though, despite my prayers for guidance, He had been uncharacteristically quiet on the matter.

And then, the very week I had to decide, I got some other news I didn’t really like and consequently concluded, well then, that settles that, I wasn’t going to do it. Decision made.

Truth be told, I was being a stubborn child. God hadn’t given me what I wanted, so I was just NOT. GOING. TO DO IT. Cross my arms. Stomp my feet. Harumph. So there.

I had all kinds of excuses why not. It’s time. It’s money. I’ve got so much else going on. I’m overwhelmed. I’m scared. I hadn’t gotten the direction to do it straight from God, as I usually do; in fact, I hadn’t heard from God about it at all. Maybe it wasn’t His will.

But the truth of the matter is, what I was really thinking was why should I do it when God hasn’t held up His end?

So there I was, sitting in a restaurant by my office, writing the previous post on soul mates, and God spoke.

“You’re lying.”

“What?”

“You’re lying to these people. You’re writing that you believe what I said and that you know I don’t lie. But you’re not acting like you believe. You don’t really believe.”

I was speechless.

That’s when He told me to do the thing I didn’t want to do. Clear as day. Do it. DO IT. It wasn’t even up for discussion. Doesn’t matter what it looks like. Doesn’t matter if I can’t see through the fog. Doesn’t matter what happens even in the next days, weeks, months, whatever. What matters is what He said, and that He doesn’t lie. And I am supposed to act in obedience. Do it anyway. Hold up my end of the bargain and trust Him to hold up His.

God kept speaking.

“Have I EVER lied to you?”

“…no.”

“Haven’t I prepared you for EVERYTHING that’s happened?”

“…yes.”

“Haven’t I done IMPOSSIBLE things in the face of IMPOSSIBLE odds?”

“…yes.”

“Haven’t I told you EVERYTHING you needed to know just when you needed to know it?”

“…yes.”

“Haven’t I blessed you in ways you never even imagined?”

“…yes.”

“Haven’t I ALWAYS COME THROUGH?”

“…yes.”

“All right then. So here it is. Right here, right now, I’m telling you to do it. DO IT.”

So I did.

One month ago tonight, I stepped out of my car onto the dirt parking lot at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary and headed towards my first ever seminary class.

I’m not sure I’d have done it if He hadn’t spoken to me so directly. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have. My mind was pretty solidly made up. But when I stepped onto that campus and walked past Binkley Chapel, the place where He has spoken to me and blessed me so many times before, it was as if I were stepping into the very center of the Holy Spirit. It was the same feeling I had the first time I stepped out of my car onto North Carolina soil almost four years ago and knew that’s where He was pointing for me to move.

It’s just one class so far - I’m not going for a Master’s of Divinity or anything (yet), but it’s about me being obedient to what He said. And honestly, I love it. Every single Thursday night, in that class, on that campus, God moves in my heart, and makes things clearer, and draws me closer to Himself.

I can’t see the future, but I do trust Him, and I’m so glad I listened. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t.

Obedience is trusting Daddy and doing what He says. Anyway.

Checks, Socks, and Souls

Do you believe in soul mates?

My married best friends do. They believe they were created for each other, prepared for each other, and brought together on purpose - that no one else in the world would be right for them.

Another good friend of mine doesn’t. He believes any number of people could be “the one” - that God cares more that we’re serving Him and working to advance His kingdom than whom exactly we marry.

I’ve been grappling with this question for a few months now. At a time in my life when disappointment and discouragement sit perched on my shoulders like snickering cohorts about the topic of romance (now there’s an image), I’ve written several drafts of this post in the past month and most of the time, I end up with the defeated conclusion of I don’t know.

But that’s not quite true.

I don’t believe in soul mates...I believe in God.

I believe that God does have a will, a plan, for each of our lives, based on how He created us and how He wants us to use the gifts and passions He’s given us to serve Him best. I believe when we commit our lives to serving Him, that plan rolls into action like a divine juggernaut.

I believe He does care who we marry, because He planned it all out from the start. He knew everything we would do and when we would do it and what would happen as a result. Not so our lives will all be fairy tales and we’ll have someone to “complete” us - hello, our Savior already does that! - but because He created us. He knows us. And He knows what - and who - is best for us to, in turn, best glorify Him.

For myself, I don’t have the faintest idea who that person is. All God says about it to me lately is, “Trust Me.”

But I know He knows, and I believe what He says. He does not lie and He keeps His promises. Now, in His time, He has to break the news to that poor, unsuspecting gentleman - whoever he is.

I just hope he likes short redheads.

I can wait.

In college, I had a gorgeous and really unique pair of brown wedge sandals that I loved. I left them at home as I traipsed around London for graduate school, and one day my parents forgot to close the door to my bedroom and our new puppy Jazzy ravaged my shoe collection, chewing my beloved brown sandals to pieces. I was inconsolable. I searched for a replacement pair for years - four, to be exact! - but none were quite as special as those. Finally, I found a pair on Payless' website and, after having to wait (for what seemed an eternity but was really about two weeks) for them to be available in size 5, I was able to snag them at a great deal. Totally worth the wait.

That's not even my best shoe story, though. Just this year, I discovered the pure shoe euphoria that is Nine West. Oh, my goodness. I found a pair of dark teal suede boots at their after-Christmas sale the likes of which I had only ever seen dancing through my imagination in those sweet moments before sleep. Best of all, I got them at 70% off - they were some of the least expensive boots I've ever bought! I was in boot nirvana - I never knew the boots that I was really waiting for until I found those. All other boots paled in comparison. I wore them to church today and I actively had to stop myself from staring at them in glee because of how marvelous they are.*

And so this afternoon, I decided to give myself a bear-hug to the soul with some therapy (ahem, mostly window) shopping, and excitedly made a beeline for Nine West again when I saw they were having a 40% off sale. I found a pair of lovely pink sandals the likes of which I've also been searching for for quite some time, but...but. But no. They were on sale, but see, the previous sale I'd experienced spoiled me. I know they'll go down more in price. I wasn't going to pay more for them than I paid for my beautiful boots. I looked at the sandals forlornly, even picked them up and petted them a little, but I knew they weren't coming home with me. Not yet. Not quite. If I give it just a few more weeks, maybe a few more months, they'll go on clearance like the boots. I know I'm risking them not being in my size, but it's a risk I'll take. If I'm meant to have them, I'll come back and they'll be further discounted and it'll be the right time and they'll be mine. And if they're gone, I wasn't meant to have them anyway, and God will give me better pink sandals that I can't even imagine yet.

I can wait. It'll be worth it.

I am still confident of this:
I will see the goodness of the LORD
in the land of the living.
Wait for the LORD;
be strong and take heart
and wait for the LORD. -Psalm 27:13-14

*My shoe love may be slightly exaggerated throughout this post, so please read with tongue firmly planted in cheek. But, uh, I have to say, those boots are pretty darn amazing.

Saturday Afternoon, um, Post-Teatime

I'm actually working on about five longer blog posts right now that I'll hopefully complete within the next couple of weeks, but I got moved to a new team at work last week and I've been concentrating on working hard and doing well there - cause, you know, First Impressions* and all that. Blog posts are forthcoming, though!

But, in the interest of starting a "regular feature" and wanting to stick with it longer than one week, I am gracing you all with my mind's meanderings today. You should really be trembling with anticipation.

So, I needed some Biblical encouragement on a decision I made this morning and did a quick Google search for Bible verses on character. I found this: "In the same way, their wives are to be women worthy of respect, not malicious talkers but temperate and trustworthy in everything." (1 Timothy 3:11) Timothy is referring to deacons' wives in this particular passage, but I think that all women are called to be this way. I've been mulling over it all morning. Character is so important, even though it's really difficult to develop and maintain because it involves maturity. I'm coming to see maturity as, bottom-line, a deep sense of real trust in God and the actions that result from that trust.

Also, the phrase "It will all come out in the wash" has been big for me this week. Sometimes, life gets really confusing and it seems like everything is upside down and not the way it's supposed to be. I've been around long enough to see things change and come full circle. That phrase makes a lot of sense to me.

But then I started thinking about "the wash" itself. Have you ever thought about the process your clothes go through in the washing machine? It's pretty intense. There are several steps - soaking, the actual washing (which involves the clothes being churned around in hot water and soap), rinsing, and the spin cycle. If I were a sock (and, let's face it, at my size, that's what I'd be), I'd be pretty traumatized at the idea of going through the washer. But then you take the clothes out and the stains are gone, the smells are gone, and everything is right again. Things that aren't meant to be there definitely do come out in the wash, but it takes a rather unpleasant washing to make that happen.

Hmmm. I wonder which step in the cycle I'm in right now.

Hope you've enjoyed my musings and that all that trembling you did was worth it!

*Pop Quiz: Of which famous Jane Austen novel was "First Impressions" the original title?

Saturday Morning Teatime

Since Saturday mornings are the only time I really have to savor a cuppa and think about life, I'm going to make Saturday Morning Teatime a regular feature here. Here are some things I'm particularly grateful for this week:

-A church that needs me and a church family who is for me.

-Parents and a little sister who are my biggest fans.

-Random compliments from strangers about the brightness of my hair just when I need to hear them.

-Friends on whom I can depend and memories with whom I will always cherish.

-Twinings tea sold cheaply in the US.

-Trying on a pair of jeans in my normal size and they're ever-so-slightly too big!

-The peace and blessings that come with real obedience to God.

Get It Right

OK, so, I've had a love-hate relationship with Glee for a few months now. This season, parts of the show are amazingly well-written and deeply emotional, and others are just over-the-top ridiculous and unbelievable. However, I have to say, last week's episode was just incredible.

Brief Synopsis: Rachel is in love with Finn. Finn encourages Rachel to write an original song for Regionals, but while doing so, gets back together with his ex-girlfriend, Quinn. Quinn is threatened by Rachel but pretends to be friends with her to keep an eye on her. When they meet to work on an original song for Regionals, Quinn gives Rachel this speech:

Quinn: Do you wanna know how the story plays out? I get Finn, you get heartbroken, and then Finn and I stay here and start a family. [...] You don't belong here, Rachel, and you can't hate me for helping to send you on your way.

Rachel: No. I'm not giving up on Finn. It's not over between us.

Quinn: Yes, it is! You're so frustrating, and that is why you can't write a good song, because you live in this little schoolgirl fantasy of life. Rachel, if you keep looking for that happy ending then you are never gonna get it right.

Rachel walks away crying...and then writes this song and performs it at Regionals. Breathtaking.

I've been listening to it on a loop for a week. This is what it looks like when television gets it right.

And in case you're wondering, I'm totally on Team Rachel. I think all of us who live in little schoolgirl fantasties of life well deserve to get our happy endings.

No More Terrible Twos!

It's my precious poodle puppy, Lottie's, third birthday today! She is my sunshine and I don't know what I'd do without her. Here's a video of her playing with some friends she met at the downtown apartment complex where we lived this summer. Happy Birthday, Charlotte Elisabeth!

Kiss me, I'm a redhead!

St. Patrick’s Day. It’s the day we wear green and celebrate shamrocks, the luck o' the Irish, and leprechauns.

What are leprechauns? Oh yes - cute, mischievous, little redheads!

Carrot tops. Gingers. Redheads are known for being fiery, high-strung, hot-tempered, and a lot to handle...but totally worth it. And then there are the famous ladies, like Maureen O'Hara, Rita Hayworth, Katharine Hepburn, and Julia Roberts. Pretty good company to be in, I'd say.

I've always loved being a redhead. It's my favorite physical trait. My hair has been called gorgeous and luscious and people often want to run their fingers through it. A good friend of mine once nicknamed me "Grace Adler." An ex-boyfriend said I looked like Nicole Kidman. (Ha!)

And so, in honor of Cute, Mischievous Redhead Day, here are some fun facts and quotes about redheads!

The most rare hair color in humans is red.

The highest percentage of natural redheads in the world is in Scotland (13%), followed closely by Ireland with 10%. In the US, about 2% of the population are natural redheads

Multiple studies have shown that redheads need about 20% more anesthetic during surgery to keep them sedated than non-redheads.

In ancient Rome, redheaded slaves were often more expensive than those with other hair color.

Red hair is a recessive trait, which means that a child must inherit one red hair gene from each parent. Recessive traits often come in pairs, and redheads are more likely than other people to be left handed. (Interesting. Both my sister and I are redheads and neither of us are left-handed.)

"Once in his life, every man is entitled to fall madly in love with a gorgeous redhead." -Lucille Ball

"You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is."-Anne to Marilla in "Anne of Green Gables"

"Nobody who has known a redhead can say that redheads are tame. Even shy redheads have a burning spark of adventure inside them. Opinionated, hotheaded, logical, loyal, friendly, reserved, whatever the redheads' personality, you can bet they'll have SCADS of it!" -Review of The Redhead Encyclopedia

"I used to hate my red hair, but now I love the attention I get with it. I think that very smart, daring men love red hair, and I love that in a man." -John Wayne stealing a kiss from Maureen O'Hara

"When a fellow has a home and a dear, little, red-haired wife in it, what more need he ask of life?" -Gilbert in "Anne's House of Dreams"

Happy Cute, Mischievous Redhead Day from one of their very own. Come to think of it, that should be every day!

Send in the Clowns

For about a year now, in one area of my life, I’ve felt like I’ve been in one long audition.

I’ve given all I have in me to give – and then some, praise God. I’ve done the best I can. I’ve shown the best of myself. I’ve listened to God when He held me back and I’ve stepped in time when He pushed me forward.

I’ve heard God speak, seen Him move, witnessed miracles, experienced fulfilled promises, and felt joy like never before in my life.

I can say that, with God’s help and His very real presence and guidance, I’ve done very little I regret. Only flubbed a few lines. I can’t praise Him enough for that.

And I have prayed. And prayed. And prayed some more.

Now, though, the audition is over. There’s nothing more I can do.

It’s time for me to step off the stage for awhile and just let Daddy have it. Time for me to wait in the wings, behind the curtain, until I hear my name called again.

Psalm of the Day - 143

I'm loving this Psalm today - it speaks to my soul and perfectly verbalizes my heart's cry.

LORD, hear my prayer,
listen to my cry for mercy;
in your faithfulness and righteousness
come to my relief.
Do not bring your servant into judgment,
for no one living is righteous before you.
The enemy pursues me,
he crushes me to the ground;
he makes me dwell in the darkness
like those long dead.
So my spirit grows faint within me;
my heart within me is dismayed.
I remember the days of long ago;
I meditate on all your works
and consider what your hands have done.
I spread out my hands to you;
I thirst for you like a parched land.

Answer me quickly, LORD;
my spirit fails.
Do not hide your face from me
or I will be like those who go down to the pit.
Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love,
for I have put my trust in you.
Show me the way I should go,
for to you I entrust my life.
Rescue me from my enemies, LORD,
for I hide myself in you.
Teach me to do your will,
for you are my God;
may your good Spirit
lead me on level ground.

For your name’s sake, LORD, preserve my life;
in your righteousness, bring me out of trouble.
In your unfailing love, silence my enemies;
destroy all my foes,
for I am your servant. -Psalm 143

The Passionate Pursuit of Perfection

I've been feeling a lot of pressure lately to be perfect. Faultless. Blameless. As if my life were one big test on which I'm constantly being scored. I have to be perfect to witness to people who don't know Christ or else they'll see me as a hypocrite. I have to be perfect or else I'll never get a man to love me enough to want to be my husband. I have to be perfect to be a leader in our youth group, because those kids are looking up to me. I have to be perfect at work to get a permanent position. I have to be perfect everywhere, all the time, at everything.

That's a lot of pressure.

This past week, especially, I've been feeling it - and, I admit, I buckled under it. It overtook me. I let myself get angry, resentful, and frustrated. I started acting defensively and pushing people away. I felt helpless and hopeless. I spent four straight nights last week crying myself to sleep.

Yeah, um...that doesn't sound anywhere near perfection. Way to go, me.

We always say "God doesn't expect us to be perfect" to comfort ourselves. We say things like "Do your best, and God will do the rest," and "God only made One perfect person and they crucified Him at 33."

But in Matthew, Jesus says the very words, "Be perfect, therefore, as your Heavenly Father is perfect." (Matthew 5:48)

Um...what? Does Jesus really expect us to be perfect? Jesus knows us. He walked among us. His best friends disappointed him over and over with their imperfections. Doesn't He know how impossible that is? Doesn't He know we can't be perfect? Doesn't He know I can't be perfect?

Right before Jesus said that, He was talking about loving other people - giving all of yourself that you have to give, loving those you hate you, showing mercy and grace to people who you really just don't like. He finishes those instructions with the exhortation to be perfect.

Perfectly loving. Perfectly graceful. Perfectly generous. Perfectly forgiving.

It seems to me the point Jesus is trying to make is that we should treat everyone else with the unconditional, unending, unfaltering grace and generosity and love of God. If we're doing that, we won't notice each others' imperfections because we're too busy loving each other.

I get it. That makes so much sense. It turns the pointing finger of judgment into an embrace of affection.

I still feel the pressure to be perfect, though. I get upset when I know others see my flaws and I feel like they're judging me and withholding their love from me - whether or not it's true. I do it to myself. I'm pretty much always my own worst enemy.

The problem is, much to my chagrin and no matter how hard I try, I'm never going to be perfect this side of Heaven. So what do I do in the meantime?

The only way I can see to get closer to perfection is to continue to seek the love and presence of God - the One who is perfect. Because the closer I get to God, the more He purifies me, molds me, works in me, and makes me more like Himself.

That's not a simple answer. It's not easy. It's not painless by any means. Just this weekend I became acutely aware of more of my egregious imperfections - of hard-heartedness, insecurity, immaturity. No matter how much God works, He always has more to do in me. My job is not to be perfect but to let Him.

And I just pray that my loved ones, knowing I'm trying, will be gracious and forgiving along the way.