Far From Perfect
I did not create the path I am walking, though I do choose to walk it. It doesn't look much like a path I would make. I
want to present anything I have to say in its most finished and
perfected form. (That way there is no more argument. There is no more
pain from fault, error, or disagreement. There is no mess or pain from
tripping or slipping or bumping or falling. No weakness.) But the
reality is I am far from perfect. My name is more and more a mockery to
me; "Tammy" means perfection in some renderings. So how do I let go of ME? I am coming to believe I must follow The Way, one step at a time. Away from what I was before and into what He IS. I can't really safely know Him beforehand.
Writing is in me. I know it is - but I am new. I don't know my own "voice" and I don't know my "filter" and I don't know a lot. Including all the rules.
What I do know is that I am in pain. And I, so far, have refused to anesthetize just so that things could just look and feel alright - to me and to you, if I let you see.
I've wanted an answer so that I could write. I wanted a mentor to guide me in the right ways. I wanted something to offer hope. Something to offer encouragement. Something to help another. I want the water to flow, but I won't let it for a myriad of reasons. "But", I say, "I can't write until I know it's a boxed into a ready-to-go-package"... "I can't write because I can't see how I have the life-space to write (publicly) right now"... "I can't write until I have a place, purpose, and story"... "I can't write because I haven't come to the other side"... "I can't write because I might like it too much..." The reasons go on. I am like Moses being told to speak... and trying to reason with God.
Still, I keep waiting for these things to fall into place. They haven't. And at the same time, the pull to write grows larger. Perhaps I have been resistant to my true Mentor and the help He wishes to offer for me. I still want a rule - a formula - something I can also easily offer someone else - all spelled out and clear - but without the pain. I tell the Lord I can't speak well and He reminds me He "made my tongue." When knowing my path might be hard and painful, like Peter, I am ever asking "Lord, what about him?" As though, if someone gets an easier path I can argue with Him that I should too. And He says, "What is that to you? You follow me." Every time I try to ignore this, I end up in a dark dead end. There is One Way.
I have files and piles of things that I am discovering, waiting to find the right words, waiting to be fleshed out and said. I haven't got them all fully-figured out, but the call inside is almost like wanting to share the journey - the walk - with someone. I have no idea who you are and I'm trying to get over that.
I hate making mistakes - and with that comes one of the nightmare dreams that I have had a lot of my life. I am onstage and don't know the lines. If only I knew the part I was to play, then I could just say what I am supposed to say. But I don't. And I hate to admit the only way to learn is from my mistakes. The people-pleaser side of me doesn't like that. It wants to know who the audience is so that it knows what to say. It gives me a part. It gives me a place. It avoids the unknown and unspelled-out way that may involve pain. But I am realizing that's not how this works. Maybe what I have to say isn't about the audience - it is simply to the audience. It certainly involves an uncertainty which requires faith and vulnerability.
Perhaps, writing is another first step for me into that uncertainty. It is a way, for me, of letting go of perfection so that the waters can flow - to find glorious freedom offered, even in imperfection. For that is what we all are. Imperfect. Isn't this what we all must come to realize? We all must come know we are fallen so that we can know how loved we are. Can we do that with each other? Can we find our most whole selves on the other side of this journey?
Perfection is only found on the other side of a gift. Wrapped, I think, in the darkness and light that looks like a cross.
Words from others in this that give me encouragement:
http://emilypfreeman.com/prayer-longing-answers/
http://www.handsfreemama.com/2015/10/14/an-open-window-to-a-bravely-lived-life/
Writing is in me. I know it is - but I am new. I don't know my own "voice" and I don't know my "filter" and I don't know a lot. Including all the rules.
What I do know is that I am in pain. And I, so far, have refused to anesthetize just so that things could just look and feel alright - to me and to you, if I let you see.
I've wanted an answer so that I could write. I wanted a mentor to guide me in the right ways. I wanted something to offer hope. Something to offer encouragement. Something to help another. I want the water to flow, but I won't let it for a myriad of reasons. "But", I say, "I can't write until I know it's a boxed into a ready-to-go-package"... "I can't write because I can't see how I have the life-space to write (publicly) right now"... "I can't write until I have a place, purpose, and story"... "I can't write because I haven't come to the other side"... "I can't write because I might like it too much..." The reasons go on. I am like Moses being told to speak... and trying to reason with God.
Still, I keep waiting for these things to fall into place. They haven't. And at the same time, the pull to write grows larger. Perhaps I have been resistant to my true Mentor and the help He wishes to offer for me. I still want a rule - a formula - something I can also easily offer someone else - all spelled out and clear - but without the pain. I tell the Lord I can't speak well and He reminds me He "made my tongue." When knowing my path might be hard and painful, like Peter, I am ever asking "Lord, what about him?" As though, if someone gets an easier path I can argue with Him that I should too. And He says, "What is that to you? You follow me." Every time I try to ignore this, I end up in a dark dead end. There is One Way.
I have files and piles of things that I am discovering, waiting to find the right words, waiting to be fleshed out and said. I haven't got them all fully-figured out, but the call inside is almost like wanting to share the journey - the walk - with someone. I have no idea who you are and I'm trying to get over that.
I hate making mistakes - and with that comes one of the nightmare dreams that I have had a lot of my life. I am onstage and don't know the lines. If only I knew the part I was to play, then I could just say what I am supposed to say. But I don't. And I hate to admit the only way to learn is from my mistakes. The people-pleaser side of me doesn't like that. It wants to know who the audience is so that it knows what to say. It gives me a part. It gives me a place. It avoids the unknown and unspelled-out way that may involve pain. But I am realizing that's not how this works. Maybe what I have to say isn't about the audience - it is simply to the audience. It certainly involves an uncertainty which requires faith and vulnerability.
Perhaps, writing is another first step for me into that uncertainty. It is a way, for me, of letting go of perfection so that the waters can flow - to find glorious freedom offered, even in imperfection. For that is what we all are. Imperfect. Isn't this what we all must come to realize? We all must come know we are fallen so that we can know how loved we are. Can we do that with each other? Can we find our most whole selves on the other side of this journey?
Perfection is only found on the other side of a gift. Wrapped, I think, in the darkness and light that looks like a cross.
Words from others in this that give me encouragement:
http://emilypfreeman.com/prayer-longing-answers/
http://www.handsfreemama.com/2015/10/14/an-open-window-to-a-bravely-lived-life/
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