where waves grow sweet

I’ve never been too far removed from the unseemly parts of my history; the terrible choices I made and the way I nearly self-destructed. It is why I’m so incredibly grateful for the good things I now experience, like community and hope, which I never thought possible back then. What I often forget, though, is the oppressive darkness that filled that time and drove those choices. Every once in a while, I get a glimpse again, as an internal bully assaults me in a vulnerable moment, shoving a pointed finger in my chest while telling me things like I don’t belong and I never will. It is a gift, albeit an unlikely one, which I hope to explain in this post.

First of all, I need to provide some context. We all have tapes running in the background of our lives; belief systems through which we filter our experiences. Some are good; some are decidedly not. This is why two people can experience the same thing, say a public failure, with very different outcomes. One might walk away with their sense of identity intact and ideas for what they could do differently, if anything, next time (because there will be a next time), while another might slink away covered in shame, making an oath to avoid being exposed in that way again (because there will never be a next time, if they can help it). 

I have generally fallen into the latter category. The overarching fear is that I am disqualified from participating in life because I’m dumb, not good at anything and – the real doozy that squashes any hope of change –  incapable of learning. As you can imagine, this sort of mindset doesn’t create a whole lot of desire to jump in and try things, so for most of my life I stayed nicely hidden, avoiding exposure of my lack so I didn’t have to face the shame on the other side. If I could have made myself invisible, I would have. But over the years, God displaced so many lies with his truth and showed me so much love that my heart – and belief systems – started to heal. As a result, I’ve been able to experience life in community with a growing ability to try new, uncomfortable things.

One of those things was pickleball. It started as an ongoing joke with a friend that culminated in a lesson, which turned out to be so much fun that we dropped the joke and jumped in wholeheartedly. At about the same time, several close friends and a group of neighbors had also taken it up. We were all new and terrible. It was a blast. But as time went on, everyone started getting better, myself included. It was even more fun. But then everyone else got even better. A handful of the more competitive ones joined a league and played against higher level opponents, which refined their skills further. My attempts to improve just weren’t translating at the same pace (or sometimes at all). Fear started to rise that I was indeed inept and disqualified and incapable of learning – just like I’d always suspected. I would be left sitting in my shame because I had tried my best and failed.

This dialogue reached a fever pitch on Tuesday. Instead of hashing it out with God and getting lined up with truth as I have learned to do, I leaned into the whole sorry narrative and guess what? It got dark. Dark like it hasn’t been in a long time. I was angry with God for his unfair gifts to other people and full of self-pity for all the skills I don’t – and may never – possess. I felt the old tug toward avoidance and isolation: To quit the thing that was causing the discomfort and hide out.

It was an ugly place that gave me a renewed compassion for those who are struggling, as well as a desire to hightail it out of the darkness. And so I did. I wrapped myself up in God’s truth where peace and hope reside; where I will always belong. Not because I will ever get a single thing right or perform well, but because I am loved. In this place success is simply showing up as me. As I leaned away from my own understanding and into God’s, darkness fled because it couldn’t compete with his light. 

The gift in this experience was that the tape that had been running quietly in the background, as if it belonged, exposed itself like a neon sign on a country road. Not only was I able to see it clearly, but I was able to acknowledge that it did not belong and that I wanted it gone. Had I not been learning to live with joy and vulnerability, along with their inherent risks, I would have missed this valuable opportunity for growth and ultimately for freedom where this bully no longer has power over me. I have no doubt it will raise its voice again and try to push me around as it’s accustomed to doing, but I don’t think I’m the kind of girl who likes being bullied anymore. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to push back.

There are no guarantees that I will ever excel at pickleball, which is totally fine and entirely besides the point. I will play with joy and cheer my friends on as they improve. Not only that, but I’m going to continue to explore all the things my heart desires in this great big world, and I will learn – to live wholeheartedly, vulnerably and without shame.

“…and giving joyful thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of his holy people in the kingdom of light.” Colossians 1:12