The Comparison Game

I have a confession to make.

I struggle with comparison.

And not in the traditional sense. Not in the way you imagine, by comparing myself to any woman that crosses my path.

No, there’s really just one woman I compare myself to. You know the type. She’s whimiscal, girly. Her photos get more likes on FB. Our mutual friends respond to her blog more than mine. She’s seen more of the world than I have. She makes more money than I do. She’s almost too perfect. Too put-together.

Let’s be honest: I am of the hodgepodge variety of women. If you saw my outfit today, you would think I got dressed in the dark. (I took a calculated risk. I’ve gotten a few double-takes today and not in the “Hey, Girl” way.) I rarely wear makeup and I’m in the awkward phase of growing out a pixie cut. If you read my blog, you know I am not even slightly perfect or put-together. My life reads like one big messy response to the Gospel and while I’m slowly getting my crap together, I still find myself stumbling over almost too raw authenticity.

Myself and this mystery woman are nowhere near alike but yet, I find myself irked when I’m reminded of her. If women were really honest with themselves, we all have that one person whose life we wish we had. The things we would do with the platform they have or the resources they have at their disposal.

But we don’t have their lives.

A few years ago, I was at this training for this summer camp I was staffing when the trainer was talking about identifying what resources and experiences you bring to the table to help others. He opened it up to the group by asking us what we thought we brought to the table.

And of course, in true me-fashion, I blurted out that I knew what it was like to self-harm and attempt suicide.

In a room full of people that I barely knew, I demonstrated the first spiritual gift God gave me that not everyone has: the gift of vulnerability.

Vulnerability’s messy. I’ve actually tried to stop myself from being vulnerable because it would make my life so much easier. But I can’t stop. Not without suppressing the Holy Spirit at the same time. And that makes it not worth it.

When I think about fighting the comparison game, it’s more about celebrating the differences in gifts and backgrounds we have than in trying to remind ourselves of our value. Like with this woman I am always envious of? She speaks volumes into the lives of people that I can’t relate to. Just like I (aspire to) do with people who share my background. The world needs both of us. I can get down with celebrating her.

So while she’s speaking truth to the ladylike bunch, I’ll be over here being a hot mess of grace and hodgepodge-ness.

 

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Baseball Camp

One of my favorite childhood memories is of my summer at baseball camp.

It’s one of the stories I tell a guy I’m interested in because I want him to know I’m not just a cute girl in a dress.

Probably the most interesting part of the story is that I had only been walking for about a year after being told by the doctors I would never walk.

And yet, by age eight, you would find me running through the hallways of my school just for the heck of it. Breathless laughter as I pretended I could play soccer with my classmates and dodge balls in gym class. When I found out there would be a baseball camp offered through my church, I begged my parents to let me go.

I love baseball!

Since when? My mom asked.

I let out an exasperated sigh. Since always Mom! I just wanna go!

Secretly, I think my parents delighted in the fact that I was so eager to try anything and seemed oblivious to people’s perception of me.

For someone so small, I was never afraid of the flying balls. I could never hit them very far but I did my best to get to at least first base before I got caught. I never kept score or thought about winning. I was just thrilled to be living a life different than what was expected of me.

The future seemed uncertain for the first time in my young life and I relished in it. Everyone had been so convinced that I would end up a certain way, my future grim and dark.

But I never considered it to be true. Somewhere deep inside me, I had joy lit on fire, igniting this hope, this certainty that said surely everyone would be wrong.

It’s still there, that joy. Still guiding me and reminding me that people’s perception of me is not as significant as the security of hope I have in Christ.

I don’t know much more about baseball than I did at eight years old but the memory of that summer is the reminder that the hope that lives in me has never been put to shame.   

What We Do with Privilege

Today is my 13th birthday. Not in the traditional sense. I gave my life to Christ 13 years ago today.

In past years, I would celebrate with a night out alone, a longer quiet time and some solid reflection over the last year. But this year is different. The celebration of this year has to be different.

This year I went through a mental health crisis and came out alive. This year I was asked to leave a church during my episode. This year I was promoted at work and made peace with my biological father. This year I lost a relationship with two people I thought loved me. This year I went to Washington D.C. for the first time. This year I wanted to end my life. This year I survived.

 Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance,  and endurance produces character, and character produces hope,  and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us. – Romans 5:3-5

The greatest privilege I will ever experience is suffering, because it binds me closer to Jesus. This year changed the game for me. At some point, suffering stopped looking like grief. It started to look like opportunity and growth. It looked like meaning. In the thick of chaos and shame, I began to see where God is leading me towards. I felt a responsibility to make the most of the shatters.

When I was in DC, I visited the Holocaust Museum. I heard stories from people who had walked tougher paths than me. At the end of the tour, I saw a quote displayed on the wall:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.  – Martin Niemöller

This year has been a season of what could have been. What my life could have looked like if even just a few things had gone differently. That acknowledgement within my own story led me to ask “What do I do with that privilege?”

I’m so damn grateful.

That week in DC marked a shift in where I’m headed. My life became more about what I do with the privilege I’ve been given and less about the melancholy reflection of what I don’t have.

Privilege doesn’t always look like the able-bodied white male who has never known what it’s like to go hungry or struggle through systematic barriers just to get a job. Sometimes, it looks like the biracial woman with a disability who spent Christmas alone because she left her abusive situation in the middle of the night. More is expected of that woman than the man.

It feels like privilege. It feels like purpose and personal responsibility.

What a year.