It came up in conversation with a precious friend the other day…the difference between how cool and confident we may appear on the outside, and how insecure and fearful we may be on the inside.
And, as it often does when I process ‘life’, my garden came to mind.
I’ve never grown lettuce before, and was quite delighted at the thought of throwing microscopic seeds in little holes in the garden and getting to devour fresh, crispy leaves from lush lettuce plants just 45 days later.
I’m all about lots of bang for a little bit of buck. And a wee little bit of work. I’m lazy like that.
Apparently I have a lot to learn about growing lettuce.
Considering how easily tickled my inner-child is, it’s no surprise that I was delighted when our little lettuce shoots did in fact become frilly, green plants with lush leaves; a full row of salad, ripe for the picking!
With friends coming over for dinner, I skipped out, bowl in hand, ready to harvest our very first “fresh from the garden” salad…but returned with an empty bowl, devastated by what I had discovered.
The lettuce were bitter.
Incredibly bitter. Each and every leaf. I know because, in my frantic search for the crisp, sweet lettuce I had hoped to gather, I grabbed and nibbled from several directions.
Our lettuce was completely deceiving: pretty and vibrant on the outside…limp and bitter on the inside.
And oh, how I can relate to the deception. I fall easily into the performance trap.
For some reason we feel the need to put on a brave, super-woman front for all the world to see, making an effort to display only our most redeeming qualities, while inside we wrestle with the ugliness and insufficiency we fear is ours alone to carry.
We’re painfully aware of it, and we fear that if others were to know the scary depths of who we truly are, we would experience the agony of rejection, the discomfort of outside analysis. The upturned upper lip of bitter discovery.
So we stuff it. Away from what we perceive to be judgmental eyes, pointing fingers, and flapping lips.
How many, many times I’ve seamlessly pulled off this masquerade.
In an effort to protect the tender underbelly of my existence – my brokenness – I simply hide it. The wall that is built to keep the “bad” in, inevitably, keeps the “good” out.
We forget that it is the pretentiousness that isolates and exhausts us. Not the sweet vulnerability of being real.
How desperately I’ve wanted people to see me as put-together…more competent, more generous, more intimately and creatively involved in the lives of my loved ones than I am, more self-controlled, more ambitious, more confident than I really am.
Perfect would be nice.
And while I know it’s unattainable, I still try. And try. And fall short. Every.single.time.
Let’s drop the mask, friends.
How I long to be completely real. With you. With my world. With myself.
To be 100%, completely and utterly genuine, and yet be comfortable and confident in my skin in the midst of it.
I really do want you to see my flaws. I want you to see how messy and unpleasant and awkward my life is at times. How not-pretty my attitude can be, and how high my laundry pile really gets.
Sometimes I wear the exact same black cami for 2 days in a row. And sleep in it both nights.
Okay, maybe you don’t need to know that.
You get the idea.
The reminders of my imperfection, my raging inadequacy, tease me throughout the day, threatening to plunge me into hopelessness if I entertain the temptation to dwell on them.
A simple glance at Bug’s deadly big toenail suddenly reminds me that I am in fact in charge of 40 additional (little) nails and considering I don’t remember when last I snipped them, my the mommy-guilt kicks in. I should read to them more. Get them out more. Shout at them less. Engage with them more. Be kinder. More consistent. No longer model the fine art of procrastination. I should be a better mother than I am.
In my marriage…the struggle to actually finish a conversation. Or start one. Or keep the spark from drowning in strawberry scented baby wash. My hubby reminds me that he actually likes to be touched. Could I maybe be more affectionate? My heart breaks. I’m naturally affectionate…how did my beloved slip through the cracks? While my flesh selfishly wails…seriously? Aren’t I carrying or holding or wiping or kissing someone’s body constantly?
In my house…the never-ending pile of laundry, dishes, mail, shoes, toys, that all beg to be burned put away. The fridge that was apparently just cleaned by my mom. “We emptied 6 containers of old left-overs”. Just flog me now.
In my spiritual life…why is it so hard for me to get up early enough to peel off my pajamas and spend time recharging my battery in the presence of the Author of life itself? It’s a no-brainer. And yet I continue to allow the lesser things in life consume my time. I forget that I cannot give what I do not have.
In my body…be it self-image, or actual physical care. I know what to do. I teach it. But I don’t do it consistently. I choose ‘good’, rather than ‘best’. And on occasion, too much of ‘bad’. I sit, rather than move. Oh, how I wish energy surged through my veins…and rather than trigger it by moving, I watch from the steps. Which feeds into the first thing {parenting guilt}.
In family and friendships…I get so easily consumed in my own little world that I sometimes forget about others. Even those closest to me. I feel I drop the ball frequently, even if just in thoughtful word or tender voice. A meal. A card. A phone call. I so desire to be more to them like they are to me.
You should know I struggle wildly with comparing myself to others. Always those who {appear to} have it all together, parent creatively, love lavishly, write stunningly, sing beautifully, design brilliantly, live well…stretch-mark free!
The plates I spin all need more of me than I know how to give.
Yes. I should read more. Sleep more. And on occasion, less. I should…I must…I could…but I don’t.
And it’s here that we believe the lie that threatens to swallow us whole:
Who we are is not enough.
And it never will be.
So cover it up.
Sometimes it whispers. Other times it screams.
And it is the fear of this discovery that keeps us turned inward. Fearful that if our many areas of insuffiency were made known, we might be looked down upon.
So we put on a brave face, try our darndest to strike the super-woman stance and pull of the illusion of perfection.
The reality that we will never be enough could be a tragic one. But it’s not.
Because it has the potential to drive us to the truth. The truth that we were intricately created to be this way, intentionally woven together with our skills and passions, strengths and weakness, to be a beautiful PART of something bigger. Not the ALL we so desperately desire to be to everyone and everything.
We were designed to need others. To thrive in community with other perfectly imperfect people.
To be driven into the arms of an All-Sufficient, ever-patient God.
It’s time to be real with each other, friends. To drop the act and allow our exterior to actually reflect our interior?
Unlike my {sad} lettuce.
I’m talking good ol’ fashioned authentic transparency here. About finding the freedom to be who we really are, with all the delightful – and less-than-delightful – qualities and quirks we encompass, and to invite {with wisdom} people into our woundedness, into our inadequacy, into our humanity.
To just do life together, transparently. The way it was meant to be done. A shared experience of life and growth and healing.
Beautifully, messily, delightfully, chaotically, unabashedly, vulnerably: together.
Besides, life is way more fun that way.
Now don’t get me wrong. I am thankful my myriad of insecurities don’t show easily at first glance, or gush forth each and every time I open my mouth, but this I know: I cannot imagine my life – and the depth of authenticity I desire it exude – without the wildly satisfying knowledge that I’m loved and accepted – right where I am – by the incredible friends I’ve been so blessed to be surrounded by.
You see, they’re not enduring my imperfection…they’re enhancing His perfection in me.
They’re actually a perfecting tool in the hand of our Creator. They are a part of the refining process, creating a safe place to heal. To grow. To blossom. Without a bitter center.
Bona fide friendships; made rich by the vulnerability and simplicity they imbibe,
and made strong by the honesty and safety that permeate them.
What a gift it is to know that despite my occasional unpleasant after-taste, I no longer have to hide my {conspicuous} baggage and weakness behind a facade of artificial, frilly perfection.
{Lettuce rejoice!}
