I don’t know how to change a tire. Football doesn’t make sense to me. And much to the chagrin of my husband and son, my idea of camping is a key-card at the Marriott.
As an only child, raised by a single mom, my skill set is easily quite “girly.” Pointed toward proper behavior, I grew up quickly under an umbrella of great responsibility and high expectation. That didn’t mean I never had fun, it just meant my fun was tidy, organized, and scheduled.
I was a good girl. I never realized how bad that could be.
Neatly tucked behind chore lists and principal’s honor roll, leadership skills and graduate school, was something much more than simple follow-the-rules, do-right goodness. It was fear. And fear fed a much larger beast: perfection.
Failure wasn’t an option, and the fear of disappointing those I held in high regard kept me on a perpetual people-pleasing, approval-seeking race. There were no wings to spread. I didn’t make many mistakes to learn from. Who needs to compete with others, when you can compete with yourself?
Along the can’t-fail-won’t-fail path, I met Jesus. In my mind, we were the perfect match. Good girl meets great God and lives happily ever after. Simple. Logical. Neat. Jesus and I just made sense.
But Jesus didn’t want my mind. He wanted my heart. And He wanted all of it.