On a crisp autumn afternoon, sometime in my highschool years, I padded down the front walk to offer a hand to my dad as he unloaded groceries from the back of his green Ford Expedition. He smiled as I scooped up as many bags as I could, likely mistaking my laziness for ambition. I beat him to the front step and somehow managed to manuever the screen-door and use my body to push the interior door ajar, so my Dad could head in first. He was no more than three paces closer to the kitchen when I suddenly dropped all of the groceries I’d been carrying. As packages hurdled toward the floor of the entry way, I found myself seemingly paralyzed from the waist down, my torso trying to lurch forward without the cooperation of anything below my hips. My Dad spun around at the sound of the crashing cans, startled and confused. As he assessed the situation, he began to giggle my favorite signature dad-giggle. I was less than amused. I didn’t appreciate that he found comedy in my inexplicable debacle. Excuse me, how would you feel if I laughed at you if your legs stopped working? After what felt like at least 5 seconds, I traced his eyesight to the door handle only to discover that the brassy handle had slid silently through the belt loop on my khaki school pants and trapped me close to its frame. Paralyzed no more, yet still needing assistance, I asked my dad for help through my increasing laughter. In the way only a father could, he unhooked me from the mysterious thing holding me back and helped me pick up the pieces of my failed attempt at moving a mountain of groceries in one trip.
What is holding you back in your life?
In my quarter of a century of existence, perfection is what has always held me back, keeping me dreaming, but never fully realizing, my highest aspirations. Perfection has silenced the whispers of my heart while irresponsibly gifting a loud-speaker to the the scared little girl who still resides in my head. The idol of perfection has enticed me to take misguided detours on the journey to every goal I’ve ever set, and for some goals, I’ve yet to backtrack to the straight and narrow. The ever-illusive mystery that is perfection and whatever paralyzes me when I try to achieve it, has left me tangled-up in soul-searches and late-night dates with questioning and doubt. Like a cliche plot-line perfection stays for the night, only disappear and never return my calls when I’m left wanting more. Perfection has been the brassy door handle that somehow managed to slide through my belt-loop during my attempt to move the large mountains of my geography.
Somewhere along my meandering through life, I unconsciously adopted the belief that in order to be happy, I needed to be perfect; in order to be relevant to others, I needed to be perfect; in order to achieve anything worth celebrating, perfection must be the key. I’ve spent days scheming and outlining and researching the best way to get from point A to point B in the best, most-ideal, downright correct, way. I’ve set goals and made resolutions. I’ve signed up for classes and invested in products. I’ve vowed to others that I was going places and that I wouldn’t stop until I reached the top only to get lost somewhere in between. I’ve reinvented, reevaluated and realigned more times that I can count. I’ve spent many days dreaming of the life that will come after: after I was fit after I was healthy, after I was rich, after I was happy, after I was perfect. But, after has yet to come.
For some of you, the idea that I have ever striven to be perfect might shock you. You might even consider it laughable that I have ever tried to be perfect, because if we’re even somewhat close, you’re likely privy to a few, if not most, of my shortcomings. I have multiple aliases:
“The perpetual plan-maker.” “The lover of cancelled plans.” “The passionate conclusion-jumper.” “Anxious Amber.” “Messy but kind.” “The all or nothing-er with literally everything…or nothing.” “Self-lover without self-control.” “Self-controller without self-love.”
…none of which are inherently bad, save for some of the jumping to conclusions, but all definitely point to the undeniable reality of my imperfect humanness. Through much reflection and transformation, I’ve begun to see what you have probably always known: I am incapable of perfection. I am incredibly imperfect, and rightfully so. I was never expected to be perfect. At least not until I was the one who began demanding perfection
I was created to be perfect, as were you, breathed to life with the very breath of God, but The Fall of Eden, my humanness and my simultaneous stubborn and indecisive nature have made perfection impossible. It’s time for me to accept the reality that is my identity, a truth that lies at the core of my human existence. I am Amber, an imperfect person, placed in an imperfect world, filled with imperfect people and imperfect circumstances. I am Amber, an imperfect woman who was chosen by the Perfect Father as part of His Perfect Plan. A plan that is not my own. I plan that I have neither schemed, scheduled, conjured up nor can control. A plan that I know almost nothing of and may never fully understand while here on earth. And though incredibly imperfect, I am relevant to His plan and every celebration of achievement, or simple comfort of happiness, is born from the beautiful union of my flaws and His eye for design. His affinity for making the very cracks and blemishes that I’ve always wished away, the focal point of the refurbished me, brings what my chase for perfection could never provide, wholeness.
When I published my first two blog posts last year, I intended to post regularly, documenting my finally perfect journey to my finally perfect body, mind and emotional well-being. What may have seemed like a good, heartfelt birth of my blog, was incompatible with surviving long-term. After those two short posts, I suddenly couldn’t bring myself to share any further, at least not publicly. All at once, I became aware that I was a comet, albeit small, streaking across the atmosphere. In that tiny flash of light was vulnerability and visibility like I’d never known before and I wasn’t sure I was ready for another orbit so near and so soon. I wasn’t even sure if I could be a comet. Thus, I’ve been blogging for the past year, just holding the posts captive on my laptop, planning the perfect comeback. But perfection never came, and I’ve spent the last year germinating; a bamboo tree, spreading my roots deep beneath the surface.
As I’ve grown over the past year, I’m not quite where I envisioned I’d be by today when I wrote “Beyond the Threshold,” but I have made it to a beautiful and unexpected destination. I beautiful garden full of possibilities, with weeds that are at least under control and flowers that I didn’t notice before. I was led here by the people and circumstances I encountered over the last year on my detours and pit-stops. I collected advice, like state-themed Starbucks cups, as I wandered about without a purpose on my way, thinking of it as a nice memento, but something to put on a shelf and look at later.
Life has shown me the value of time and the sting of regret as I’ve watched loved-ones be diagnosed or succumb to cancer, marriages fall apart and true colors come to light over the months since I started this blog. Knowing that my tomorrows could be limited, I figured it might be time to dust-off that collectible advice and take it to heart. Just a few relevant pieces for this post:
“Sometimes, done is better than perfect.”
“I don’t want you to be who I want you to be. I want you to be who you want you to be.”
“It’s okay to not have a perfect set the first time as long as you concentrate on having good form.”
So at last, here I am, typing this blog post with trembling hands, sipping tea from a clattering Connecticut cup, as my shoots break through the ground that has been my haven for the past year. This is a dream that I have dreamed a thousand times. A dream of sharing the honest whispers of my genuine, but terribly imperfect, heart, with the hope that these words will find their way to the someone who needs to hear what I’ve been too afraid to say. I don’t feel ready to post these words, nor have I felt ready to post any of my previous posts; the long-lived hope for the perfect and glorious inception of my impeccable blog still clings to my heart the way a butterfly clings to the final petal of a flower on a windy day in early September. I sense the seasons changing, but so much of me clings to the familiar justification: if I’m not ready, the timing must not be right. As I feel the atmosphere shifting around me, however, I can no longer deny the longing that the Lord has laid on my heart. I have longed to share the words that echo in my soul. I can hear the Lord whispering, “Be not afraid.” And so, the time may not be right for me, but all of this time isn’t really mine after all, now is it?
Consider this fifth, but commencement-like post, as me throwing myself into the wind, imperfectly and unapologetically, a butterfly too light to combat the breeze. As I tumble forward into the future, I invite you to join me on this journey. I can’t yet say much about central theme of this blog, or its ultimate purpose, because uncertainty still veils what the future holds. I can say, however, that I promise to be real and honest, writing with integrity and vulnerability. As of now, I have a few things in the works. Stay tuned for two upcoming blog series, including a deep-dive into my journey with weightlifting and candid interviews with people who I find incredibly intriguing. Other than that, my extremely basic and absolutely rough outline for the next few months, I know one thing is certain; this blog was never my plan. Even though I’ve dreamed of writing a blog for many years, the plan has always been His.
“Three times I begged the Lord about this, that it might leave me, but he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” I will rather boast most gladly of my weaknesses, in order that the power of Christ may dwell with me.” – 2 Corinthians 12:8-9
I N S U R M O U N T A B L E 