I’ve been growing a beanstalk of perfectionism. I’m not exactly sure where the seeds of my perfectionism came from. It probably doesn’t really matter at this point where I picked up those not-so-magic beans because they have now grown into a perfectionism of giant redwood proportions. Sometimes, when I try to chop it down, I feel like Jack when he faced his formidable beanstalk. This thing is out of control and I’m not sure how to uproot it.
I don’t like to admit it, but the truth is…I want to be perfect.
I want to be the perfect mom, the perfect friend, the perfect sister, the perfect daughter, the perfect homemaker, the perfect widow (whatever that means). I have subconsciously and sometimes deliberately avoided, quit or suffered through valuable and potentially beautiful experiences and relationships because I feared they would be less than perfect. Feared I would be reminded that I am less than perfect if I attempted them. I can talk a big talk about grace for myself and others and even extend some grace to myself (but mostly for others). The reality is, in the deepest, darkest recesses of my heart, those roots of perfectionism grow deeper and I continue to give them what they need to extend to the depths of my soul. I fill my watering can with unrealistic expectations, lies about what makes me worthy of love and comparisons to other imperfect people. The roots are deeper than I even know and the fruits of my perfectionism are self-centeredness, impatience, intolerance, ungratefulness, and discontent.
Most recently, I have realized that I even try to recruit those I love the most to help me nurture my perfectionism and then get angry and manipulative when they have the audacity to be human and blemish the perfect landscape I am trying so hard to develop--my beanstalk serving as the centerpiece of it all. I choose to nurture the beanstalk--or the idea of it--more than the people. Oh, that just makes my soul ache with regret. Will someone please hand me an axe? I mean, honestly, there is a giant trying to kill me at the top of this thing and I keep watering it anyway.
There have been so many events in my life that should have served as my metaphorical axe. Events that made it clear that neither I, nor this life, are perfect. My parents’ divorce, 2 kids with autism, cancer, the death of my husband--very clear, concrete slaps in the face that shake me by the shoulders and say, “Snap out of it!”. And maybe those events have given me a much needed dose of my imperfect reality. At least temporarily. Maybe there HAVE been moments in those traumatic, heart wrenching times when I have loosened my death-grip on the desperate pursuit of perfection. Moments when I have basically given up and let life take me where it wanted to. Moments where I trusted God enough to trust His plans. But then, I look out on the landscape of my life and instead of noticing all the beauty around me, I notice that wilting beanstalk of perfection and coax myself into reviving it instead of letting it die. This time maybe I can make it happen. This time maybe I won’t mess up. This time maybe I can control everything. I can control cancer and death and autism and people and the future. It’s a powerful, ugly, ridiculous beanstalk. It has to come down.
John 16:33 says, “In this godless world you will continue to experience difficulties. But take heart! I’ve conquered the world.” (MSG).
The only thing that will ever be perfect in this life is God and His grace. I can look at that fact as a major disappointment because my notion of ‘perfect’ will never happen, or I can look at it as a huge burden lifted off of these tired shoulders. I am not perfect! Hooray! (chop chop) My life will never be perfect!! Yay!! (chop chop) The people in my life who I love so dearly will never be perfect!! Yesss! (chop chop) God’s grace in my life is perfectly sufficient. Enough. And He uses all the imperfection to mold me into who He wants me to be!! (Timberrrrrrr!!!!!!)
Is this a one time, clean break from my treasured beanstalk? Not likely. The landscape of my life will have a noticeable bare spot where the perfectionism has flourished for so long. That stump isn’t pretty. But if perfectionism is gone, more light can come in and other things start to grow--tenderness, authenticity, compassion, faith, approachability, understanding, joy. I want to end this post perfectly. But I can’t. And that’s ok.
See what I did there?
