Putting away not-so-childish things

Well, High School Reunion is over and done with. It was fun chatting with people that I hadn’t spoken with or seen in a long time. One friend remarked that it was good to finally see the people that she’s been cyber stalking. Another sheepishly admitted to wishing some of her favorite teachers would be present – not that I blame her. Some of my favorite people during all my years of schooling were the teachers. Mr. Brauer, my freshman Geometry teacher, who confessed to me that I would be stuck at the front of the classroom for the entire year and stuck next to the rowdy kids because I had a “calming influence”, was forced to eat his words when my US history teacher, Mr. Corning, filled him in on my vast reservoir of trashy blonde jokes. Instead of wandering the classroom to answer my frustrated classmates’ questions, Brauer could often be found sitting near my desk asking me to tell him one that I hadn't already used on Corning because he needed “something for the teacher’s lounge.” Then there was Mr. Frederickson who in explaining which types of wavelengths were the most dangerous offered up this little gem: “No one has ever died from living under a radio tower…unless of course it fell on them.”And Mr. Sanford my calculus teacher will forever be my favorite because he 1) looked just like Kenny Rogers and 2) informed me at the end of the year that in all his years of teaching, he had never seen neater homework than mine. (ah yes, I can feel the seeds of a compulsive disorder planting now…)

Now, back to the main event

When we first pulled up to the “country club”, I didn’t recognize the people loitering near the entryway. As one would expect to see at an event of this nature, there were a lot of spray tans, blonde highlights and short skirts. Typically those things make me feel self conscious, as though I have not done enough to uphold this century’s idea of what it means to be an American Woman (or at least for the half of America that watches The Hills. Why is that show even on, anyway?)

You tell yourself as a teenager that it doesn’t matter what so and so is wearing, who they are dating, or what they are doing on a Saturday night because “gosh darn it, I don’t have to succumb to peer pressure.” And then words that were repeated over and over in self-esteem units, afterschool specials, parents, and youth pastors are silenced and replaced with a question: So, did you mean it?

In June, one of my Chick Night girls pounded her hands on the table in front of us and cried out, “I feel like there is nothing more out there for me! It’s like I have nothing to look forward to and I’ll never be able to accomplish the great things that all of those other people have done.” That was a tough one. I looked at her and said that no one was asking her do the great things that have been asked of others. That I can hope God has great things in store for her. I can hope that she will answer the call to those great things and rise to the challenge. But I can also say that it’s possible that the great things she is meant for have already been completed. We’re not guaranteed X number of years and Y number of accomplishments. But we must stop comparing ourselves to others! The only One to whom she should compare herself to has already measured and found her to be lacking but through His grace He gave us a way to be called worthy.

So, while I can chastise myself for not moving on from the hang-ups of my youth, I must understand that they never really go away - and if it appears as if they do, it is most likely that they have only reformed into something that, at its heart, is the same. The words of a 15 year old girl not only echo my own at the age of 15 but at the age of 28. I’m sure they will resemble words spoken again at 35, 52 and 74!

So, did I mean it?

Did I hold tight to the lesson that my life is not to be a reflection of others but a reflection of my Creator?

As I stood into the bathroom and watched as each woman who walked through the door was silently sized up by a row of highlights, satin and stilettos I can proudly say: Yes. It was both painful and liberating. It burrowed deep down into my bones and, in spite of my feeble attempts to rip it out and live another way, never let go. And while I have deficits aplenty, I have never been happier about the person I am today.