My 20th high school class reunion is quickly approaching. The countdown is most definitely on.

There’s not much you can do to prepare for a class reunion, but I’ve prepared for the day as best as I can. I sent in my $45/couple fee, RSVP’d on the Facebook event page, and engaged classmates in conversation about who’s bringing a spouse to the reunion and who’s not. I bought an outfit I hope I’ll feel comfortable and beautiful in for the evening’s events, and we arranged a place to stay overnight.

So now I sit in wonder, waiting to see who will be there and who won’t, who I’ll connect with as an adult, and who I won’t. Questions of identity beg to be answered. Who was I then? And who am I now? Am I any different? Or am I really just the same? Will I be stuck in the box of who I was? Or will I be embraced for the person I am today? Will I be comfortable in my all grown-up adult skin, or will I tuck some of that away for the day? I’m guessing I’m not the only one who’s wondered and questioned as the big day approaches.

As I look at the picture of our graduating class of 1994, I can’t help but notice one thing. There are invisible lines dividing the class into circles of friends. Our class was small, most definitely. So we knew everyone and everyone was cordial to one another for the most part. But still, I know who was friends and who wasn’t, who hung together and who didn’t. For the most part, it’s all right there in that picture.

In high school, our identities were largely wrapped up in our friendships, social status, and all the things we did or didn’t do to keep ourselves busy when we weren’t in school.

In adulthood, our identities are much more rich. Our lives aren’t centered around whether we’re the cool kid or jock, the wallflower or fringe folk, the academic or party animal anymore. Our lives are, hopefully, grounded in the authenticity of who we’ve discovered ourselves to be over the course of 20 years living as full-fledged adults.

With that in mind, my hopes for this 20th high school reunion are high.

I’m hoping those invisible lines will be erased, division and discomfort eradicated. All that comparing, contrasting, and jockeying for position? Forget about it. A 20-year high school reunion is the perfect place to let down guards, crumble walls, heal hurts and erase all the bad memories that remain. My biggest wish is that we’ll remember the days of the past with fondness, embrace each other for who we are now, and discover what bonds us together today.

I’m excited to see the real you, whoever you are, now. The authentic you is the best you. So forget putting on face, and step confidently into who you are for the whole night long. We need you to be you.

As for me, I’ll do my best to hold up my end of the bargain. You’ll find me slowly sipping on a glass of wine, quietly connecting with you and you, whoever you are.

And if all goes well, we’ll have a ton of fun.

Four months ago, I met with wise counsel in a coffee shop. She sat with me for three or four hours. I hadn’t had anyone spend that much focused one-on-one time with me, be so patient and gentle, listen so intently, or ask such thoughtful, deep questions of me for a long time.

I needed somebody to listen, hear the whole story, help me filter, discern without judgement or bias. I needed someone to process with me, and I needed it to happen organically, without feeling like we were under some sort of time crunch. So I scheduled more time than I thought necessary, and we filled it all. Obviously, I needed that wise counsel.

The words we shared with one another that day will always remain confidential. But there’s one thing from our conversation I would like to share with you today.

She asked me to spend some time thinking about my identity. Beyond wife, mom, daughter, sister, niece, cousin, aunt, blogger, speech therapist, former nonprofit board member, and all the other roles I’ve played in my life…

Who am I?

Strip away the roles, titles, and responsibilities. Strip away the masks and dreams of what could be. What remains of my identity? What words best describe the core of who I am?

I love questions of identity, so this really got me thinking. Add to that, I’ve spent nearly two years in an awkward in-between, more than ready to embrace and live out my true identity. So what would I say? How would I answer this question? Who am I? Who am I, really?

Here are the words that come to mind…

Introverted.

Sensitive.

Emotional.

Deeply intuitive.

Kind.

Patient.

Realistic.

Observer of people and life.

Rapport builder.

Fairly serious.

Honest.

Compassionate.

Justice seeking.

Hard working.

Organized.

Detail oriented.

A little obsessive.

Giving.

Contemplative.

Deep thinker.

Conservative.

Can be quiet.

Can be really talkative if the stars align (setting + personality match + subject matter).

Christian.

Child of God.

So what’s the point? Why identify your identity?

1) We need to keep our identity grounded in what’s truly significant. Our worth comes NOT from what we do, how much we accomplish, how many kids we have, or how big our houses or bank accounts are. Our identity is what remains when all the things of this world are stripped away. What remains at the end of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day? You. What remains at the end of a beautiful, marvelous, spectacular, very good day? You. Our worth is best judged based on our identity rather than our circumstances. As they say, you’re so much more than what’s happened to you.

2) Our lives should, ideally, reflect the whole of our identities. God created you for a reason, to fulfill a specific purpose during your time here on earth. All the intricate little parts of you come together to create all of you. So does your day to day life reflect your true identity? Do you feel like you’ve been wearing a mask, trying to please, living a life others created for you, hoped for you? Was your identity trampled on somewhere along the way, have you stuffed it away in hidden places nobody knows but you? Are the most authentic parts of your identity yet to be tapped? Are you desperate to embrace your identity rather than reject or half-heartedly live it out?

Let me share one great example of how identity recently showed up in my life…

This week I’ve been reflecting, yet again, on my trip to Haiti with Compassion International. In all my deep thought, I realized something important. One of the reasons I loved Haiti so much was that the trip was 100% in line with my identity. Every aspect of my identity was tapped during that trip. I didn’t have to work hard. I didn’t wear any masks. I was at peace. And I was filled to the brim with joy of another kind. Because I was living out my true identity. Who I am flowed out naturally during that week in Haiti. I didn’t have to reach out, grab onto, or construct some false, half-hearted identity. To have that opportunity, to live 100% in line with my identity was a beautiful experience. So from that point forward, I committed to living differently, fully in my identity. The best way to express gratitude to God for creating us in the first place, is to whole-heartedly embrace our unique identities and live accordingly.

So I wonder…

What’s your true identity?

Who are you?

Who are you, really?

And remember…

Our identity is what remains when all the things of this world are stripped away.

Take time for you. Give yourself a gift.

Identify your identity.

Grab a pen, sit down on a comfy chair, and take a few minutes to identify all the things that make you, you.

Then, be intentional about living your life in a way that taps into every bit of that identity.

Because this world needs ALL of you.

 

 

The cake’s lit up. Today’s for you, dear one.

What wish will you have? What wish will it be?

Dream grand. Dream big, sweet one.

For there’s only one you. You, beautiful you.

Where would you go? Who would you be? How would you live life that’s meant to be?

Do you believe it is possible? Do you believe it is true? That you are the one and only you?

What will it be, dear? What will it be?

Tell me, tell me. I long for you to see.

What does your heart say? What does it say?

Go?

Stay?

Be?

What, dear one, will be your wish?

If you could have anything, anything, anything? What would that be? What would that be?

See.

See.

See.

To see is my wish for you, for me.

To see the beauty every day.

To see the purpose in your pain.

To see life’s canvas, waiting, white.

To see your future, beauty, bright.

To see miraculous you, you.

To see the love that’s waiting on you.

To see your life for what it is.

To see that you are truly His.

To see.

See.

My birthday wish, for you, for me.

To see.

I’ve spent a lifetime battling perfectionism – doing what’s right, doing what’s best, doing what’s expected. Just this week, I squelched my own creativity by ruminating on perfection. Blog posts swirled in my head. I drafted three in three days. But I couldn’t bring myself to publish any of them. Because I had worries about each one – what if I’m sharing too much with this one, what if I’m being too vague with this one, what if nobody relates to this one? So I dug deep in my unpublished archives and found this post, originally drafted in August 2013. It provides insight into the origins (and persistence) of perfectionism in my life. While these incidences merely skim the surface in regards to how perfectionism plays out in my life on a daily basis, they are most definitely defining moments. Today, I hope this post will help you recognize you’re not alone in whatever battle you’ve been facing for a lifetime.

My first memory of striving to be my best was in first grade. Sara and I were the top two in a contest to see who could read the most books. For each book we read, we got to add a body to our caterpillar. Whoever had the longest caterpillar at the end of the contest was the winner. I remember the contest and I remember the caterpillar up on the wall above the chalkboard, but the funny thing is, I don’t remember who won. It was all about reading more, doing more, being more.

Third grade marks my first recollection of being reprimanded for trying my best. My teacher was wonderful and highly respected. She had high expectations for her students. It was time for a spelling test, and I wasn’t sure how to spell a word. I distinctly remember spelling the word out in the corner of the paper in small writing, trying to figure out which letters fit together best before I wrote the word in its final form next to its designated number on the test. As my teacher walked around our desks, she noticed the faint, erased word on the top of my paper, and I’ll never forget her questioning whether I had cheated. This is most definitely a formative memory. I’d tried my best, yet my best wasn’t good enough.

The pressure to perform must have been on in fourth grade. Mom was a first grade teacher at the time, but had an advanced student who was working at the fourth grade level. I had a particularly difficult reading and writing assignment, and must have known mom had the teacher’s manual with all the answers. I don’t have any recollection of cheating, but I do remember being caught. My teacher called me on my far-too-advanced-for-my-age choice of words, and she was right.

The competition between me and Sara continued in fifth grade, sixth grade, and beyond as we battled for first chair in band. We played flute like it was our business, as if our lives were much more worthy because we were sitting in first chair instead of second.

In seventh grade, a peer criticized the way I drank my can of soda pop. She said I touched my lips too much to the can as I drank, and according to her, I was supposed to tip the can up slightly and just let the soda flow into my mouth. I’m pretty sure I overanalyzed the way I drank soda pop from a can for years.

In high school, someone called me on my pronunciation of sorry. “You’re not supposed to say SOOOORY,” they said, “you’re supposed to say “saaarry.” You bet, I never said “soooory” that way ever again.

I’ve always been one to dress up more than most, but in high school, a peer called me on it one day. “Why do you wear tights with shorts,” she said, “that looks dumb.” I didn’t have an answer, really. All I knew was I had bought the outfit at Express. They were showing tights with shorts at that time, and I thought it was cool. So, hey? I didn’t understand why she had to be so critical.

You’d think all of this would’ve come to an end after high school, but not so much.

In graduate school, I’d prepared a long paper for a course. It was tough and required a lot of research. I wasn’t 100% confident or passionate about the subject matter, to be honest. But I had done a LOT of work, and I did my very best. I felt the paper was perfectly acceptable. The next task was to present the paper orally in front of the class. I don’t remember much about that presentation, but I do remember the professor stopping me abruptly in the middle of it. “I think we’ve heard enough for today,” she said. The message was clear – you’ve said too much, you’ve gone into way too much detail, we don’t need to hear any more of this. I’m not sure if I left the room right away or if I waited politely until the appropriate time to leave, but I remember fleeing down the hall, hiding away, sobbing in the bathroom.

Last summer, a grown woman made me feel like a 7-year-old instead of a 37-year-old when I was simply following my husband’s suggestion to organize a group of adults and children. I was tired and overstimulated, and I was just trying to do the right thing in that moment, but her poor choice of words and condescending, shaming tone brought me all the way back to 3rd grade in a second. She shut me up and shut me down, that’s for sure.

And later that summer, when I made homemade scalloped potatoes and ham, warmed up a bag of frozen mixed vegetables, put it on the kids’ plates and they said “that’s all we’re having for dinner?” I second guessed myself. I should’ve made pork chops and scalloped potatoes, then there would’ve been a bigger piece of meat and more protein. I should’ve cut up some fruit so they had all the food groups represented. And we were out of milk, so they just had ice water. Clearly, I wasn’t organized enough to get to the store to buy milk today. And that night at the store, guilt as I passed up the organic gallon of milk for the much cheaper $2.89 gallon of store brand milk.

Do you see the pattern here?

Do you see the problem with all of this?

My expectations are faulty, others’ expectations are faulty.

My thinking is faulty, others’ thinking is faulty.

My response is faulty, others’ responses are faulty.

Let’s just face it. The belief that perfection can be obtained, achieved, is a bunch of rubbish.

My pursuit of perfection, my need to try my very best and do my very best, at all times, in all ways, thinking I need to be all things to all people, yet still never feeling like I’m good enough? It’s not working for me anymore. It’s not healthy, it’s not sustainable, and it’s not the way God calls me to live. Because no human being is perfect, no human being can do everything right.

So I’ve had enough. I’m not perfect, nor will I ever be.

I embrace grace with wild abandon, because I need it bad.

Grace for myself, grace for others.

Grace it will be.

Amy

*Please note, this post is not intended to shame any individual who’s been a part of my formation as a human being, but rather to shed light on my personal battle with perfectionism.

It was the second week of August 2013. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. For some reason, I had more time than normal before my last speech-language therapy home visit that day, so I took the opportunity to stop at the grocery store where I planned to do business banking and pick up an ice cream treat.

But I never did make it into the store that day.

This thing that happened? It was a little crazy.

So I got out of my car at this grocery store I’d never been to before, and all I could hear was somebody whistling in the parking lot. It was the kind of whistling that was hard to ignore, although everybody but me seemed to be going about their grocery shopping business as usual.

I looked around and looked around some more. There were NO signs of a whistling person anywhere. But then I looked a couple rows down and saw an older man with a line of grocery carts. He was pushing the carts towards the store, and I noticed he was the one, HE was the one whistling!

So I crossed the two lines of cars separating me and that man in the parking lot because, hey, I had a little time and I really wanted to know what compelled this man to whistle so intently while he was working! I approached, told him how lovely his whistling was, how it captured my attention across the parking lot, and asked if I could tell his story on my blog.

When the man responded, I discovered a MAJOR problem…

He didn’t speak a lick of English. In fact, he responded to my inquiry in Spanish.

Hmm….

What was I to do?

I’d only been blogging for 13 months at that point, and I’d never run into a situation like this!

If I was any other sane person, I would’ve let it go at that. But no. I had to do something!

So I went back to my car and pulled up a translation website on my iPhone while keeping a close eye on the whistling grocery cart pusher. One of the first sites that came up was www.webtranslation.paralink.com, so I clicked on the link, found Spanish translation, and crafted something to say to the man. (And ya, I knew that whatever I said had to be simple and to the point, because I hadn’t taken a Spanish class since high school, so even with translation, I wasn’t going to be blowing the dude away with my Spanish proficiency.)

This is what I had translated on my little iPhone…

I love your whistling. Can I write an article about your lovely whistling for the internet?

OK. OK! So 8 1/2 months later, I realize this is craziness, utter stupidity! The fact that I went back to this whistling, Spanish-speaking grocery cart pushing man just to say that seems ridiculous. I admit it. But for some reason, in that moment, I was compelled to return to him and know more about his story, and those were unfortunately, the best words I could muster in those moments of rush in the parking lot.

So I got out of my car, took my handy dandy phone with those words translated to Spanish, and sought out the whistling grocery cart pusher once again.

Utter craziness, I know.

When I approached the man, he recognized me from before and stopped immediately. I pulled out my phone and read the words, in my feeble attempt at Spanish.

Amo su silbido. ¿Puedo escribir un artículo sobre su silbido encantador para el Internet?

(I love your whistling. Can I write an article about your lovely whistling for the internet?)

The man must have understood at least some of what I said, and must have thought I was fluent in Spanish, because he then proceeded to tell me what sounded like his life story – IN SPANISH! 

As he proceeded, sentence after sentence, I debated in my mind – was this rude, demeaning and inappropriate to let this man go on and on in Spanish, when I don’t understand much of anything he’s saying? Or is it OK? I let my heart and my gut rule, and I decided I’d stay. Although I have to admit, it made me feel a little uncomfortable and desperate for a translator because I knew he was revealing to me, right there in the grocery store parking lot, a story that was heart-wrenching and incredible.

So there I stood, in the middle of a grocery store parking lot, listening to this man tell me his life story, in Spanish. And I didn’t understand a thing. Or did I?

My “translation” and understanding of bits and pieces of the man’s story compelled me to stay when logic told me it’d be better to flee.

This is what I understood of the whistling, Spanish-speaking grocery cart pusher’s story, despite our language differences. Words paired with gestures, paired with my strong intuition and skill interpreting others’ communication from 14 years of experience as a speech-language pathologist, led me to understand this.

The man had been whistling since he was born. There were no tears when he was born, just whistling, right from the start. He was most definitely sure of that.

He had no schooling. He could write only a few words.

He’d experienced and observed many devastating and horrific things over the course of his life. His wife died. He gestured having an arm cut off from the elbow down three times. He gestured getting his head cut off another time. He took my pen and wrote “WICKED” on his hand, and had many names for Satan in Spanish.

But even in all his pain, the whistling, Spanish-speaking man had a deep faith. In our short time together, he pointed to the ground and then back up to the sky several times. There were many references to “Biblia.” And he even brought out his lighter and lifted it high to the sky to demonstrate the power of God in all the pain.

After about twenty minutes of chatting, it was time for me to go. I didn’t want the man to be fired, so I found an opportunity to politely wrap up the conversation and bid the man a warm farewell as best as I could.

I returned to my car and scribbled notes about my encounter with the man.

I went home that night and told the story to my husband. It all seemed a little crazy, but there was another part of it that felt holy, like it was a divine appointment between me and this whistling stranger.

My notes and the grocery store flyer sat on my night stand for weeks. I finally decided to tuck them away in a special spot in case I wanted to refer back to that story someday.

Six months later, I took that trip to Haiti. And it wasn’t until I returned from Haiti and sought wise counsel about next steps for my life, that I realized – my encounter with that man was profound. I finally got it. I finally understood.

That whistling, Spanish-speaking grocery cart pusher taught me the only thing I need to know about LIFE. Though life’s handed us the worst, the most devastating and horrific of circumstances, we can CHOOSE to be joyful, we can CHOOSE to whistle and make the most of each and every day. We can CHOOSE to let faith rule our lives rather than fear.

It’s true for me, and it’s true for you. Will you choose to be brought down by your circumstances? Will you choose to let life get you down? Or will you whistle your way through life with faith, finding joy and opportunity in every moment?

That whistling, Spanish-speaking grocery cart pusher taught me the only thing I need to know about the PURPOSE of my LIFE, too.

The purpose of my life is to be a translator-of-sorts.

To translate stories of fire and ashes – into beauty.

To translate stories nobody understands – into stories everyone can understand.

To translate stories untold – into stories told.

To translate stories of lifelessness – into stories of true life.

To translate stories of pain – into stories of purpose.

To translate stories hidden – into stories brought to light.

To translate stories of misunderstanding – into understanding.

To translate stories of doing what you love, and loving whatever it is that you have to do.

Yes, it’s mysterious work. And I’m still trying to figure it all out.

Before, I believed there was no purpose in me sharing this story – because I didn’t know all the details, because I didn’t understand all of the man’s words, because I didn’t really know his story after all – so I stuffed it away in a hiding spot to keep to myself. There was simply too much mystery in it to believe it had value.

But now, I rest in peace, knowing the mystery is what’s profound. The mystery is where I’m meant to reside. This gift of translating mystery into some sort of beautiful reality? It’s what I’m meant to do.

So whistle on, whistle on people.

Whether you’re winning or losing or somewhere in-between, whistle on, whistle on.

Amy