Failure is a sickness, a disgust, and a shame that boils my insides, rattles my bones, and shatters my heart.
Everyone else’s expectations of me, and my own expectations of me, are nine feet, nine inches high and I’m expected to fly over them like it’s nothing even though I’m five foot four and I seem closer to the floor than clearing those expectations.
Let’s not even dive into my past failures that linger over me like a dark shadow, eliminating all sources of light.
Let’s not venture into the past concocted of “what if?” and “could’ve been”. Let’s just sit in the present tainted with “why?” and “how?”, and speculate about the future painted with “can it?”, “will it?”, and “should it?”
I want, I ache with every fiber of my being to be this strong, independent girl who is perfectly capable of doing everything for herself. I want to be the heroines in the books I read. But I always tend to focus more on the things they accomplish than the lessons they learn from their trials of brokenness and humility.
The truth? Here it is:
I am a seventeen-year-old girl who thinks she can be Superwoman, but can’t. She hates that she has to surrender to leaning on a crutch sometimes, when she was originally made to fly high above the trees and mountains, soaring over the multiple valleys and canyons and through life.
She doesn’t know who she is anymore. Her brokenness grounds her. Her failures, her past, her doubts, insecurities, and fears ground her.
I am defined. These failures, shadows, and brokenness define me.
I’ve discovered, however, that these definitions are actually ambiguous. All I’ve done is take the negative connotation and apply it to myself.
There is One who has taken all that I’ve ever done and all that I’ve ever been and took it to the cross. Driving forcefully through his hands and feet, trapping him to that rough piece of wood, my old self persecuted the only perfect, righteous man on Earth. Yet He stayed on that cross, despite having the power to escape, and died for me.
Taking the old and replacing it with the new.
Forgiving the sins and giving me hope.
Washing away the dirt and cleaning me with blood.
And that blood washes over me, filling the cracks and canyons in the pottery of my soul until it dries. There are no more valleys or canyons . . . just plateaus and mountains of caked blood.
Gone is the old . . . here is the new.
Yes, the failures still mock me. Yes, the expectations are still waving over me enticingly. Yes, the past still lingers over me, whispering lies of my misplaced worth to my heart. But it won’t listen because Jesus now resides in it.
Now, I am a seventeen-year-old girl who willingly leans on Jesus for everything, because she knows she isn’t Superwoman, and never will be. But that takes all the burdens and stress off of her.
She can just relax in the loving arms of her Savior.
She can just rest in the sweet blood of Jesus that erases everything and starts anew.
She can just be free in the fact she doesn’t have to be or do something.
She can just be . . . loved.