Life Without Mother

“I’m sorry.”
“No ma’am. If you say that again, I will hang up. Because I love you, I will hang up.”

The first line — my words. The second — the response of a dear friend of mine in a phone call just last week. And I’m so thankful that was her response. I’ve had a similar response before — the first in my memory being when my piano teacher told me not to apologize for making a mistake during practice.

This is the thing, while I have made plenty of mistakes requiring an apology (and I’m sure there will be ample opportunity in the future for these words in their rightful meaning), these have become my default response to any slight blunder or even the slightest imposition of my existence on someone.

That memory from my piano lesson when I was just in the fifth grade is an example of my perfectionism and fear of failure — that to make a mistake is to be a failure and therefore cause an inconvenience on those around me who must be patient with my mistakes. But, making mistakes is not to be a failure. That quote from that Beach Reach worship night keeps flashing through my mind: “Obedience is not perfection.” In the simple example of the piano lessons, to obey is to practice. To practice is to go over the music slowly and keep repeating until it is almost perfect (because, as with any art, there is always some improvement in expression that can be made). Therefore, my mistakes are part of obedience. Perfection is a state of being. Whole, complete, dare I say, holy. There is only one Person who fits that bill. And I am not Him. But, He has called me to obedience and that is an action. Obedience is not a state of being. It is a daily, minutely choice to walk in His grace for His glory.

Now, the example from the dialogue I recorded above reveals a whole different insecurity. (It is related to the perfectionism, though on a much deeper level.) For the sake of understanding, here is the context of my apology over the phone: I had just finished sharing (and even shedding a tear or two over) a deep source of personal pain for the past ten years. (This is not a post about that whole thing, though I may share later.) My friend, who has heard plenty of my woes and witnessed countless of my tears, called me out on this immediate dismissal of myself. She implicitly called me out on doing what I have consistently done in some form since I can remember: apologizing for existing.

That is one of the most basic of lies that I’ve believed far too often: I take up too much space in this world. It would be better without me.

I thank God that He claimed me before this lie could take root even as much as it has. Because it is His Truth that He created me and saved me and has good works He has created specifically for me to do that has anchored me to this life — to the temporal life here just in sight of the eternal. (Ephesians 2)

But the lie has been powerful and it has often kept me from the fullness of relationships in which, through Christ, I could have experienced an even greater joy and peace. I have seen just in the past few months the development of many friendships and familial relationships that have deepened to a whole different spiritual level because of the realness. Phone calls while in the beginnings or middle of panic attacks or emotional breakdowns with real-time prayers through a moment, rather than waiting until I suffered through feeling alone and sharing after the fact. Actually showing people how utterly weak I am, needing to be reminded of the Gospel and God’s Truth, feeling as though I’m physically falling apart. But, when I’m with those people God has given me as my community (whether on the phone or in person), never before have I felt so absolutely free to fall apart. To sob uncontrollably.

As somewhat of a side note, have you ever felt so emotionally and mentally out of control that your entire body tenses as though you could physically hold it together? Yeah? Me too. And it’s not fun. But, wow, what a God we have who understands. Even more so. Because my tensing has only been on a scale of holding back tears to my entire body tensing, whereas He sweat blood. He understands the torment of suffering through the ultimate forsakenness — when the Father forsook Him. And because of that, I can say definitively that even in the most seemingly out of control moments, He never forsook me and never will. He understands that ultimate pain. He understands my pain. He meets me there and leads me out of it.

Perhaps some of this sounds a little egotistical. But, as I studied with my students this week, Psalm 139 says that His thoughts concerning me outnumber the grains of sand — if it’s even just talking about the sand on the sidewalk, that’s far more grains than I could count, much less have time to do so. That psalm is all about how intimately God knows each one of us. And to simply honor that knowledge that “is too wonderful for me” I must live unapologetically.

Again, let me be clear: this post is not to make a claim of innocence or a complete lack of culpability or responsibility for the errors I have made. Nor is this post to position myself in a place of arrogance in thinking I will never have anything for which to truly apologize. I have made mistakes and I will make mistakes, and for those particular events, I am heartily ready and willing to apologize.

This post is rather an apology to the Lord. Because I have said “I’m sorry” for existing. I have taken on myself the responsibility of all hurt in my life (including that hurt I have intentionally or unintentionally caused others) and erroneously concluded that I am a burden to this world. But, He is the one who made me! How dare I dismiss what He has done? How dare I deprecate His goodness and grace in choosing to create and save me in spite of all of my rebellion against Him? Forgive me, Father, for the countless rejection of what You have done and are doing through and within me!

I cannot and will not apologize for existing. And part of existing is pain. Brokenness. Because He is good, but I am not. He is perfection itself, but this world is damaged. So, as my friend encouraged, I am learning to be broken — to experience His comfort, and often do that through the listening ears and caring hearts of those He has placed in my life.