13th Chair

Tears, tears, more tears. “Mom, I got stupid 13th chair!” My daughter received the news two days after her audition for chair placement for the annual “Strings in Concert”, featuring Rapid City’s 4th- 8th grade orchestra students. The chasm between her expectation of herself and reality was too big for her to cross.

Megan’s biological blood type is AB, but her personality blood type is 100% type A. She makes high demands of herself. If her straight-A report card is corrupted by a “B” cell, she quickly diagnoses the entire report card as malignant. “B” cannot stand on its own, nor be self-contained, it spreads and infects all of the “A’s.” Just as important to her is class rank. If she’s not towering over her seventh-grade core, she might as well be at the bottom. Though Megan has never had a private violin lesson in her entire life, she is accustomed to consistently holding one of the top three chairs in her school orchestra. You see, she must be at the top. Her sense of self-worth depends on it.

When Megan was in fourth grade, I initiated an email exchange with my mother. “Will you pray for little Meggie and us? She is so tired and stressed out. She got a “basic” rating in math yesterday, and that just won’t do. She has to be the best at everything and it’s wearing her out….we just need wisdom on how to handle such a strange breed that must perform well and be perfect at absolutely everything…..” My mom responded, “Of course I will……what you are describing to me is YOU (when you were young) and WE were the ones looking for direction with just as much concern as you have”.

Ouch. Yes, I guess this “strange breed” was actually birthed by me. My contribution to Megan’s blood type “AB” is the A. For four years in high school I clawed my way through pages and pages of books to be valedictorian. I had to. My failure to do so would have rendered me incompetent, worthless. I vied all four years of high school for vocal solo parts, chair placement in band, casting of school musical parts, and burned my finger prints into my piano repeating songs endlessly in pursuit of a “1” score at music contest.

Why this dual-generational need to jockey for position? Why the drive to achieve? Why the striving to be perfect? It wasn’t until I was in my 30s that I realized these were even questions to be asked. That was also the time it became evident what years of grasping for first place had done to me.

Reeling the tape backward to 7th grade (Megan’s age) for me conjures up emotions of feeling awkward, inadequate, and sometimes, rejected. Like everyone else, I was born with a need to “get life” – to feel valuable, accepted. And I, like everyone else, will do whatever it takes to get it. By the first year of high school, I discovered a strategy that seemed to hold promise: Be perfect. Be the best at the things I showed aptitude for. For me, this was in academics and music.

This strategy actually worked well for quite some time. Hours of vocalizing propped me up to win pageant titles. My straight-A report card earned me multiple scholarships, and better yet, dinners with applause and my name in newspapers. I could add these to my title as President of the Honor Society, plus the seat I held in Student Senate in college to my first resume which landed me a job that made others jealous by the time I was a sophomore in college. All these things seemed to seal the value I had hoped I was creating; the liquid metal now set into a trophy I would carry with me into a lifetime of achievement. In my adult years, class rank and contest scores morphed into job performance and church involvement. A student’s reflection is seen in report cards; an adult’s, in resumes, certificates, positions. I have said “yes” to countless things because I didn’t feel I had any other choice, that is, if I wanted to get life. So, one “yes” led to another, and yet to another, and before I knew it, my life was the spin-cycle of my own strategy; a cycle of need, then grasping, then affirming the need, then starting all over again.

Of course, the execution of any strategy requires a power source and control over its tactics. As long as one has both, success is within reach. Ten years ago, this control began to slip from my hands. My power supply began to get cut off, one cord at a time. Severe insomnia, leaving me often in a zombie-like state, pulled the first plug. I barreled my way through it, determined that it would not interfere with all of the things I had said “yes” to. It became a little harder to keep this up when TMJ entered the picture. This was my first taste of chronic pain. Three years later, even now; chronic neck pain. My “yes” activities slowly became replaced with doctor’s appointments, chiropractors, physical therapists, medication follow-ups, injections, denervation procedures, and hundreds of hours of home therapy. All of this amounted to ten years of thwarted strategy. Ten years of grappling with my inability to get life in the only way I knew how. Ten years of watching my Tower of Babel fall, crumble, scatter.

This decade-long journey took me through various deserts of depression. I eventually found a spot next to an oasis and built a hut of acceptance. It’s not completely furnished yet, but I’m settled there. I don’t feel near the need to grasp anymore. I’m not compelled to say “yes”. God has slowly transformed my perception of internal value. I certainly will always have this tendency towards the wild animal of my old strategy, but it has been tamed through the bridle of pain. I’m learning to decipher between excellence, and its evil twin, perfectionism. Excellence seems to want the best from the resources God has provided at the present time. It tends to think people should come first. Perfectionism, on the other hand, wears a fig leaf to mask its true identity. It’s a smooth criminal. You roll out the red carpet so that it can slink through your front door like a model in Vogue. Then, it steals what you value the most – your energy, your joy, even your relationships. It rips you off. And others around you too.

This fall I had a conference with one of Megan’s teachers, Mrs. Gill. I realized I hadn’t come to this conference for Megan, but for me. I was beaming (and blushing) as she went on to tell me how courteous, helpful, and respectful Megan is to others; and that she exhibits strong leadership in her core. We then proceeded to discuss her grade in Science class. Mrs. Gill updated me on what her current grade was; I think a 97, and then proceeded to give me her perspective, which was very poignant. She told me about the extra credit that Megan could take advantage of to get that grade up to a 100%, but that she actually really admires the fact that she isn’t always driven to do it. “It’s a sense of wholeness of person,” she said. I went on to tell her about my performance mentality in school, and my attempts to encourage Megan to take a different path. She welled up with tears and offered up her encouragement. “Amy, you are breaking this pattern for the next generation,” she said. I was stunned. I walked away with the sense that God had lifted the veil to see that one of my greatest “achievements” in life will be the achievement of teaching my daughter that she doesn’t have to achieve. That life isn’t a contest. To do things because you enjoy them, not to win. You don’t have to be the best. The 13th chair isn’t any bigger than the chair in 1st place. It can hold just as much joy. What a strange thought from such a strange breed.

The Morning After I Retire

I wrote this for my mother, who retired on Thursday. Congratulations; you deserve every cup of Bailey’s you can get your hands on.

The Morning After I Retire

The morning after I retire, I’m going to make my coffee stout – no need to drink half-caff to counteract the 10:00 am spiked blood pressure I normally experience at the office.

I’m going to sit on my couch and imagine the hum at the office: the Fed Ex man making deliveries, the phone ringing, the shredder running,  the sound of the door slamming as people come through, and the spirited cackles of my co-workers.

I’m going to gaze at the tree in my back yard: the one I’ve never noticed before.  I’ll fix my eyes on its auburn coloring, the two dead branches that stick up at a 45-degree angle, and the squirrel that dances on the high green needles. Then I’ll notice the empty space above my sliding glass doors that could really use a wrought-iron sconce-type-thing to liven it up.

I’ll notice my neighbors who walk at 9:00: a young mother with teeny moving being covered with a pretty hat in a stroller; a retired couple-the man, nodding; the woman, waving her arms in cadence as she talks. I’ll wonder what they are chatting about; it wouldn’t be about their jobs. Maybe, about their grandchildren? Their next trip? At this point, it’s hard for me to imagine what else would occupy one’s mind. Then I’ll catch a clean view of Mrs. Paxton run by in her spandex shorts, headphones on, ponytail bouncing-the skinny devil. Is this what non-working women have been doing over the last 40 years?

I’ll probably sip my coffee, breathe deeply, and ask “What now?”  I might imagine a scene in which I introduce myself to the new me that I’ve never met – the one who doesn’t know anything different than office life.  What will be my first impression of this new me? Will she strike me as one who has just found gold? Or will she seem lost, floundering?

I think I’ll imagine my best day at work; the one where I got to see the results of my best effort and my strengths acting in concert ; and I’ll once again revel in the magic of that day – the day when I put a dent in something; made a mark. Then I’ll imagine my worst day; where all of the motley dysfunctions seemed to collide and unexpectedly blew up in my face like a land mine. On that day, I was unfairly criticized; overwhelmed, and disillusioned – I mistakenly thought my job was more satisfying than this. I remember feeling trapped with the same annoying situations to face every day, and no better options.

It will dawn on me that best day, the worst day, and the ordinary days crystallized on the day I retired.  I’ll pick up the necklace that was given to me yesterday at my retirement party and look closely at the stones in the pendant. As I stare at them, I begin to see imbedded images. One is yellow; in it I see the encouragement I was able to offer a co-worker when her son was in juvenile services, and she was anticipating the looming court date that would settle his fate for the next two years. One is green – it resembles the lives of those my work impacted completely unbeknownst to me. I see their families standing in the background; their lives also affected by the fact that I was faithful to get out of bed morning after morning to the sound of my alarm, and offer the best my tired mind could give. One is iridescent; it sparkles. At first I have a hard time making it out, but then, I see, it’s my character. It has been changed by the things I hated most about work – the co-worker who always felt free to criticize my work, the new meaningless rules and regulations that constantly demanded my compliance, the things that would not change despite my best lobbying efforts.

My deep thoughts will be interrupted by a phone call from a friend asking me out for lunch. I’ll do the usual scanning of my calendar in my head; searching for a date that is beyond the deadline I usually face on the 15^th of every month. I’ll suddenly remember that someone else will now handle that deadline, and, now I’ll find it impossible to find a reason that I couldn’t go. I’ll suggest dinner, instead, in order to avoid the discomfort of making plans on such short notice.

I’ll reach for a pad of paper and a pencil and sit down again. I write at the top: Things I’ve Always Wanted to Do but Never Had the Time.  What will first come to mind are those that gnawed at me when my kids were growing up; those things I could have done if I would have had my summers off like my teacher friends did: organizing 20-year-old photos thrown in a box, cataloging video collections spanning 30 years on old mini-DV tapes. These make the top of my list. As I continue thinking, I’ll feel a twinge in my stomach when I think of how Gwyneth Johnston – the lady in my church council – made me madder than a hornet,  and how I have done nothing besides let the anger fester for the past 10 years. Maybe, then, I’ll decide I should write her a letter. Then I’ll think of my good friend who moved away 30 years ago, and ponder what it would be like if I bought a plane ticket and surprised her by my arrival.

I’ll see the postman go by, and discover that he comes by at 10:45 am. I’ll set my coffee down and run out to the mailbox. In my stack of mail I’ll see an envelope from Dakota Choral Union, and remember I filled out a card at my granddaughter’s choir concert a few ago expressing my interest in being a part of the choir. This Christmas they are performing select pieces from “The Messiah”. I see rehearsals are on Mondays and Thursdays from 7-9 pm. My first thought:  I usually prepare for Tuesday morning staff meetings Monday evenings; but, oh, yes – no more staff meetings. This might actually work.  I’ll wonder what people wear to music rehearsals. Maybe I should buy some new lipstick. The next envelope in the stack is from Modrick’s Travel: “Cruise packages starting at $1599”.  As I walk back to the house I realize that I need to actually name the places I’ve always wanted to visit; realizing I have lumped them into a generic  place called “Oh, the Places I’ll Go When I Retire”.  I’ll pick up my coffee, sit back down, and add these to the list. Finally, I’ll add: “Figure out what else I’ve always wanted to do but never had the time”.

I think I might wonder how one changes gears so abruptly – from one life to another in one day. I’ll wonder what my mom felt when she retired twenty years ago. What did she do that morning? What did she feel? What did she see in her gems? What was on her list? And I’ll realize that what I actually did on the morning after the day I retired was completely different than what I thought I would do.  I’ll find it more confusing, more joyful, more reflective, and more uneventful than I expected. That’s when I’ll get up from my chair, and add a little Bailey’s Irish cream to my coffee, because I can.  And I’ll put my tennis shoes on, go out my front door, start walking, and ponder what I’ll do on the morning of the second day of my retirement.

Light of Night

Last night while huddled in bed I began to hear the trickle of rain. I looked out my window; since it was early in the evening, the walls of the world had not yet turned black; they were gray. Small puffs of mist danced eerily on the road, and a patch of fog hovered over the mountain pass as if someone had dropped a piece of batting that got caught on the tips of the pine trees. The air sagged from water. Inanimate objects such as my mailbox that were being drenched in rain seemed to say “go back to bed where it’s safe”.  The muted setting elicited the same feelings that a mystery flick evokes: fear, dread, sadness, hopelessness.

Today is the perfect day. The sun showers light, as evidenced by the diagonal shadows cast on the tree trunks. The spring birds twitter to one another, the hawks caw, the green leaves flutter in the soft breeze; and butterflies lift and descend quickly, as if so elated by the new climate that they have lost all sense of direction.  Purple flowers peek through the water-logged soil and the foliage surrounding them is vividly green, almost as if it were computer-generated.

Yesterday’s backdrop was clouds, which foreshadowed the evening rain; today, it’s sunlight and warmth. Yesterday, I was brooding about things that won’t change and was terrified of the future. Today, feelings of confidence and hope return. Circumstances rarely change overnight; why the drastic difference in one’s outlook in less than twenty-four hours? Light.

Researchers show that we have an improved mood and a greater propensity to take risks in sun-lit weather. Something in us is drawn to illumination. To be in the dark scares us; makes us feel uneasy. In blackness, problems seem larger than life. In the light, they lose their ferocity. We were created to crave light. Perhaps this is why God calls Himself the Light. He knows we need it to have hope and to dispel our fears.

In Psalm 139, David speaks about God’s ubiquity; of the magnitude and reach of His presence.

In verses 11 & 12 he talks specifically about God’s nearness in the dark.
“Then I say to myself, “Oh, he even sees me in the dark!
At night I’m immersed in the light!”
It’s a fact: darkness isn’t dark to you;
Night and day, darkness and light, they’re all the same to you.”
Psalm 139:1-12 (The Message)

God says that night and day are the same to Him. Did you hear this? Night and day are the same to Him. In the night – in the dark -He’s immersed in the light.

I think this truth is loaded with meaning and offers us more solace than we often realize. In Psalm 139, David opens in verse 1 by asking God to “investigate” Him, and continues to tell us, by letting us peek in on his prayer,  about His intimate knowledge of us and His nearness to us at all times and in all places; even in darkness. Certainly this means that we cannot hide from Him. The fact that we cannot, in a weak moment, choose to take off on a plane to an island far away from the One who loves us the most is really quite a comfort.  But could this fact – that darkness and light are no different to Him – also tell us something about His vantage point; the way He sees things? I think it does.

A giant problem you or I face makes us feel like we are walking in the dark – for days, week, or even years. But to God, that same situation is staged in sunlight. To Him, it’s a 75 degree day. The birds are chirping and flowers are diffusing their fragrance; He is full of confidence. To Him, it is not dark, because He illuminates. Imagine how that giant problem would seem if brilliant sunlight were cast on it; if it were in the context of a hopeful spring day. Not quite as overwhelming. This is the true nature of all of our problems with His luminescence. They are much smaller than they seem; minimized by the ambience of yellow light and blossoming. The added comfort we are being offered in David’s words is this:  We are being cared by the One who is with us as much in our darkness as in our light. And He doesn’t lose heart in the dark like we do. His vision of our lives – even with their messes, problems, failures, and inadequacies- isn’t skewed by gray skies; He sees them crystal-clearly, as they really are – lives filled with hope and with chances (that we call problems) for Him to show us what He can do with all of the power and resources of the world at his disposal.

The forecast for tomorrow warns of winds and rain – that is, for me. To God, it looks like it’s going to be another gorgeous day – mid-70’s, blue sky, gentle breeze.  When I huddle in bed listening to the sound of rain, I’ll imagine what the world must look like from the vantage point of the Light of the Night.