Robin W. Pearson's Blog, page 3

Gimme That Old Time Reunion

Eighteen months ago we decided to attend our twenty-fifth college reunion. All I needed to do was get published, lose my gray hair, shed forty pounds, get my PhD, cure my nearsightedness, change my whole wardrobe, memorize my college yearbook, and condense the last quarter century to a thirty-second sound bite that ended with “…And that’s how I saved the world!”

We-e-e-ll, let’s just say I went anyway.

Some of my former classmates were indeed published authors. Tons more sported short, long, twisted, curled, purple, braided, straight, and yes, gray ’dos. My extra pounds and BA degree found ourselves in happy, similar company. I brought my glasses and left the mom jeans, forgot more names and faces than I remembered, and talked too much about the little people who rock my world daily. I loved, I laughed, I re-lived my not-so-glory days. All in all, I had a blast.

Looking back, I wonder at that introverted, anxious part of me that dreaded the weekend because I felt too unaccomplished, too pressed for time, too overwhelmed, too old… every “too” you can think of, including just too me. Even now, I think I could’ve said this, worn that, placed my feet this way for the picture, not asked who was singing (Rihanna, duh), started planking six months ago…and, and, and. The rest of me, however, is grateful Hubby ripped off the Band-Aid when he pried my fingers from the car door and dragged me into that first reception. My nails are torn, but they’re healing quite nicely.

But truly, it makes no sense how I fretted over homecoming weekend, how I assigned such make-or-break, life-or-death importance to it. While I keep asking myself, “Why did I wear my rain boots to the party?” let’s be real: people who didn’t think about me in rain boots before last Friday won’t spare me another thought after last Sunday. I’ve limped into Harris Teeter sporting tattered sweats; worn pin curls under my hat to football games; greeted friends in my pajamas and purple head scarf; kissed Hubby goodbye before I’ve brushed my teeth.

And worst of all, I’ve marched into church dressed to the nines, toting the same ol’ raggedy attitude and hard heart. Yet God said come as you are, not remain as you were. How is it that I show man more consideration than I show Him?

After all, it was God…

Who ordered my steps, before I step foot on my college campus nearly thirty years ago. He sent me Hubby, the G-Girls, my AKA sisters, and the best freshman roommate ever.

Who provided all that Domino’s Pizza I couldn’t afford in those hungry college days. He nourished my heart with song through the gospel choir and my mind with words like “effervescence” in Dr. Pollard’s religion class.

Who helped me recover from my first “C” on a paper, got me through Dr. McPherson’s literature class, and put together my amazing Shakespeare study group.

Who assigned all my days and set my beginning and my ending. He knew me before Mama carried me, when she expected a baby boy named Robert. He stamped “Author” on my heart well before the third grade, when I wrote seventy-two pages about a little girl who liked butter pecan ice cream.

Only God used a reunion weekend to truly bring it all together—times past, times present, times future. He replaced my mourning over aging to gratitude for life experience. He taught me that past mistakes are really lessons learned. He transformed my weariness over sowing seeds into a vision of the future harvest. Merciful God renewed old relationships, restoring what I thought I’d lost or broken. He enlarged my territory by reuniting my small circle. He showed me that I didn’t need a publishing contract, hair color, a thinner waistline, a graduate degree, 20/20 vision, new clothes, or a photographic memory to denote the significance of the last twenty-five years. God paid the price that gave my life meaning.

…And that’s how He keeps on saving the world.

“I called on the Lord in distress;

The Lord answered me and set me in a broad place.

The Lord is on my side;

I will not fear.

What can man do to me?

The Lord is for me among those who help me;

Therefore I shall see my desire on those who hate me.

It is better to trust in the Lord

Than to put confidence in man.

It is better to trust in the Lord

Than to put confidence in princes.” (Psalm 118:5-9)

 

 

 

 

 

Getting the Proper Perspective

I have worked on the perfect post to capture my topsy-turvy, upside-down life. It covered our move, the start of school, the redesign of my web site, and the hurricane. It’s a thrill-a-minute ride—both my post and my life—like trying to sleep on a bucking bronco.

I just couldn’t seem to finish it, my post that is, so I took a good hard look at it—it meaning my life.

It’s not like I lost my love for words. Ask the little people. I use several hundred thousand daily, instructing, correcting, loving, fussing. Talk to Hubby. His “honey, do” lists resemble research papers. My sky-blue datebook is filled with handwritten notes and appointments and ideas. My laptop suns at soccer games, sits quietly in libraries, and rests in the church parking lot. I bet TD stays home more than my computer.

But while I sweated over each word the winds stopped blowing and the waters receded. The little people learned about percentiles and human geography. My new site went live. We unpacked and rearranged the furniture. No matter how much I polished and reworked and tweaked and edited, I just couldn’t perfect that post. Finally, I determined that the words themselves weren’t the issue. It was my need to get each one right.

Jesus, we have a problem.

And it’s not a disingenuous “My only weakness is I’m a perfectionist” answer to an interview question. It’s a “Lord, I’m laying this before you to help me overcome it” need.

I’ve confessed it before, this fear of falling short. Perhaps you struggle with it, too, despite your attempts to lay it at His feet. Perfectionism may disguise itself as motherliness (“Are you wearing those shoes to church?”), micromanagement (“Doublecheck the recipe, the one at the top of the page, and don’t go above 350°— remember the oven dial is sensitive so you need to slowly turn it. And did I say it’s the recipe at the top?”), hindsight (“Maybe this means we shouldn’t have moved. This has been so hard.”), or planning (“If he starts fractions by fourth grade then he can take calculus in twelfth, but if we don’t do that combined algebra 2 and geometry program in ninth he won’t be ready for AP…”). Yet it was all the same to me: believing I was in charge of getting it all right, that the fate of the little people, Hubby, my neighbors, my parents, and my publishing career rested on my every decision. My worries about doing the wrong thing prevented me from doing anything at all. Then I fretted over my lack of productivity.

So, the post went…unfinished.

…and folks uninvited to both my works-in-progress, my second book and our new house. I wouldn’t let anyone read the former or anyone enter the latter since there are plentiful holes in both. I kept my carpets tightly rolled up until I was ready to roll them out.

…and laundry undone because I like it sorted, washed, folded a certain way, and put away immediately. I waited for the stars to align while Hubby employed his philosophy: Better clean and wrinkled than naked.

…and literature untaught while I sweated over our interdisciplinary study. How many books should we cover? How do I weave in their vocabulary program? Should I simply open The Grapes of Wrath or Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and call it a day?

…and compliment sandwiches dispersed to the little people. I squeezed “helpful” criticism between layers of “That’s great, but” and “This is better.” Yet these sandwiches left them undernourished. They didn’t feed their need for building confidence, learning from their mistakes, and trusting themselves.

And most importantly, did they satisfy their need for God? Nope.

When I focus on my internal mirror, I only see imperfect self: Robin who leaves five minutes later than she should, looks like she enjoys Southern cooking, is addicted to commas and semi-colons, runs from things she has dominion over, and believes one post will a publishing career make. But it’s Who I don’t see that matters: a holy, perfect, unfailing God Who’s ready, willing, and more than able. The God Who doesn’t need to me to dot every i, select the right curriculum, know the traffic patterns, pre-sort the laundry, roll out the red carpet, or write a best seller to accomplish His will. Yes, His will, not mine. I need to fix my eyes on Him and He’ll make me look good; in fact, He’ll make me disappear completely. He perfects that which concerns me. (Hebrews 12:2, Psalm 138:8)

So armed with my new outlook, I started (and finished) a new post.

…and invited a friend over.

…and ordered A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

…and treated my little people to more filling, less bread.

…and the laundry? Well, Hubby can take that hamper and run with it.

At my age, I accept that wrinkles add character.

The Lord will perfect that which concerns me;

Your mercy, O Lord, endures forever;

Do not forsake the works of Your hands. (Psalm 138:8)