Pint-Size Perfectionist

I’m raising a very spunky nine-year-old who is as big a joy as she is a challenge. She’s outgoing and brave, competitive, focused, and extraordinarily people-smart. She reads faces and doesn’t miss a beat. She knows what I’m thinking before I say it, and she’s a sponge—a super teachable people pleaser, which makes her an amazing athlete and student, and a quintessential overachiever.

And so, in spite of her giftedness, I worry for Maya because not only does she experience a lot of self-imposed pressure (especially for someone so young), but she also often accomplishes her goals for the wrong reasons. She wants people to like her. She’s zealous for rules. She trashes a picture she spent an hour coloring because she made one mistake. She adjusts quickly to instruction because she’s got to do it right and be impressive.

In a lot of ways, she’s just like me. Sigh. So sorry, kid.

When I see the burden to do everything right sitting squarely on her little shoulders, I’m sad for her. It grieves me because as her mom, I know the pressure is unnecessary—she’s loved and accepted already, without condition. I wish she were motivated to obey in school because she loves to gain knowledge and honor her teacher, or to strive in athletics because she adores the intricacies of the game, or to do the right thing at home because she trusts her dad and me and wants to show her family love. I mean, there’s some of that, but it lives alongside the yolk of slavery I’ve experienced for so long—the drive to obey so that.

I obey so that people will like me. I obey so that people will think I’m awesome and have it all together. I obey so that I don’t get in trouble or cause a scene, thereby drawing attention to the fact that I didn’t obey. Grief—I obey so that I can obey. It has become its own end. Obedience for the sake of obedience—which, by the way, is a motive with no staying power, no gratification, and no attraction for nonbelievers.

And it doesn’t please the Lord.

Come to think of it, I often obey the letter of the law for the wrong reasons—I do the right thing with the wrong attitude or misguided motive. And sadly, that’s how it’s been for a long time.

When I was exactly Maya’s age, I happened upon a group of kids plotting to be horribly mean to a girl in our class. I had just gotten hot lunch and was carrying my tray toward the tables where we usually sat, when my classmates gestured for me to quickly sit down in the last available seat. I did, though I was confused by all the urgency and whispering. Seconds later I realized they had conspired to make Colleen sit by herself. I don’t remember exactly what they said to her as she approached, but it was awful. She sat down at the other table and started to cry while they jeered and laughed.

I was horrified. It was so wrong, and the Holy Spirit stirred in my little soul, though I sat frozen, weighing my options. Then I remembered Colleen was a bit of a teacher’s pet, and I certainly didn’t want Mrs. S. to think I had any part in the cruel plan.

My self-preservation tipped the scale.

I stood up, tray in hand, and sat in the seat next to Colleen. The meanness of the crowd transferred to me, but it didn’t last long—I think they were surprised anyone had the guts to defect, and they just went back to eating. I don’t remember either of us saying a word, but Colleen eventually stopped crying and I stayed with her for the rest of lunch and recess. I didn’t have a choice, really; in a flash, it was us against them. Even my best friend and blood buddy (such a weird and gross pre–AIDS era ritual) symbolically washed her hands, which included her previously pricked finger, and stormed away.

And all that to say, now that I’m a mom, I’m so, so, so glad I sat next to that precious girl—so thankful she didn’t have to endure the torture alone. I can’t stand bullying, and I cringe at the thought of it happening to one of my own. I’m glad God used me to help stop Colleen’s tears, but I wish I’d done it for the right reasons. I wish I hadn’t hesitated when Christ’s compassion was convicting my heart. I wish my good standing with my teacher hadn’t been more important to me than what pleased the Lord. I wish I had obeyed because I’m unconditionally loved by God and I couldn’t ignore something that hurt His heart. There were lots of good reasons to sit by Colleen that day, but impressing my teacher wasn’t one of them. Her approval was a pathetic consolation prize compared to how proud God might’ve otherwise been.

But in spite of my tendency to obey for the wrong reasons, God in His sovereignty and abundant grace still draws near to self-centered people like me. And that's what perfectionism is: self-centeredness. The more I understand how yucky my heart really is, the more I'm understanding the grace that is my ticket to freedom--from my vices and from myself.

Praying fervently that I pass on what I'm learning to my precious little girl, and that she would experience freedom from perfectionism a lot earlier in life than I did.