looking through me

Tag: self-perception

February 2, 2015

unashamed

There’s a line I love and try to live. “Seek peace and pursue it” (Psalm 34.14b). But I’m a context-reader, and as I marinate in the whole psalm something else keeps demanding my attention:

I sought the Lord, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears. Those who look to him are radiant, and their faces are never covered with shame. (Psalm 34.4-5)

Shame—the sickening feeling that whispers, “I’m a bad person unworthy of love and acceptance”—infects me from the inside out. I wear my shame.

Until I remember I can’t wear shame and look Jesus in the eye at the same time. He shows shame for the sham it is. He uncovers my face.

When I drop my fears and failures in His lap and admit how small I feel, He answers. He ever so gently cups my chin in His hand and lifts my face up; everything else slips out of sight when I fix my eyes on Him. And the shame goes with it. I can’t hold Jesus’ gaze and still believe myself unworthy. It isn’t possible. His worthiness covers me.

Yet shame creeps back. It’s as pervasive as my fear of heights. I get nauseous and lightheaded. I feel faint. A wave of heat washes over me. I start to lose my balance. My heart races. My mouth goes dry. I end up plastered to a wall or curled up in a ball on the floor. My head knows I’m perfectly safe, but my body refuses to believe. It infuriates me.

But it doesn’t stop me. I still zip-line in rain forests and visit observation decks on the tallest buildings in the world. I step out into the freaky little see-through floored cube 1,353 feet up a skyscraper’s side. I just don’t go alone. When I start spinning I look into the face of a friend and am reminded I’m not falling.

And, when the feeling of shame floods in and I start reeling, one look into Jesus’ face says my shame isn’t me. My spiral straightens out. I uncurl from the emotional fetal position.

Peace—sought and mercifully found . . . again.

 

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January 29, 2015

data points

I feel—scratch that, I know. Case closed.

I reach for the data. I put numbers in a spreadsheet. I key in formulas and watch the results appear before my eyes. I double- and triple-check my work because, well, the cold hard numbers are right . . . though they tell a different story than the one I thought I knew.

But that’s okay. I can add more data. Two data sets will validate my point.

Until they don’t.

The results show my anecdotal perception from deep in the midst of the evidence to be incomplete. I had a point. My feelings were valid. But they weren’t comprehensive. Stepping back and looking at stats lets me see a broader perspective. It casts my feelings and perceptions in a fuller light.

So I stack my perceptions against the evidence. I still feel the same emotions, but the edge is gone. The sharp corners that needled me seem blunter. My frustration at how my view wasn’t considered is tempered by new compassion for those on the other side of the data whom I wasn’t considering.

The numbers remind me my vision isn’t always clear. And, even when it is, I may not see the whole picture. The story is bigger than my bit role.

If my perceptions are this skewed over a track-able work situation, how off target do they get in everyday settings?

I have no spreadsheet for life. I can’t dump details into rows and columns to check every moment and emotion. But I can remember the scope of the narrative exceeds what I feel, what I perceive, what I know. And maybe, just maybe, I can let grace ease the tension of my imperfect knowledge.

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