I entered ma classe de francais (that means French class if you never made it to French II like I did … ) and sat down at my assigned seat, pushing my massive stack of textbooks into the left hand corner of my desk. This few minutes before the teacher started class felt like torture for me.
It was always the same; every Monday my classmates would turn themselves around in their chairs to face each other and smile and giggle and speak in hushed whispers as they recounted the events of the weekend. Parties, always parties. Or hook ups. Or crazy awesome times at the oceanfront. I hated it when they finally turned their attention to me.
“What did you do this weekend Sarah?”
My face burned. I couldn’t lie. I’ve never been any good at it.
“Babysat.” That was what I did almost every weekend. “Did homework and went to church.”
“Cool.” They would say and then turn back around to continue their chat about the amazing weekend they’d shared together. I would sigh and slink lower into my chair, willing the stupid minute hand on the clock to land on the five so class could start.
I wasn’t cool and I was ok with that. I had picked up somewhere along the way that babysitting and doing your homework and going to church on the weekends rarely made for great Monday morning stories. The thing was, it didn’t really bother me. I liked making money and having some level of financial independence at such a young age. I liked checking off the boxes when I completed assignments. And going to church was awesome, mostly because my cute boyfriend was there and we would spend Sunday afternoons together. I didn’t want to be like them, I wanted to be me. I just didn’t want to feel so awkward about being me.
Looking back, fifteen years removed from those fifteen-year old days, I see that I’m very much still the same person. I’d much rather stay home and spend a quiet evening with my family than fight traffic and crowds to go out to dinner. I feel good when I feel productive and like I’m making a dent in my mile-long to do list. And I love relishing time with my kids – pushing them on the swing or playing blocks on the living room floor together rather than packing up bags and snacks and taking them out. They’d probably end up whining 98% of the time anyway.
Sometimes this way that I am bothers me. I wonder why I’m not more outgoing, more energetic, more motivated to walk out my front door. I wonder why God didn’t make me more dynamic so I could be more influential for Him. And I wonder why He continues to ask me to add to my plate when He knows how task driven I am and stretched I already feel.
But I have to remember God created me this way. He gave me these introverted ways on purpose. And while I should never use that as an excuse to not pursue self-improvement regularly, I need to realize that He made me this way and asked me to do all the things He’s asked me to. I don’t need to be more of something or less of other things in order for Him to use me effectively. And I think I’m starting to realize these perceived gaps in my personality and personal inadequacies keep me humble and leaning on His perfect strength to compensate for my aggregate weaknesses.
God penned my story from his divine quill and ink. He used the most precious and sacred elixers to pour my mold and form all of me down to the very last DNA strand. He says I am beautiful and perfect and a wondrous creation (Psalm 139:13-14) and perfectly fit to play out the role He wrote for me in the grand Kingdom Performance. All of me, all that I am, is enough for Him. I am enough.
And you are too.