Occasionally, someone in Hollywood gets it right.
When I was in sixth grade, a new tradition began at my school. I forget what it was called, exactly, but I fondly (sarcasm) remember it as the "birthday beat down." When it was your birthday, your friends got to punch you (in the arm; they're your friends, after all) once for every year old you were. I witnessed this most intelligent of traditions a couple of times and decided I didn't want it to be my turn one day. It didn't look that bad--I mean, your friends aren't going to hit you so hard you wouldn't want to be their friend anymore--but pain and I don't really get along all too well (something about a baseball to the nose when I was 7), so that year when my birthday rolled around, I conveniently forgot to mention it to my friends. In seventh grade, with rumors of the tradition still circulating, I let the day go by again. And so it went on, even years after the "birthday beat down" fell by the way side.
I've gotten a little better at not hiding, though I still don't broadcast it much, especially as it draws near. I don't let facebook or myspace spread the word, and I don't even tell my roommates. I just went and checked my facebook wall posts from last year, and not a single post went up in the weeks--yes, weeks--around my birthday. Though, oddly, I did notice that I got two birthday wishes one random day five months later...why that happened, I can't remember.
Why don't I tell people about my birthday? I've been to quite a few birthday parties in the last year (another fun thing about being blessed with a community of friends), most of them thrown by the very person who's birthday it was. People seem to enjoy celebrating birthdays, whether it's theirs or not. But with me, it's different. I'm happy to celebrate someone else's b-day, but not so much my own. I mean, I'm not sad to see another year gone by or anything like that. It's just that, to me the idea of a bunch of people celebrating the fact that I turned another year older just seems...weird. I don't really get it. What's the point? Why should we bother?
I guess it makes sense if you look at it from this perspective: On some particular day, such and such years ago, God gave life to me. And as He creates things that are good and doesn't make mistakes, it's a day to remember that way back when, one cold Tuesday Night (if you're playing along at home and already know how old I presently am...which should be obvious if you've been reading this blog...that narrows it down to only 39 possible dates), God made something wonderful and beautiful, and we are thankful for that just as we are thankful for the opportunity to witness a sunset or appreciate the intricate beauty in a hummingbird's wings or any other miracle of God's creation.
I am fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14). I am. So why have I spent so many years unwilling to celebrate that fact?
Probably because I've spent much of my life either struggling to believe that verse or downright disbelieving it altogether.
At the age of nineteen, I remember consciously thinking to myself, "I am the ugliest person on the planet." No joke. No over-exaggeration. I thought I was the most unattractive person alive. I had plenty of "proof" to back it up: the times those well-intentioned people had pointed out that I wasn't wearing the right clothes, or the times someone pointed out I didn't have rock hard abs, and of course the many girls I had had crushes on over the years who didn't reciprocate the feelings. I had gone through middle school and high school and barely glimpsed the dating scene, and by barely I mean that I held hands with a girl twice over those 7 years. That's it. I was so convinced that there was something wrong with me, and that no girl would ever like me as anything more than a friend.
Something wrong with me...but God doesn't make mistakes, so something's wrong right there. I looked at the world around me, I looked at the circumstances of my life, the events and the criticisms and "advice" and all the good things that seemed to happen to others but not to me, and I listened to the voice that was easier to listen to. The voice that said to me, you're not good enough, you're not attractive enough, you're not worth it, and countless other degrading lies. Because to believe the truth, the comforting whispers of God trying to let me know that I am good enough, I am attractive enough, I am worth it, in the midst of all that the world had to say just seemed beyond my ability. It was too hard. I couldn't believe it.
And so I stopped allowing people to celebrate my birthday with me, because I didn't feel worthy of such recognition...and to some extent, I still don't, because it's become such a foreign concept to me, the thought that it doesn't need to be a prideful experience, allowing others to celebrate for you, but that it can be a humbling, growing, wonderful time.
It's been a long and difficult journey to overcome the lies of my youth, but I know I've come a long way. Whereas I used to think I was ugly, I now can look at myself in the mirror and stand amazed at the attractive face I see with the mysterious light blue eyes above the subtle smile. Whereas I used to think no girl could ever like me beyond friendship, still no girl has (I'm sorry if you were expecting a "God blessed me with the most incredible girl ever" happy ending), but that actually makes me happy, because the only girl I want to like me is the girl I'm going to marry someday; I don't know yet who she is or when God will bring us together, but I know she's out there somewhere, waiting for me just as I am waiting for her.
I still listen to lies, I'm sad to say. For example, the other day I wrote in my "Who I am" post that I am still a coward. Because a part of me still struggles to let that lie go, still looks at the circumstances of my life, sees the people I don't talk to, the situations I avoid, the conversational questions I fail to ask, and thinks that I must still be a coward. But the truth is, I'm not a coward. God doesn't make cowards. He made a courageous man who unfortunately sometimes lets his fears dictate his actions.
I am courageous. I am a risk taker. I traveled across the country one summer to work at a place I'd never been to with people I'd never met. I climbed a mountain with a video camera when I didn't think I had it in me to do the job that was expected of me. I drove across three states to tell a girl I liked her even though I knew she didn't like me back, because I knew it was a risk I had to take, a challenge I had to tackle, a fear I had to overcome (that said, even though it was something I, personally, needed to do to grow and I'm glad I did for all it taught me, it's not an action I would recommend anybody take. Seriously). To look back over my life and call myself a coward? What a lie.
Thank you, God, that I'm still learning.
And in case you really wanted to know, I was born on March 2nd, 1982.
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