A week and a half ago, I jammed my finger playing dodge ball with our youth group, proving once again to the students around me, I’m old.
It ballooned up quickly, and turned black. Ten days later, it still hurts with every keystroke. Writing isn’t easier, and while journaling, I was forced to hold my pen the “right way,” because my “jacked up way” was too painful.
That’s when I remembered all the mockery I received growing up for holding my writing utensils “incorrectly.” The teachers. The other students. My parents buying me plastic molds meant to reteach poor habits.
Right behind that came memories of how I could never shoot a basketball correctly. Solve a math equation by the book. Run “like a normal person.”
Kids are jerks. Sometimes, adults are too.
As I journaled through some of those painful memories, I found healing in simply being broken and imperfect. As an adult, I understand now that my value and worth isn’t tied to my form, my brains, or even my actions. God sees through all of that and loves me just the same.
I gave teen me a big hug and a pat on the back, lifted his chin, and told him to quit beating himself for not getting things right or fitting in. And also, to give a break to all the adults around him that were trying to keep up without jamming their fingers. Silly adults.
Did this jog a memory of a childhood imperfection? Post in the comments below and tell me about it. We’ll conquer these voices together this week!