The Game God Doesn't Play With Me

I sat at the long wooden table the youth Sunday School class gathered around. Aside from me, our Sunday School class consisted of my brother, one of our cousins, and another girl who was a distant cousin. On occasion, another pair of brothers showed up, but the class was mainly comprised of myself and those three relations.

As I look back, I sympathize with the different adults who took on the role of teaching that class. I’m sure we appeared bored and disinterested as the teacher painstakingly asked for a volunteer to read the verses or waited in the awkward silence for someone to answer a question. Most of us were quiet, my brother was usually not happy to be the only boy in the class, and I grew frustrated with how Sunday School books asked questions with answers so blatantly obvious to the text we just read, it wasn’t worth the effort of speaking up to answer what was already printed right in front of us.

One Sunday School class specifically stands out in my mind. The subject centered around the vague topic of prayer and, perhaps feeling desperate to fill the silence with something—anything---the teacher gave an example to hopefully contribute to the lesson.

Challenging Perfectionism In 8th Grade Spelling Bees

I writhed with dreadful anxiety each year when it rolled around---the time for the annual class spelling bee. I had won quite a few spelling bees in the past, competed for the school and region, and ranked among the top students in my grade. Therefore--it was expected. "Misty will win," students predicted before we even lined up across the chalk board at the front of the room.

Inwardly, I groaned and wished to disappear into the floor. "Just something else to feel pressured about," I lamented to myself. Though only in 8th grade, I was so tired of the academic expectations, so worn out from constant pressure to succeed and be 'the best' that there left very little room for me to enjoy my middle and high school years. Except for a few, rare bright moments that stand out in my memory---I was miserable.

That 8th grade year---I made up my mind. I determined not to win. I had already been placed in advanced classes and was struggling through Algebra, which I had been placed in a year early--and received my first B. The subject just didn't click with me. Letters--in my mind--were meant for creating descriptive, poetic words of self-expression---not to be used as pieces of equations that would most likely remain irrelevant to my life. The fear of exiting Algebra with a C--"average"-- was already weighing down on me. No way was I going to win a class spelling bee just to be handed pages of hellacious words to spend hours studying, so I could potentially go on to compete against the entire school---then county---then state. I was already spending hours each night trying to conquer Algebra and setting my alarm for 4:30 each morning to try to figure out what my tired mind had been unable to comprehend the night before.

When Sitting On The Bench Is Better Than Stepping Up To Bat

Freshman year Phys Ed class, and I stood in left field, filled with dread as I hoped no hits would come my way. I had played left field years earlier on a softball league and had actually been a pretty good little ball player. I remember receiving an end-of-the-season trophy for having the least number of strike-outs. I was an extremely active, skinny girl that possessed a decent amount of athletic ability---I had perfected the volleyball serve and could shoot lots of hoops playing around with cousins and friends.

But none of that sports capacity revealed itself in my Phys Ed class. I was shy, hated school, and felt awkward in my gym clothes at 88 pounds and my 5'2 height, surrounded by my much larger peers. Any athletic potential I possessed melted into clumsiness when the nine weeks of dreaded high school gym class rolled around.

"Jesus Ain't No Wimp"

Sometimes I think the Church gets things wrong.

I'm not even broaching heavy, theological debates, but some of the seemingly smaller day-to-day choices people face.

I have a friend who is extremely talented, but has trouble fully believing in her capabilities. A few nights ago, when telling me about her plans to step out and use her skills more, she relayed how a well-meaning relative had said to her:

"If any of this works out for you, 
don't let it go to your head."

Dear Familiar Girl

Dear Familiar Girl,

I'm writing you this letter because I recognize what I see in you. You're a lot like me, especially how I used to be. The girl who gets along with everybody. The nice girl. The girl who was disappointed when almost everyone wrote the same thing in her school yearbooks: "To the sweetest girl I've ever known." 

And it worries me a little.