Perspective of Posture

“Remember me not as I always was, but how I could sometimes be.”


      I wrote that sentence early in High School, it could have been Middle School actually. I’m fuzzy on the details.             I wrote it with the notion in mind that it could be what was on my tombstone if I died early. Or some form of a last thought that the people around me would hold of me.
                                  That’s pretty morbid, I realize that now. 
But back then, it was a legitimate conception that I believed communicated an accurate portrayal of what I wish others would recollect. 

Because the personality I subsisted in was wrapped in an immature, fumbling, adolescent body who didn’t know how to be a consistent version of herself that she could be proud of. 
 
So I wanted people to reflect on the good, lighthearted, non-annoying and funny parts of me that I could conjure up on occasion – rather than the needy, over-sensitive, loud-voiced, hyper child I more often projected. 
 
                     I didn’t know how to mediate the extremes. How to get out of my own way. How to stop assigning outside influences as arbitrators of my behavior. 
 
 
 
This isn’t the transition of the story where I say ‘but now I have it all down. I’ve learned all my lessons and I laugh at that silly young girl I used to be‘.              
                                                         I don’t laugh at her. I have compassion for her.
                        I do not have it down.              …But I have grown up.             And I’m always learning.
 
It’s just that appearances can alter in different lighting. Angles and shades and hues can recalibrate and what I once thought made sense — stops making sense. 
                      It stops becoming worth it – the contorting for unknown reasons and unconfirmed results. 
 
I take perspective in varying ways. I don’t want to have a tagline that speaks to inconsistency. I don’t want a reference that outlines pity nor a personality that is defined by accepting in small doses.             The fact that I was not only satisfied with being seen that way when I was younger, but furthermore, that I sought to be defined in such a way is where empathy for a confused girl comes into play. 
 
                I will never come to a place where I am no longer augmented by life, experiences, fears, hopes. It doesn’t matter if I am 13, 32, or live to be 89. I am a process, unfinished. But my difference is that I am striving to be a persistent purveyor of grace, bravery, encouragement, sacrifice and service. I ache to live less for me or for the face I can wear for others. Concerned less with appraisal and more with advocacy of others’ well being. 
Christ was not in the business of making a name for Himself. 
He was on the mission to reflect the glory of Another. To wash away the mess of others. To be on knees and on hills. To disappear temporarily so I could appear permanently beside Him.
I ache to take that same posture. I intend to recalibrate my thinking. 
 
For all the ways I believe words matter, I aim to support them with action. But I aim to do it quietly. I state my objective, to remind myself when it becomes hazy. Yet the demeanor I desire is bowing, not grandstanding / working quietly, not announcing advancement.        Because it is time that it stop mattering to me what I seem to be like. 
It’s time to exist for bigger pursuits. 
 

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