All I Need Is Jesus and a Good Pair of Jeans: The Tired Supergirl's Search for Grace (2 page)

1

I AM OH SO TIRED

I
am wild-eyed. I have large eyes in general. I’m okay with that. It leaves a lot of room for eye shadow experimentation. It’s the wildness that bothers me. It comes from the disparity of life. That space that lives between the expectation of how I thought life would be and the reality of how it is. Like how it hits you unawares that you are over thirty. Or how I can say the words “Put your underwear back on” seven times to my four-year-old in one half-hour period. How getting any semblance of work done requires a cosmic alignment of the planets. Or how I have loved Jesus since age five and still struggle with consistent devotions. How the busyness and anxiety of life choke out its joys and freedoms.

There is this tension between who I want to be and who I really am. Hence the wild big eyes that live in my head.

I called my mom the other day. “I’ve got to get myself together,” I told her.

“Are you still trying that?” she asked.

I really am trying to gather up the pieces of my scattered self . . . on a daily basis. I start out my mornings shooting prayers at the four corners of my bedroom.

“God, I need you.”

“God, help me be more like you.”

“Please help me get more done.”

“Where are my sweats?”

That’s not so much a prayer as a request. Which I think God honors. Because of all the prayers, that one usually gets answered the quickest.

But the wildness ensues. It is the mayhem of everyday living that wears me down. I’m a pastor’s wife. A mom of three. A housekeeper/organizer/errand runner/etc. A Sunday school teacher. A worship leader. A volunteer at my son’s elementary school. On a good day I may squeeze in some exercise or a smattering of writing. And lo and behold, the heavy breathing begins. The chasing after life like a crazygaited chicken. And this craziness releases the screaming meemie within when life presses in too hard. I bark at my children. “Hurry up!”

I nag my husband. “In some countries, people put away clean clothes instead of decorating with them.”

I berate myself. “I cannot believe I forgot that appointment . . . again.”

I am just a woman. One woman freaking out on a planet full of a lot of other women who, I think, are also freaking out. It’s not just the ones with kids. Those of us who have kids are just laid bare more easily because our children know us for who we really are and they tell on us.

My friend Melissa gave me a pair of underwear that says “Supergirl” on the back, as a gag gift. I, however, wear them because new underwear is a novelty, and I’ll never turn down a good pair of panties. One morning, my son Jack burst into my room as I was changing clothes and spied the back of my underwear. As I hurriedly hiked up my pants, he gave me a knowing look and said, “Mom, your secret identity has been revealed.”

Too late. He knows who I long to be. I really would like to be Supergirl. I would love to leap tall laundry in a single bound. To see through the conundrums of life with X-ray vision or maneuver through the week with energy, compassion, and the extraterrestrial ability to finish my to-do list.

But my super life has gotten the kryptonite smackdown. I have run headlong into my nemesis. She is Tired Lady. She is loathsome and cruel, leaving those in her path lonely and full of self-pity. She zaps me with her Lazy Ray and trips me up with her Rope of Depression, leaving chaos in her wake. I know her well.

My friend Marie France claims that she appears right around 8:30. The children are in bed. A good two or three hours of free time loom before you. Time to clean. Time to think deep thoughts. Time to paint your toenails. Time to snuggle your husband. But Tired Lady sneaks in, crazy gluing your rear to the sofa, leaving your dishes unwashed, your man unsnuggled, your Bible reading undone. It is by no small act of God that you are able to drag yourself off to bed, promising that tomorrow will be a different day. You will vanquish Tired Lady to her Hole of Doom. You’ll be the woman God designed you to be. Or at least knock out a load of laundry so your husband doesn’t have to turn his underwear inside out anymore. You’ve got great plans . . . for tomorrow.

I walk the fine line of living between these two identities. I live in the tension of who I want to be and who I really am. It’s exhausting, lonely, and wild-eyed.

It reminds me of Peter. He runs willy-nilly through the Gospels, trying to figure out who and where he is supposed to be. Despite Peter’s inconsistencies, Jesus sees the space in between who he is and who he could be. He changes his name from Simon to Peter, “The Rock.” He is going to be solid.

On the night of the Last Supper, Jesus asks Peter, James, and John to hang out with him. He just wants them to pray with him. Peter is ready to live up to his name. To hunker down and pray like crazy for this man who radically changed his life.

That’s when Tired Lady, or maybe in this case, Sleepy Man, creeps in between the fig trees and fern, filling Peter’s head with swirly dreams and the inability to process just one tiny prayer. He barely bows his head to pray before the crumbles of wine-dipped bread begin settling in his tummy.

Earlier, Peter had sworn he would never desert the Lord. Jesus tells him that before the rooster crows twice that he will deny him three times. Peter is serious about dying for Jesus. He really believes he is that committed. Or maybe he’ll have a nap first and then die for him; it is better to die for someone when you are well rested. Peter’s betrayal begins long before the crowing of the bird. It begins with the whiffling snores of deep sleep that break the stillness of Gethsemane. Jesus finds Peter snoozing instead of interceding.

Then he returned and found the disciples asleep. “Simon!” he said to Peter. “Are you asleep? Couldn’t you stay awake and watch with me even one hour? Keep alert and pray. Otherwise temptation will overpower you. For though the spirit is willing enough, the body is weak.”

Mark 14:37–38

I wonder if Jesus calls him “Simon” because he just isn’t cutting it as “the Rock.” Jesus returns to his prayers and Simon goes back to sleep. In all, Jesus wakes him up three times that night. Poor Peter. I have to say that I
love love love
Peter. Like me, he just can’t pull it together.

He had visions of being the Rock . . . which I imagine to be a fairly impressive Jewish superhero, comparable to my Supergirl. The Rock was going to rock Israel with his Jesus style, catch a ton of fish, lead a Torah study, bring a few pals to repentance, and squeeze in family time on the weekends, not to mention support Jesus, who simply asked him to stay awake, pray for him, and just be a good buddy the night before he dies a horrible death. And he couldn’t do it. And it gets worse after the nap.

When [Jesus] returned to them the third time, he said, “Still sleeping? Still resting? Enough! The time has come. I, the Son of Man, am betrayed into the hands of sinners. Up, let’s be going. See, my betrayer is here!”

Mark 14:41–42

And why is it that during this whole sleepy ordeal, Judas, the betrayer, was wide awake?

Peter goes on to cut off a guard’s ear, denies knowing Jesus three times, and deserts him as he hangs on the cross. That is a rough forty-eight-hour ride, from the euphoric heights of the triumphal entry to the crash and burn of Christ’s crucifixion. Yep, it definitely gets worse after the nap.

So where does that leave us supergirls? Because we, too, in our heart of hearts long to be all that God created us to be. We are just so darn tired. We are kicked sideways by life, grounded by our expectations, and haunted by our dreams. Will we ever be who we were meant to be?

Well, by the time Acts rolls around, Peter is doing it. He is preaching to multitudes with authority. He has gotten it together. Or maybe, just maybe, he has gotten over himself. Peter could be the Rock because he let God be God.

So, here I am in this space. I am not rocking it. I am barely breathing after kids, work, church, disappointment, and weaknesses cloud my vision. But I have the hope that Peter has. That God knows who I am and who I am supposed to be, and even though I am frequently caught napping, Christ is not done with me.

So maybe I can say this prayer as I ride the edge of imperfection and am caught on the cusp of crazy living.

God, who knows me and keeps me,
Forgive me
Help me get over who I think I am
Help me let go of who I am not
Help me let you be who you are
Don’t ever leave me
Amen.

2

I AM NOT A
SUPERMODEL

I
stand in front of the mirror. Sometimes I am satisfied. Sometimes I am not. Sometimes I would like to wish my thighs into another universe. It’s strange, the consuming obsession with looks in our world, because it is just a matter of time before the wrinkles overtake us. We supergirls are in hard-core denial that some day, that stooped lady with polyester pants and orthopedic shoes will be us. We know that beauty is fleeting. But if it is fleeting, we have all donned our track shoes and are racing after it with everything we’ve got.

We supergirls know how to put on a good show. Our jeans make our legs look longer. Liner makes our lips look fuller. Undergarments make our bodies appear ripple free. My personal favorite is concealer. Baby #2 gifted me with large dark circles under my eyes. Concealer makes me look fresh and dewy eyed, not like the haggard mother of a child who refused to sleep through the night for eight months.

We want to be beautiful. It’s a quest that all Western women embark upon at some age or another . . . unless you are a hippy and join a commune. But even then you have to grow out your hair and wear the right ponchos. It just happens. We want to look a certain way. We want to be babelicious.

Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder. The standard of beauty differs throughout the world. My sister Jenny is a world traveler. She lived in West Africa for four years, working for a relief organization. Her first day on the job, one of her co-workers summed her up with this compliment: “She has a pretty face, a nice smile, and good hips.” Beauty equaled curves. They always encouraged Jenny to eat more and be curvier. One male co-worker would greet her daily, saying, “Just five more kilos! Five more kilos!” (Just ten more pounds! Ten more pounds!)

During a stint in Cambodia, Jenny went to get measured for a skirt. The seamstresses could not believe the measurement difference between her hour-glass-shaped waist and hips. One kept saying to the other, “Tuot! Tuot nah!” (Fat! Very fat!)

Which again was a compliment. In Cambodia, most women are rail thin. There is little difference between their waist and hips. Any roundness of shape means that you have money to feed yourself well. The ladies thought Jenny was rich. Jenny was not amused, rich or not.

Our western culture dictates that we should be waif-like. For all of us women who tend to be more Rubenesque, maybe we should jump a plane to West Africa or Cambodia. Not only would we be considered hot, we would be rich. But it’s not just our body shape that we are concerned about; it is the whole package. Take hairstyles, for instance.

In the late eighties when big hair was a nationwide phenomenon, my friend Barbie had the most fantastic hair you could imagine. With curly, blonde, voluminous locks that spilled down her back, she rocked a spiral perm like nobody’s business. Her high bangs were to die for. Barbie had it goin’ on. Her hair was the standard by which I measured my own eighties hair. My hair was light brown and stick straight. It is very difficult to attain big hair when your hair longs to be straight, no matter how many perms you have endured. No matter how high I ratted my bangs and pouffed out the sides of my hair, I could never attain Barbie’s golden-haired glory. And why did I even care anyway? Why couldn’t I be satisfied with the baby fine head of hair I was blessed with? That would be because of Nemesis #2. Compare-a-girl.

Compare-a-girl is a nasty one. She has no cellulite and she looks good in spandex. She vaguely resembles that girl in high school who was everything you were not. She constantly reminds you how you will never compare with other supergirls. Compare-a-girl’s mindless chatter dribbles on and on like the steady drip of a faucet.