Failure

I've always been a big fan of sanctification. To me, it's the whole idea of God finally getting together a self-improvement plan for all us screw up Christians. The constant seduction of a seemingly easy to follow 12 step plan or the like can be rejected in the face of the Almighty's renovating Spirit. "Ha! No thanks, Dr. Phil! Take it somewhere else, Tony Robbins! I'm good, Oprah! I'm being sanctified!"

I've had the struggle of perfection bearing down on my slim shoulders since diapers. Some could say it was because I was created for more, being part of my Father's chosen, having the weight of future glory burdening my earthly walk. I have to disagree. I wonder if it simply expectation. Sure, living in a family of perfectionistic personalities hasn't helped. Yet I glance into their lives as a possible mirror to my own, for the qualifications I put on myself are much harsher than theirs.

I often go on self-improvement stints. I resolve to do something everyday or to act better in a certain area or remember something I constantly forget. Most valiant attempts involve as many of these things as possible. I get caught looking around in my life too long, turning away disgusted, submitting all I see for improvements. It's much like a real estate agent would look at a prospective house. "Well, the yard's a mess, let's remember curb appeal... And the hardwood flooring is a selling point, but not with this inch of dust on it. Can we remove this wall?" It's like a big to-do list that I long to check off, but never can. Every try fails. I may keep the plates spinning a while, but then gravity kicks in, and they all crash.

I'm uncomfortable with my adulthood. I rarely feel its consistency; at one moment I am exerting my independence, brash and audacious; the next I am clinging to assistance, needy and incapable. I'm tired of making excuses for my absurd behavior, tired of not quite relating to the adult community around me, tired of having to justify myself to everyone, including myself. I don't know who I am. Leave me alone so I can figure it out. But please don't desert me, because I have no idea what I'm doing.

I wish I had it all right the first time. I'm frustrated with my mistakes. I'm angry at my weaknesses. I'm sick of myself messing up. So I ask, what happened to my sanctification? Why am I not getting better? Why has every new challenge, every new element, every new aspect proved itself my superior as I fall defeated? I guess you could say I'm a little discouraged. Prepare yourself, for this is the rest of your life. Imperfection and the inability to overcome it.

So how does a human, incapable of perfection, relate to God, the creator of perfection? How do I communicate to the One who should be more disappointed in me than anyone else in my life? And why would He even want to talk to His pathetic example of a girl who graduated high school, sure of her standards, morals, and absolutes turning into an unstable woman who would be blind leading anyone to Him, having forgotten the way herself?

I wish I had a conclusion, something to tie this mess up at the end in some clever way that gives the reader hope I'm on the right path, just bumping into the furniture until I can find the light switch. And perhaps I am. But for the time being, my eyes aren't adjusting well to the dark.