Then I Will Be Blameless

I'm not sure that I have completely processed Psalm 19 at this point, but I'm starting to learn that sometimes you just have to jump in and do something even if you don't have the time to do it perfectly.  This is one of those times because I couldn't wait to share an "aha" moment I had while I was reading Psalm 19 this morning.  I also realize that by writing about this psalm, I am skipping posting about several.  Those posts are currently in the works and I have decided they can wait because this one is on my heart today.

When I started reading this psalm today and saw that it was very familiar to me, I must admit that I wondered what I could possibly "get out" of it.  I'm not saying that my fleeting thought was correct by any stretch of the imagination and thankfully, God did lead me to "get" something out of the chapter.

Starting in verse 7, there are several verses that talk about how God's Law is perfect, trustworthy, radiant, right, pure, sure, and righteous.  This handful of verses also talked about the benefits that come from the Law.  It revives the soul, it makes the simple wise, gives light to the eyes, and is more precious than gold.   As long as I have been a Christian, I have struggled to make sense of passages like this.  To me, the Law has never been reviving or joy-giving, but instead tends to be guilt-enducing.  I know the Law is perfect and I am, well, not.

Just as I'm beginning down my usual path of thinking about all the ways I don't quite measure up, I read on.  Verses 12 and 13 say, in part, this, "Forgive my hidden faults...Keep your servant also from willful sins...Then I will be blameless."  Duh.  I'm not sure if this has just never sunken in before or if it's one of God's truths that I just too easily forget.  I am not expected to be blameless.  I'm not completely sure why, but sometimes I forget that I become blameless because I'm forgiven, not that I'm forgiven because I am blameless.  Perfection is not expected because I am incapable of it.  But, my imperfection in light of the Law is the very thing that should bring me joy because it serves to remind me of the One who is perfect.

My imperfections allow me to appreciate how incredible it was that Jesus was perfect.  They allow me to recognize the magnitude of what he did for me and to seek forgiveness for every fault whether hidden or willful.  THEN and only then will I be blameless.  THEN I can see the Law as reviving because I will be looking at it through the lens of what Jesus has done.

I also need to remember that my "failings" in other areas of my life - the things I perceive I'm not doing right as a mother, wife, friend, or whatever - those things may not be imperfections in light of the Law.  In other words, those things might not hold as much value as I sometimes assign to them.  Small example: in light of what Jesus has done for me, does it really matter that I currently have an entire basket of unmatched socks spread throughout my living room?  (Or that I have an entire basket of unmatched socks to begin with?)

Instead, my focus should be the last verse of Psalm 19:

May the words of my mouth and the mediation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.

Perfectionism

In a conversation with my mom earlier a couple months ago, I mentioned that I was learning that I was a perfectionist.  She laughed at me.  That's right.  My mom laughed at me.

At first, I was a little taken aback.  My mom has never been the type of person to laugh at me when I'm struggling or being honest, so what was her deal?  What had I said that was so funny?  Before I had much time to think about it, she continued, asking why it had taken me so long to finally admit what she has been telling me for years.  Apparently, she has been telling me in various ways, for a significant period of time, that I am a perfectionist and, for some reason, I just haven't been able to accept it as truth.

I have spent months thinking about this one brief conversation and I think I've finally reached some conclusions.  First, I am a perfectionist.  Second, my particular need for perfection is directed inward and doesn't always manifest itself outwardly.

Why did it take me so long to figure out that I am, in fact, a perfectionist?  To answer that question, I think I need to define the caricature of perfectionism that has been developing in my brain since childhood.

A perfectionist is precisely groomed and dressed at all times.  She would never be caught wearing sweats or stained clothing.  Wrinkles are out of the question.  Her hair is never haphazardly done or thrown in a ponytail.  If it looks haphazard, it has been purposefully made to look that way after considerable effort.  The perfectionist coordinates clothes with shoes, jewelry, and other accessories so that she looks put-together.  Makeup is tastefully done to look like it isn't being worn at all and can be adjusted easily to accommodate any situation.

Let's face it, I definitely do not fit with this image of perfectionism.

Everything around a perfectionist is also neat, clean, and orderly, whether it is her desk, her home, or her car.  Papers are neatly filed.  Pens and pencils are placed in a holder at the corner of the desk, always easily found.  When entering the home of a perfectionist, the non-perfectionist cringes, worried about touching anything for fear of somehow messing up the cleanliness and organization of the space.  One spill or misplaced item would certainly be noticed immediately.  And don't even get me started on the perfectionist's closets.

If you have ever been to my house, my workplace, or seen my car,  it would be pretty obvious that this description is nowhere close to a description of me.

Finally, a perfectionist is supremely organized.  Appointments are scheduled in advance, written neatly in a proper planner, and never missed.  A perfectionist never forgets to do anything on her to-do list.   She never has a moment of panic when she realizes she has forgotten something incredibly, or not so incredibly, important.  Grocery lists are carefully planned and on grocery day nothing is forgotten.

Again, not me.

I'm sure anyone reading this can identify with at least part of my description.  My image of perfectionism has been growing and evolving for years, but it wasn't until very recently that I realized that I have somehow made a very important error.

Somehow, I have confused perfectionism with perfection.

A perfectionist, by definition, must be a person.  Based on the root word "perfect," one can surmise that a perfectionist is a person who is driven by being perfect.  Perfection, on the other hand, isn't a person at all, but an idea.  I am now very confident that while I am not even approaching perfection, I am, perhaps unfortunately, driven by perfection.

I plan to delve more deeply into the applications of this realization in a later post, but basically it means I hold myself to an impossible standard - all the time.  And because I can never live up to this self-imposed standard, I spend a good deal of time experiencing guilt and feelings of inadequacy.

For example, sometimes I feel an incredible urge to write, but I put it off because I don't have the time at that moment for perfection or, even worse, my husband is nearby and I don't want to take the chance that he might read something over my shoulder that is imperfectly composed.  It sounds crazy.  It is crazy.  But it's the reason I haven't blogged in months.  What if someone noticed that my writing was lacking in content or in editing?  What if it wasn't as good as I wanted it to be?  So, I fight back the urge to write and move on.

Before you go thinking that I was that kid with those parents, the ones who imposed such strict standards that the child is terrified of failure, let me just say that nothing could be farther from the truth.  I've done a lot of thinking about why I'm like this and I can't quite pinpoint a set of reasons.  As my four-year-old daughter says often, "It's just the way God made me."

I have so much more to say about this topic, but I feel like I've already gone on too long.  I do, however, feel like I need to mention one last thing.  This self-imposed standard of perfection is just that: self-imposed.  No one else is holding me to this standard.  God, in his infinite grace, isn't even holding me to this standard.  Every minute I spend feeling guilt over not being perfect enough is a wasted minute, a minute in which I am purposefully turning my back on God's gift of grace.