Saturday, June 28, 2008

Singing A New Song: But, but...now it's ME!

Listening to talking heads discuss the future of drug research and development in the USA brought to mind a sudden change in my narcissistic father. He worked in the R&D department in a major pharmaceutical company.

He described the years it took teams of scientists to do the necessary work to discover, test and develop a drug before it could even be considered for presentation to the USA's Food and Drug Administration. He described the problem of the US patent being granted years before the drug was even approved for use in the USA, making each year of additional research necessary to get the drug to market raise the cost of the drug just to recover the costs put into research. It was all so logical to him.

Until he got sick. Then, out came hatred for the horrible greedy pharmaceuticals who didn't put enough money into curing the terrible disease he had. Didn't they understand that he was dying? How dare they consider anything but that he needed.

This change in him was one of the most eye-opening. Before he became ill, he was adamant that pharmaceutical R&D was doing exactly what was best by concentrating on those things that could help the most amount of people and had the best probability of success. When the shoe was on the other foot....well, then the system was obviously a horrible one because it wasn't helping him.

The father who had always prided himself on his thinking and reasoning abilities, suddenly did a 180 degree turn because it benefited him. Cool logic went out the window when it was him dying, not some other slob.

This was long before the initials 'NPD' carried any meaning for me. Still, it was obvious listening to his vicious, and sometimes violent, rants there was some serious self-absorption going on. It was a turning point for me. And with that, it's time for me to go take my allergy medication.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Letters From Home

I have no idea who kept them or how they survived so long, but a few days ago I found letters that my mother sent to me while I was at summer camp. They were filed away in a folder labeled "Personal Papers". Oh, the irony.

It's only now that I have some inkling why my counselor and the other campers found them so weird. You see, they were typed: the addresses on the envelope, the letter itself, everything. On some even the "signature" was typewritten. Perhaps that wouldn't be so strange now, but these letters are from a time long before the advent of the personal computer. They weren't just typed, either, on the trusty old mechanical typewriter in the closet -- you know, the one with a tendency to drop an occasional 'e'? These letters were quite obviously typed on good quality, white typewriter paper on a professional electric typewriter and mailed in a standard #10 white envelope. Picture a legal document, block paragraphs, complete with the initials of the person who typed the document in lower case, followed by a colon, and then the initials of the author in upper case.

The letters themselves tersely detailed my parents' activities. There was the obligatory sentence about hoping I was enjoying myself. Thankfully, at the time, I didn't see at the time just how completely impersonal they were. They were definitely odd, and not in a cute way.

It's times like these that I still wonder about people who watched this bizarre family. I suppose it would be very difficult for anyone on the outside to know just how odd our lives really were. And, let's face it, weird letters from home while at summer camp don't a problem make.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Jesus

I trusted Jesus as my personal saviour twenty-seven years ago. (Has it really been that long?) Even so, there always seemed to be something "there" in the way I see and think of Jesus. I have no doubts of my salvation, nor of the amazing love and grace of God's son being fully God and fully man, paying the righteous penalty to reconcile sinful man to a Holy God. It finally hit me a few days ago what it is that makes the way I see Jesus different: Jesus was a man, a human. You see, humans scare me.

Part of my problem relating to the person of Jesus is His humanity. How ironic that the one man who "did humanity" correctly is difficult for me to relate to simply because He "did humanity". It proves to be an ugly stumbling block.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Ghost Town

"Ghost Town" goes to a daily devotion from Our Daily Bread, part of RBC Ministries (formerly Radio Bible Class). They're not necessarily deep theology, but they are good food for thought akin, shall I say, to a morning snack.

It's likely no surprise that I am uncomfortable with having cut my self-absorbed mother out of my life. It's been three years now and, although I have great misgivings, the amount of relief involved in ditching the stress a relationship with her brings, speaks volumes. There is a certain peace that comes with it.

So, why the misgivings? Perhaps it's that same nagging feeling that I should feel badly about not having her in my life. One thing is for sure. I do not have complete peace about not having any contact with her.

First, I have no illusions that I am God. I'm not. I do believe, however, that His Word show us the character of God and that character is something we are to follow. In the devotional, we see God allowing His people to be scattered as a means of teaching them what the outcome of their behaviour was. It's here I begin to wonder if there's some insight here for me with respect to my mother. Where I get caught is in the reconciliation part. When God's people realized their sin and turned away, He restored their relationship. God desired to restore the relationship.

I have no desire to reconcile with my mother. None. On the deepest level, having her in my life means fear and pain. It means seeing very clearly what I don't have in the way of a mother. That hurts. It underscores just how alone I was as a child. It means steeling myself against what bizarre or nasty thing may happen. No doubt what I'm missing is the confidence that something will or has changed. I have no idea how to determine when, or if, a positive change has come to pass.

Friday, June 20, 2008

What I Like

I've done this exercise a number of times. Each time, it becomes less difficult and more natural. Making a list of the things *I* like, just because I like them doesn't come naturally to me. I hope someday for it to be second nature to know what I like.

I like:
  • teaching myself to play piano
  • taking a hot bath
  • organizing things
  • making up silly ditties
  • driving go-karts
  • water slides
  • having my arms massaged
  • solving puzzles
  • dramatic reading
  • history

A New Height In Societal Evolution


Pregnancy pact results in lots of teen moms


Just as when I heard of the terrible events that happened at Columbine High School, I'm not surprised. One article I read quoted the principal as saying most of the girls were known to have low self esteem. A former student at the high school is quoted as saying the girls are looking for unconditional love.

It may be a gigantic leap, but I smell narcissism. I'm not talking Narcissistic Personality Disorder (necessarily), more like societal narcissism. Perhaps this is even projection on my part, but I have difficulty in believing teenage girls who have a healthy relationship with their parents would make this pack.

From my perspective, these girls are seeking to build something they don't have, but strongly desire: a place where they belong in a family. News articles report that the girls planned to get pregnant so they could raise their children together. They were building their own family.

While it's true teenage years are frequently difficult ones, I firmly believe if a child has a family in which she feels like she belongs -- whether she gets that belonging from a parent, a grandparent, aunt, older sister or even an unrelated mentor-- a teenager won't go to such extreme measure to create a family of her own.

Obviously there are more reasons than just narcissism for weak to non-existent relationships between parents and their children. Illnesses, whether mental or physical, certainly can take a toll.

For years blamed my lack of relationship with my mother on her working out of the home. My theory was, if she'd only been there, I would have had a mom. My theory met it's fatal flaw when I talked with another latchkey kid. His mother, a widow, *had* to work full time to put food on the table. His sense of family and love for his mother was strong even though his time with her was limited. He *knew* she loved him. It was a given, an indisputable fact, something he knew in the innermost depths of his being.

So, if it's not that parents are too busy working, or even too stressed as was the widow mentioned above who struggled to feed her children long before men and women received equal pay, what is it?

Narcissism is on a steady rise in our society. Thirty years ago women in L'Oréal commercials proclaimed that the product may be more expensive, "but I'm worth it!" said in a way that leaves no doubt as to the woman's sense of entitlement. Today we live with road rage, the most frivolous of law suits, children's picture books that explain mommy will look different because she is getting plastic surgery to be prettier, and the idea that if something offends us it should not be said, done, taught, on display and perhaps should even be illegal, especially in public. We are The Me Generation come to its fruition: The Embodiment of Narcissism.

Teenagers making a pregnancy pact? Why not? If it feels good, do it, right?

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Resurrecting The Dead

For me, part of being raised by a narcissist was learning that in all things my narcissistic father is Right. His choice of music is Right. His choice of television programs is Right. His philosophy of life is Right. His opinion of me, his child, is Right. As a kid who was I to question that? So I learned it, lived it, trained myself to love it.

Part of becoming an adult was the realization that I had nothing that was mine. The things I liked, believed, etc. were his. I had learned them, rote, much like my multiplication tables. Behind them was only the passion of knowing that I was taught they were Right. As it is taught, so let it be done. *gong*

When I was 16, I discovered that spiritually I believed something different than my parents. This caused me to be rejected by my self-absorbed, self-righteous parents. In making my own spiritual decision I had, unknowingly, committed the unforgivable sin against a narcissist: I had made up my mind for myself. I was flabbergasted when the swift slap of renunciation seemingly came out of nowhere. At that time I was truly naïve. The thought that there was something amiss with my parents child-rearing philosophy never crossed my mind.

Now, I find myself on a life journey to think for myself. At age 43 I have come to the startling discovery that I don't know what I like. It's been a difficult exercise to discover those things which are my own passions. It's meant digging back into my childhood and find things that I very much wanted, but for whatever reason were deemed unacceptable. It's meant finding those things that I didn't even dare acknowledge to myself that I liked for fear that simply in liking something I was trespassing the unwritten rule that Daddy is Right.

This self discovery closely ties into goals. I must know what I like to set goals and I must know ways to reward myself for achievement. It's something that's been sorely lacking in my life. It's certainly played a part in my recent stagnation. When I have no idea where I'm going, I have no idea when I've arrived and the journey becomes meaningless.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Fear Cultivated

There's an image burned in my mind. It's of my n-father lying on the floor, just sort-of staring straight ahead, out into space. My mother had tried to help him to the bathroom and they'd fallen. Beyond my father being much larger than my mother, she also had a bad back. Expecting her to help him get around was, at best, fooling, at worst horribly selfish. Such is the stuff of narcissists.

It was the beginning of the last 24 hours of his life. By that time, the cancer had aggressively spread into his brain. He'd insisted at staying at home and forcing my mother to care for him. He was adamantly against hospice, even though I'd spent quite a bit of time researching facilities to find one that was well-run. But that's the stuff of another entry.

As I stood in my parent's home, looking at my collapsed father, the oddest thing happened: I kept my distance. That sounds terrible, even to me, but it's the truth. It's also entirely inconsistent with who I am.

I'm not an outgoing person, yet I'm a person who willingly goes to hospitals to visit people. It's a God thing. Visiting or just sitting with people who are even seriously ill doesn't bother me. It's something to which I'm naturally drawn. I'm also a person who gladly goes along with people to the hospital to visit sick friends and family, or to wait in the dreaded surgery waiting room. It's not that I enjoy those places, but I am comfortable there. As I said, it's a God thing.

Despite this, I was repulsed by the situation. It's hard for me to fathom, since if I think about it being anyone else, I'm right there next to the person doing what I can to reassure them and help them be more comfortable. But not with him.

I've done some reflecting on this. The nearest I can come is that my father was not like other people. Had he been able to respond or communicate at all, even by only changing facial muscles, his reaction would almost certainly been one of anger. Nothing I could have done would have been right or sufficient or quickly enough. No matter what I did for him, it would have been wrong. He'd been on his way to the bathroom. If he could understand that, then he'd expect me to get him there, never mind I simply didn't have the capabilities to do so. Had he not been able to wait, he'd be angry that no one had gotten him where he needed to go in time -- it would be someone else's fault; the result would have been rage. He was already angry that he was dying and that no one could/would do anything to save him. From the moment he knew for certain that cancer would soon take his life, anger and unhappiness were his defining traits.

For years I've felt guilty about how I reacted. I didn't understand it until I started looking at it in depth. It was fear. My father cultivated fear in his family. It worked quite well to control us. The only way to quell his rages were to give him what he wanted ,or if that wasn't possible, to keep one's distance. My response was the response I'd been taught. When things weren't going dad's way, the safest course of action was to be far away.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Father's Day and Tim Russert

It's another one of those holidays. Father's Day. This one is especially weird for me because I was the golden child, a "daddy's girl". I now hate the association I have with that phrase, but it doesn't change what was.

Father's Day was always such a pain when my father was alive. Gifts were either a resounding success or a miserable failure. There was no inbetween. The success was difficult to achieve. The thought never counted. But none of that is new to anyone who's anyone who's had much contact with a narcissist.

Perhaps that's why much of the coverage of Tim Russert's death makes me so uncomfortable. I've never read his book "Big Russ and Me". Given the descriptions I've heard of it, I likely never will. Reading about someone's tribute to their father sounds too painful. Someone made a comment today about Tim Russert's father being his hero and followed it up with something like, "as I'm sure all our fathers are to us". Uh, no. It's not even close. I'm not sure people with narcissistic fathers can begin to comprehend the concept. I certainly can't.

As I near Father's Day, I'm relieved my father is not alive. Were it so, this holiday would become a sham. It's hard enough for me to comprehend how to teach my children about honor one's father without factoring being a hypocrite into it.

So, what does one for whom Father's Day makes as much sense as does Groundhog Day do to celebrate fathers? Beats me. It's much too far beyond my comprehension.

This is where, too, I get caught in the fifth commandment:

Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the LORD your God is giving you.

How does an ACON honor their n-parent? Do I honor them by cutting off contact? Does that change if I continue to pray for them? What about if I continue to teach my children about their good qualities and try to avoid why we don't ever see grandma and/or grandpa? Is continuing contact and doing my best to help them honoring them?

I don't claim to have any concrete answers. I'm flying blind in this. Some claim that honoring one's parents ends when their actions become/are seen as evil. I haven't yet found a way to reconcile the fact that we all sin -- we all commit evil acts. Even after we accept God's gift of salvation, we still sin. Christians are called to witness to the lost...how then can I justify cutting a parent out of my life? Right now, I can't.

Father's Day is full of things I don't understand. I'm thrilled for people for whom their father is their hero. It must be an incredible feeling.

I'm saddened for Tim Russert's family. Father's Day will likely never be the same for them. Yet, even in that, I hope that Big Russ and his grandson have memories of heroes, and honor and respect. Even in poverty, an ACON can rejoice in other's riches.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

It

When my grandmother would speak of one of her nieces, she always had to tell me that the parents would tell the girl how special she was because they chose her. It bothered my grandmother a lot. I don't know whether it was on grounds of principle or being competitive, but it obviously put a bee in her bonnet.

I was exactly the opposite of this girl. I was the surprise child that changes everything about my parents' lives, and not necessarily for the better. At times I've wondered if I was someone's idea of a plan to keep my father from being drafted and sent to Vietnam. At others, if I was a hook to cement a potential marriage. I've thrown those ideas out. It was the look in my mother's eyes when she told me she knew how to take care of "it". There was a pause and then she returned to the present. The next sentence was something to the effect of, "But, now I'm glad everything turned out the way it did." It wasn't convincing.

This is not meant as a discussion of abortion. I don't want to go there. For the record, I believe abortion is wrong. Still there are times I wonder if it wouldn't have been a better idea in my case. She didn't want a kid, wasn't prepared for a kid, and didn't have a good father-figure to help her nurture a kid. It feels weird knowing I truly was a problem from the first, knowledge of me was considered very bad news. I suppose it would be different had I been raised by a mother who soon discovered her own motherly side and cherished being a mom. That didn't happen.

One phone call that went particularly badly had her sniping at me that she had friends, and she would watch her friends' children and how she could see they enjoyed spending time with their parents and doing things together, and how she didn't have that. And, she doesn't. The thought of getting together with my mother and "doing something" brings anxiety and revulsion. There's simply no enjoyment there. How could there be? The woman's known me 40-some years and has no idea who I am.

Thankfully, I didn't think to ask her if possibly *I* had felt the same way when I was a child watching other mothers with their children. But my mother would never understand this. She saw that I was fed, clothed, and had lots of nice things. To her, these are the things of a Good Mother. She doesn't see that what was missing was the specialness, the knowledge that my parents wanted *me* in their lives. It goes beyond simply wanting a child, to wanting to discover who your child is.

I've heard of a theory that says we all have an emotional bank account. People's actions deposit or withdraw on that account. My mother added precious little to my account; my father practically nothing (unless I was doing what he wanted). They had very little to withdraw before they were overdrawn.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Grocery Shopping Alone

One thing about being an only child is the necessity to learn to play by oneself. When I was eight, we moved into a neighborhood where most of our neighbors were senior citizens. I became very good at playing by myself.

The past few times grocery shopping, I noticed most people who were there alone were talking on their cell phones. Even some people who were there with other people were carrying on a conversation on their cell phone! At times, it appeared that I was the only one there who didn't have their cell stuck to their ear. I was alone in the grocery store even while I was surrounded by people. It felt strangely comforting. It was sad, too.

For me, grocery shopping is some time when I can be alone and quiet with my thoughts. I don't *have* to interact, I can just think and concentrate on my task. Sometimes I wonder whether we're losing our comfort with just being alone with ourselves. It seems for many people if they aren't talking on their cell phones, they're listening to their iPod or radio. When do these people take time to just ruminate? Have we gotten to the point where not having something going on in our ears is just too uncomfortable?

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Finding Self

Every so often I stumble across this. Yesterday was one of those days -- a day when I struggle to know who I am. That sounds so cliché (or stupid, depending on your bent), but I can't find better words to describe it.

My father decided to mold me in his image. I was told what to like, or rather what was acceptable to like. Being a compliant child, I followed his lead. Somewhere around 30, I discovered that what I'd been convinced to like and be, wasn't what I wanted. Thus started the process that got me to the place of learning about NPD.

When it comes to goals of my own, I don't have a lot of experience. I was a pretty good stooge and as such all I had to be good at was following and doing what I was trained to do. Yeah, a lot like a puppy. But, now that I'm no longer content to live like that, I need to find my own goals, and even my own likes. It's proved a difficult thing to learn.

Yesterday I started thinking: for most humans, they begin to develop their own likes, dislikes and goals as a child. Kids try stuff. New stuff. Different stuff. They explore and find what they like. And, if done properly, the kids do this naturally without a thought to whether they succeed, or do it well, or the people around them approve of it. Eventually they find their own self, what they like, what they want to do, to be, how they want to live.

This seems like it's becoming the stuff of a mid-life crisis. It's not that I'm unsatisfied with my life. It's that I have no purpose in it other than being a good spouse and parent to my amazing small humans.

The question, "where do you see yourself in 5 years?" has always puzzled me. It's the goal thing. I've rarely had an idea where I was going to be in 5 years, and when I did, it was because someone else had prescribed it for me.

This all came about because yesterday was a gloomy Monday. I needed something to keep me on track and give me a reason to continue what seemed like only drudgery. I couldn't find a reason why I cared if tomorrow even existed. The thought of the future is blank. Why bother if tomorrow is going to be more of the same, followed by another day, week, month, year, decade of more of the same. I need a goal. Or two. I need a reason why I care if tomorrow comes.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Remembering Important Things

Found here, this peaceful photo is of a very important place on this 6th day of June 2008. In truth, it's an important place any and every day of every year. This is Normandy Beach. On this shore many, many valiant young men gave their all to secure freedom for so many others. I am among those others. Words cannot express my gratitude to those who landed on this and other beaches in France in 1944. D-Day. The beginning of Operation Overlord.

My father-in-law came in D-Day plus five. He spoke little of what he saw. What he did say was explanation enough to know why.

On this day I honor those young men who did what needed to be done 64 years ago today.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

God Works in Mysterious Ways!

Today, one of the children decided to listen to Focus on the Family's audio production of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. I hadn't listened to it since I'd heard of NPD. It has new meaning to me now.

I understand that Dickens' wrote the story as an allegory. It tells the well known story of Scrooge ; it also tells the story of a culture losing the value of human life. It would be hard to argue that there's lots of narcissism involved in both stories. Is it safe to describe Scrooge as a narcissist?

At university, one of my literature professors made an interesting observation: in a good piece of literature, a character never does anything that is not in some way foreshadowed. In theatre one might say that the character would always behave "in character". I believe this is true in real life also. It's why some people can read others so well. People's behaviour should never really surprise us.

So what of Scrooge, the narcissist, making such a radical turn around with his life? Is it the remembrance of the loving kindness of his sister that ultimately softens him? Perhaps. Might it be remembering his first employer and the way he lived his life? Maybe. Could it be the knowledge that despite his nastiness, his employee and his nephew still loved him? Possibly. What of the people who so callously stole the dead man's possessions? I think not. The same Scrooge who wouldn't sign Marley's death certificate until after the close of business would think nothing of the living appropriating the material possessions of the dead.

So what's the point? While not ignoring the fact that Scrooge is fictional, what changed Scrooge's life with, of course, the help of the spirits, was love. It was love, even in the face of nastiness and cruelty. Now, to be sure, the people who purposefully engaged Scrooge the narcissist and treated him with love were people who had the ability to be secure in themselves with a support system to help anchor them. In the end, their relationships mattered.

As an ACON, I may not be in the position to engage a narcissist, but I'm glad there are people who can. I watched people like that engage my father. I have no idea how the Holy Spirit dealt with my father, but I'd like to think that the seeds planted and watered by those godly people who put themselves in the path of a narcissist could have bore fruit. I'm glad, too, that I can have the same hope for my culture.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

A Tale of Two Deaths

It's an odd thing, the difference between how I felt when my n father died and when my father-in-law died. Neither man professed any real interested in their Creator, although my father often cursed God. I was there when both died, both of cancers.

My father-in-law died, with all his children, his adult grandchildren, and the spouses there. Out of town family members had stayed in contact daily with local family and drove through the night to be with him before he died. It wasn't a conflict-free time, but we all made our way through it, still caring for one another.

While sitting at the foot of my father-in-laws bed, listening to him struggle to breathe, I felt an amazing *need* to pray. It's not something I can easily describe. It was a deep, urgent, feeling that I must pray. So I did. I prayed in a way that day, pleading and praising like I never had before, or since. I could feel an amazing spiritual battle happening around me, but I had no idea how or why. It was only months later that I was told a family member there, who was taking a lead role in caring for my father-in-law, had been studying and practicing shamanic rituals. She'd been working with my father-in-law with special stones and other objects. I believe this was the reason my spirit felt so burdened to pray.

When he died, I was sitting next to his bed, holding his and my mother-in-law's hands, listening to her share loving family memories.

When my father died, my mother and I were there: she asleep after exhausting herself attempting to meet the demands of my n father, I by his bedside. I advocated for him, for pain management and other comfort issues. I watched and listened to him die.

The scene was so different from that of my father-in-law. There was no spirit of family, no shared comfort in a time of distress. It was just me, a sleeping mother and a dying father. And the machines.

I tried to talk to God, but there was nothing there, only a stagnancy that defies description. I was not without God presence, but there was no call to pray, no spiritual battle. My father's impregnable fortress of narcissism had held strong. I couldn't even muster a struggle to find sadness. He had made his choice.

My mother awoke just before his end came. As he struggled for breath, panic-stricken she urged him to keep breathing. Before long the time came that I needed to urge her to let him go. He died with his anxious wife and stoic daughter at his bedside.

Now, years later, after typing all this, I see that both deaths are a perfect summation of the lives that preceded them. My father-in-law knew he was far from perfect, but he had done his best to be a loving husband and father. He died surrounded by his imperfect family, doing its best to make it through a difficult time. My father was perfect in his own mind. He'd done all he could to make the world around him serve him. In his death he was surrounded by the anxiety and cold distance he had so well cultivated. The world provided its service to him one last time and then it was finished.

Monday, June 2, 2008

Dear Shame

Driving through town today, what should come on the CD player but an old Newsboys CD. The words rang true especially with me today.

Dear Shame
by Newsboys

I catch you digging in my trash
for stuff I've long thrown away.
You bring it back on a tray.

And I hear you wheezing in the hall
spreading gems and old news.
You always love to confuse.
I flee the light just to live in your shadow.
I'm needing mercy and you offer me blame.

Chorus 1
Dear Shame:
You're oh so eager to toy with me.
You're always stealing the joy in me.
You love to whisper my name, Dear Shame, Dear Shame.

You've got me living like a bug,
crawling in fear.
(It's been a very long year.)
I dream of growing some wings,
I think I'm flying away,
then you point and you spray.
All my hidden secrets
crave the light of forgiveness.
You pull the shades,
you accuse and you blame.

- Chorus 1 -

I fled the light just to live in your shadow.
I needed mercy, and you offered me blame.

Chorus 2
Dear Shame:
I think I'm wise to your strategy.
I won't be needing your company.
My name's eternally clear,
Dear Shame,
Dear Shame.



lyrics copyright and property of Newsboys

Sunday, June 1, 2008

Letter to My Burden

Dear X,

It's been years since we've been in contact. I still think of you often, but likely not in the way you'd assume. I don't hate you. I don't yearn for your approval. I fear for your soul. I pray for you often.

I can only guess what life was like in your house when you were a kid. I would guess, though, that perhaps you never were enough in your earthly father's eyes. Was it hard to gain his approval, maybe even his attention? Was it hard to every do it "right enough"? I fear you tried to live to a measuring stick on which only the super-human could even register, let alone measure up.

Was it hard being the youngest? Everyone else had more experience, would develop capabilities before you, and you were the one who was behind. With gaining accolades being so important, did it seem impossible to find something to achieve that someone hadn't done before? Something that was your very own, worthy of approval? The idea of love gets pretty muddled when it's mixed with accomplishments, when much needed attention is based on what you do, rather than who you are.

You did become Someone, though, didn't you? There are news articles and photographs and quotes and Internet sites that prove that. Is it enough? I'd guess not. There's always something else, eh? A project to complete, a VIP to please, financial goals to meet, growth to be shown, innovation to achieve, progress, results....maybe that will be "enough". But it never is. Is it?

I'll even go so far as to guess your career choice was dictated by a desire to please an earthly father. His Legacy looms large. Too large. His standards are impossible, his favour unattainable. You're striving to fill a bottomless pit that will consume every part of your life you dedicate to it.

My friend, the stress shows in your body. You're physically paying for this struggle. Your wife is paying. Your children are paying. Dearly. You have foisted on them the same standard of perfection that was foisted upon you.

I pray for you often, X. I commit to do so for as long as I have breath. This side of eternity, I may never know whether you've thrown off the oppressively heavy weight that you and your family carry. God graciously holds my curiosity and hope for me. I leave you with a prayer for


Peace in God's perfect love,
Ella