Insecure

Sometimes, I swear my mom is my best friend. It's the weirdest thing. When I was younger, I never thought that would happen. I never thought as I grew we'd grow together. I never thought I'd run to her first for advice regarding every aspect of my life, but it happened. The fussing, however, I anticipated. I anticipated butting heads over silly things. I anticipated becoming annoyed when explaining technology to her. Somehow, the two sides of our relationship collide in beauty. Over Christmas break, a kid in her Sunday School class told us he'd never seen a mother and daughter act the way we did, that we seemed like sisters. I'm not sure why, but those words adhered themselves to my memory and stimulated an instant smile. Maybe our relationship grew that way because we're the only women in a house that was home to four men over the years, or maybe it would've happened regardless. It's a precarious line to walk, the line between being a mother and being a friend. My mother walks it with perfection and ease, though, and I admire her daily for it.
I am blessed to have a great relationship with her, but lately I've been thinking a lot about my dad. I've been thinking about one story in particular.

I was in seventh grade, I think. I remember whose classroom I was in. I remember the guy who sat in front of me, his name and his face. I don't remember the conversation or what we were wearing, but I distinctly remember him turning around, looking me dead in the eyes and saying, "Girl, you got some big ole' eyes!" He didn't say it meanly. It was almost like he had just discovered my eyes and the suddenness of his realization stumbled out of his mouth. Up until that point, I never knew my eyes were any bigger than anyone else's, and it seemed like sort of a strange thing to point out. When he informed me of this trait, I immediately withdrew. I was in middle school and already self conscious. I had no idea what big eyes meant. Did they make me look weird? Did he think they were ugly?

In ninth grade, it happened again. Once again, I was in a classroom. It was Spanish, and I sat behind this guy from my church. He talked to me a lot, and when I'd get really excited telling a story, he was quick to remind me how big my eyes grew. I remembered what I was told in seventh grade and still wasn't sure what to think about their comments. The guys who told me about my eyes were never rude about it, and often they were laughing or smiling when they made their comments. Not knowing what else to say, I did what any person would do.

"Your eyes are just as big." Obviously my comebacks need work...

I remember riding to church that night in the backseat of my mom's minivan. She and my dad were in the front, and for the entirety of the ride I sat in the back and complained about the boy's remarks. "I don't know why he felt the need to tell me that. I mean, does he think I don't know? And what about his eyes? I mean, they're not the smallest things, either..." The venting went on and on. Eventually, my dad, a man of few words, cleared his throat, interrupting my persistent flow of whining. "Lori," he started in his low voice, "big eyes are not a bad thing." It shut me up. As soon as the words registered, I wasn't worried about my eyes anymore. I felt stupid for even worrying about it to begin with. My father had spoken, and the matter was settled.

This is what has been consuming my thoughts lately. I mentioned my mom at the beginning because, even though our relationship is great, I'm not sure the words would have been as effective coming from her. There is something about a father's words to his daughter; they hold a certain weight. Maybe it's because my dad doesn't speak often, or maybe it's simply because he's a dad. That single sentence from him that day cleared away an insecurity that had been brewing for years, and I am perplexed at his ability to do something so powerful with eight short words. As I thought about this for the past week, I couldn't help but think how much more my Heavenly Father can do.

Insecurity is something I believe everyone deals with at some point in time, even if it's something as silly as being worried about the size of your eyes. For me, it wasn't only my eyes. In fact, they were the least of my concerns. I was insecure about my weight, and my hair, and my teeth, and about all those things that really don't matter in the grand scheme of things. I was insecure because, sometimes, it seemed like no matter how hard I would try, I was never the best. I always felt second-rate.

Insecurity is something so common, I think we have a tendency to downplay it. At least I did. I rarely talked seriously about these issues to anyone, and when I did, I only felt like I was drawing attention to the things that made me ugly, the things that made me wrong. Instead, I looked for validation in people. I sought it from the seemingly perfect girls in my high school classes. I yearned for it from guys I was crushing on. When teachers or my parents or people from my church complimented me, I was on top of the world for a moment.

The thing is, validation from people is great, but prioritizing it above the validation that God is ready and able to give us is dangerous. And the things that we're often self-conscious about are things that have no effect on our purpose in God. This is a lesson I have very recently learned. My dad was able to take away one insecurity, but God can take them all away. He wants to take them all away, and I can't figure out why it took me so long to realize that.

I've always prayed for God to let me see others with His eyes. I guess sometimes we have to pray for Him to give us His eyes to see ourselves.