Daddy, by mentioning the word pride today, You made me look in a mirror that I hoped I could disappear in or hide behind. Can I deny what I saw? Can I pretend it to only be my reverse image and make myself believe that the real me is the one who is holding up the banner of this charade? My goodness, Daddy, how do You put up with me? You told me how the pride of life doesn’t come from You, but from the world. It made me stop and think: what is it that I fill myself with?
Pride.. ouch.. thinking that people will look up to me when they hear about my college degree, where I worked, what I know, who I know. Wanting people to look up to me. Not feeling okay when people don’t look up to me. Feeling rejected actually. Non-existent, completely lost when they don’t notice me, or don’t put me on a pedestal. But at the same time feeling incredibly bad because I don’t want to be that way! I don’t want to boast on my worldly achievements, I don’t want to lean on that at all. I don’t want to look down on others, in order to place myself higher. I don’t want to feel more important than others, because it makes me feel incredibly lonely. I don’t want to feel better than someone else. I don’t want to give others the feeling that they will never accomplish what I have or am. I hate this part of me! Why don’t you cut it off from me like cancer?
I thought I was a huge big shot because of my cum laude gratuation, but what is left of that? No job. Wellfare. I am so much ashamed to talk about it now. It happened again when I joined the church five years ago, that I noticed how people didn’t look up to me, and how it made me feel so incredibly insecure. Who am I if people don’t look up to me? And this week I noticed it again in a totally different setting: I want people to look up to me, and again they don’t. It makes me lose sight of who I am then, but that is perhaps exactly what You want for my life, as if You yanked the rusty nails from a tightly shut wooden box, a coffin perhaps, that now makes all four sides come down in one gravitational swoop, uncovering a little me inside, just like a worm. If I am not who THEY say or think I am, then there is one thing left to do, and that is run to You, in shameful admittance that You’re my last resort, and not the first. But perhaps You’d say: “In either case, you’re here, My daughter”
If You’ll have me, Daddy, I want to tell you how lost I feel among people, because I increasingly see so much clearer how I want to cover my invisibility with the opinion and eyes of the other person. The feeling is absolutely horrible, Daddy, to notice that these tiny threads between me and the other have been worn down from the get go that they only visually make a connection between me and the other, but in reality show that only one puff is enough to show the thread was dust and ashes only. There is nothing substantial between me and the other, all is vanity. It hurts me, Father, and at the same time I want to speak my grattitude, that You are here, that I can talk about it with You.
That pride of ‘mine’.. Can I ask You to remove it? Or is this You who is placing me in situations where my pride will be broken, the same way crushed flowers give off a beautiful scent, more than you could smell if you would just pluck them out of existence. I surrender to this, Father, to these situations, because they make me feel utterly helpless, making way more room for You. Pride comes for the fall, catch me, Daddy, here I am.