The teens play this game called “bigger and better”. The teams are each given a a small object.  They begin going door to door, calling on the poor neighbors to exchange the team’s object for something bigger and better. Each neighbor searches through their rummage pile or garage for a contribution.  At the end of the allotted time the teams reconvene and judges decide the winner, based on their final items.  Years ago when the teens were playing this game one group came home dragging a treadmill! Tonight it was a 10×10 carpet, a barbecuer, giant teddy bear and two extra kids!

Sometimes western culture is just a giant game of bigger and better. From the start of our “i want” stage in life we keep trading up; better toys, smaller electronics, better relationships, bigger careers, better houses, bigger toys etc. No matter how much we get or how perfect it is that satisfaction is temporary, so we trade up.

When we trade our vehicles for something bigger and better we try to hide the scratches, the dents, the paint chips. We want to camouflage the high gas mileage and the electrical malfunctions because in the material world this translates to less value. I bought into it, into the  lore, the lie that my won value is related to my perfection, as if I should be judged, assessed and monetized  like an object.

I am not as confident as I used to be.  Something about being mentally ill and needing to be taken care of by so many professsionals, not being able to care for my children, of living in solitude, losing career, relationships and independence has dampened my confidence.

I can feel the stilling of the jello that has been my confidence. I can feel it quickening like slow cure cement into something strong, like a bone graft that becomes stronger than the original bone. To succumb to the weight of a tragic childhood, diseases that have affected friends and family, the loss of loved ones, the suicides and unexpected tragedies I have witnessed, would be a tragedy. To deny their impact on my life would be an even larger one because that would be to refuse the grace that has been gifted to me to survive.

Much is put on being a “survivor”. We like the idea of the warrior who fights against the odds to conquer the foe. However,  it isn’t being a survivor that makes me strong or confident. It is the ability to point to the wounds that stand witness to my pain and say “it still hurts” or “I need help” that takes me from the game of “bigger and better” and puts me square in the lap of love and grace.