I thought this merely indicated my preference for scripted, planned drama on shows like Friday Night Lights or The Hills. But my husband pointed out that it’s in fact an unhealthy view I have of life: that everyone should excel at everything they do, or else not even try. I blame it on my membership in the Millennial generation.

A controversial study reported on by the Los Angeles Times suggests that Generation Y-ers (or Millennials) are so overly self-confident that they’re narcissistic. This attitude – widely recognized in teenagers to 20-somethings – breeds discontentment and a constant need for praise and “patting on the head,” in the workplace, according to a Reuters article.

Beginning back in preschool with gold stars for accomplishments and now constant self-promotion on Facebook and Twitter, we are used to being recognized. In reality, meaningful recognition is so rare that it doesn’t motivate, it’s more like a cherry on top. But since childhood, many of us have found the recognition we receive defines us, and the process of learning, working or performing that led to the recognition loses its meaning.

When everyone in the class is forced to hand out a Valentine to everyone else, a natural opportunity to experience rejection is thwarted. When everyone receives a blue ribbon at field day, the reality that some people are better runners than others is hidden. And when memorizing facts earns an A — which contributes to a 4.0 and leads to a Valedictorian title — those facts are lost, replaced by a sense of accomplishment as fleeting as Brutus’ loyalty. Or would it be Mark Antony’s? I forget.

Anyway, I can relate. My day is brightened when the barista compliments my nails, and a downward slope on a Google Analytics pageview graph leaves me wallowing in self-doubt and reaching for my high school yearbooks, when people told me I was 2 cute 2 b 4gotten. I need approval from others.

But now that I see the error of my ways, I can turn from it:

Step 1: Stop seeking to please others and instead focusing on loving people around me in action and in truth.

Step 2: I will not only stop hiding from failure, but I’ll embrace it. I’ll intentionally start projects or pursue ideas that are outside of my comfort zone, because learning from mistakes will shape my character. Weakness is the new strength.

Step 3: I’ll redefine what success means. My capital gains will be comprised of a wealth of knowledge, friendship and faith. My portfolio will be the little folder on my desk that holds all of my scribbled down goals, encouraging notes and Bible verses. Climbing the corporate ladder will be me using the step stool to hang pictures and diplomas in our home office. And my paycheck will be made out in unicorns.

OK, I guess there’s some good that comes from striving to succeed, and there’s a practical need for being good at what you do. But what’s the balance?

This weekend, the hubbs and I were in the mountains for a wedding. I’m coming off of a few pensive weeks, and with the addition of a long mountain drive  and a few glasses of wine, I was overwhelmed with emotion. …

My heart hurts for a death that seems unfair, brutal and dark. I can’t explain why God didn’t comfort someone in pain or why another person’s way of comforting herself is slowly killing her. My shaky grasp of hope starts to slip as I think about people around me with terminal diseases, breaking marriages and hidden addictions.

When their solutions are to dig deep into themselves
or the universe
or their jobs
or their mistress
to find a cure
or a distraction
or an idol
or a quicker death,

I don’t see a God who can save and redeem. I see myself in their pain and their coping. I don’t suffer very well. I grapple for them, with them, praying to God for answers to the darkness while secretly thanking Him that they’re not really my questions. From my distance, I can say that God is good and he is always love, and I can keep my disbelief to myself.

So this is where I was this weekend, sifting through pain and my perceptions and my emotions, and pondering how Christ is the answer for someone who doesn’t believe in him. And then there was a double rainbow. And people joined me and the hubbs to “ooh” and “ahh.”  All of us floundering people — some knowing and believing God, others not — gathered to take pictures and video of the sight.

And God spoke to us, even if we didn’t all understand what he said. He promised us something. He told us he loves us. He reminded us how mighty he is. He reminded us of something that was already written on our hearts. Click to hear for yourself.

And that explains Double Rainbow. We hurt and our solutions are all folly, but God still speaks to us. His promises remain. And we love to, need to, hear it.

There has been some amazing discussion in the comments section. Do you think that God can fully heal anybody from an addiction? Have you been hurt by Christians who act pious and better than you? Do you think treatment for eating disorders needs to come from professionals and not faith?

Check out the conversation and add to it at the bottom of the post here. Thanks for reading!

In the past year, my husband and I have done a lot of traveling. I also saw a counselor. My exposure to turbulence and time spent talking through my issues has been invaluable. This weekend, as we traveled to a wedding in Phoenix, I gazed out the window happily, imagining what it would be like to reach out and grab a handful of cloud, letting it dissolve on my tongue like cotton candy. When we hit some major bumps, I delighted in children giggling and shrieking in joy — totally oblivious to some of the adults around them who shooosh-ed them through gritted teeth, no doubt preparing for their own doom.

My husband, who barely noticed the roller coaster of a plane ride, nor the kids laughing, nor my anxiety-less breakthrough, was too busy mimicking the flight attendant who sounded like Sean Connery. With head phones on, the hubbs loudly repeated what came over the speakers and slipped into an SNL act that brings to mind Burt Reynolds playing Jeopardy. Then he leaned over me to point out mountains, rivers and reservoirs out the window as if he were looking at a big map with labels and scales and topography. I followed his finger, but geography eludes me, and all I could picture was the Aerosmith video when they write words on the corn field with the tractor.

I was going to embed the video — which I practically memorized back in my middle school years — but now in my old age, I find it wildly inappropriate. Liv Tyler in a strip club, paralleling her dad’s performance? Shoplifting? Creepy man outside of a gas station? Yikes. You get a screen shot of the last scene instead.

Anyway, my journey through anxiety and into peace has been a blessing. While panic disorders are relatively common, they can make you feel crazy. But there’s hope. I’m proof.

“Love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun, more last than star …”

e.e. cummings

Here’s the front of a card I created to celebrate 25 years of marriage:

“What’s that? Speak up!” He squints his eyes and leans over, craning his ear.

I mutter, “Catch up and pick Olson Mayo.”

He levels his eyes on me. Wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, turns his back and reaches for a bottle.

(earlier)

I don’t mind the explosions as much as I used to. Last year, right after I got the training wheels off my bike, I tasted the freedom of the big kids.  I pedaled my way to the end of our street, turned the corner and kept going. Places only two wheels could take me, past the confines of training wheel territory. But the first explosion, followed by several more, ignited a fear in me that pumped those pedals faster than I’d ever gone – before or since. Once I arrived home, I threw my bike down and covered my ears.

A lot can happen in a year. I grew up fast.

Now the big bangs and blasts don’t take me off guard. I expect them. I’m ready for them. I join with everyone else, jumping at the noise but pointing in awe:

“Four at once!”

“It’s changing colors!”

“Time for the finale!”

During the fireworks, we always eat our picnic dinner on our brown blanket, the one with the nubs. It reminds me of sitting on sand at the beach, except it’s just an ugly blanket.

My mouth starts watering in anticipation for Mom’s potato salad, cold lemonade poured from the thermos and a piece of fried chicken, pulled from the KFC bucket with grease spotting the Colonel’s head. I always peal the crunchy skin off first and mix it in with the potato salad. Mom then makes a face but can’t argue with my reasoning:  “It’s all going to the same place!”

But now as Mom reaches into the picnic bags, she pulls out peanut butter sandwiches and carrots. Carrots. Is this some kind of joke? Is Dad going to break down and laugh, reaching for a hidden bucket of fried morsels behind his back?

No. Mom and Dad take big, sticky bites out of their sandwiches and look to me to join them.

“Where’s the Fourth of July food? The chicken? The lemonade? I don’t want carrots!” I shout.

Mom tilts her head in a way that means, “Too bad. Get used to it.” Dad shrugs.

I dig my hands into my pockets and pull out lint, two dollar bills, and a warm piece of bubble gum. I look to the hotdog vendor, stand up, and announce my intentions.

“I’m getting a hotdog then. By myself.”

Clutching the money, I get in line.  My hands start to sweat, the lint lodging in between my fingers. I’ve never ordered and paid for anything by myself. I watch the people in front of me, memorizing how they step up, name the condiments they want, hand over two dollars, and step to the side to wait.

“Ketchup and pickles and mayo. Ketchup and pickles and mayo. Ketchup and pickles and mayo.” I repeat to myself as I get closer to the man hunched over the grill.

He looks at me. “What’ll you have?”

“Ummm … ” I look down and unfold the dollar bills, wiping the lint on my legs. I take a deep breath and glance up.

Our relationship started out great. She’d come meet with me in the mornings, full of energy and excitement, every day without fail. Then I started noticing that she hit an afternoon slump and it was literally hard to peel her off her seat. She is embarrassingly grumpy when she’s hungry — and that’s saying a lot if I have a problem with it. There’s been more than a few times when I’ve had to tell my hubbs, “You’re going to have a crazy wife on your hands if we don’t eat soon.”

When our work started, she was lovable and fun. Now she’s just plain weird. Yesterday I found her sprawled out in my bathtub during her afternoon slump. Of course, my husband is to blame for that one. He gave her treats to get her in there about six months ago, and the positive reinforcement worked.

Hey-oh!

For another justification of why two professionals would dress up their dog — accomplishing a remarkably scholarly, sophisticated look — click here.

Before we left our house, my mom used a black Sharpie to identify all of my items — from my laptop to my underwear — with my last name. For a girl just trying to blend in, a huge hand-written label doesn’t help.

Also, it doesn’t help if you call up your two “potluck” (aka unknown) roommates during the summer and ask them their thoughts on our room rules, like when we should go to sleep every night. In my defense, someone advised me that it was best to lay out the ground rules early on, so there wasn’t conflict later. I wish someone else had told me that I could wait until at least the first week of school to clinch my dorky status.

Nevertheless, advice from those with experience and camaraderie with those in the same boat is so comforting in the transition to college. That’s why I’m excited to be blogging for my newest client, University Parent. Check out the latest blog post here.

What do you think parents need to know? Appropriate Sharpie etiquette, perhaps?

I create personal cards, poems or letters, capturing a piece of your thoughts that you want to share with others. If you have an anniversary coming up, a birthday to celebrate or a grief to mourn, I can help you put your emotions into words. Here’s a birthday invitation I created for a first birthday party:

(front of card)

(inside card)

My services include card design, printing and mailing, or I can provide you with a .pdf of a card, or just the words. This electronic version of this invitation costs $50. For other examples of work like this, click here. Please contact me for more information.