of a recovering perfectionist
2 am. Still awake, I lay in the hospital bed, counting the little holes on the ceiling tiles. Dizzy. Numb. Tired...and a little (no, a lot) grumpy. Week two of my stay in Barge. "Busy semester, can't afford this time off. Lord, my GPA's gonna die. I'm gonna die!" The pain wrenched me into a tight little ball. My senses swirled, rising and falling, soaring and crashing. Pain. Screaming. Nurses running. More pills. More pain. Screaming louder. A shot of medication to knock me out. Senses slipping into blackness--again. "Why? Why me? Just take me home, Lord, please!"
6 am. Nurse Friendly shoved a thermometer in my mouth, "Boy, you sure scared us last night!" Too friendly for 6am. Satisfied, she leaves me with my thoughts. I try to read my Bible, but my eyes can't focus on the printed words. Frustrated. Angry at me, at my complete incompetence. A whole week gone by, and I still can't read the Word. "Why am I here? I can't even spend time with You! What are You doing to me? Why? Please, I'm listening."
Exactly. That's the point. You're listening. Did you ever listen before?
"Yes, of course! Well, I was busy, but...."
Busy. Did you ever slow down? Did you ever take time to think? To really pray?
The semester reeled in my head. 2 plays. Rehearsals every single night of the semester. Flawless GPA. Music lessons. Yes, I (Miss Everything-about-me-must-be-perfect-Type-A Personality) probably earned my stay in the hospital; at least that's what my mother told me. A rapidly growing lump in my abdomen. Stress may have helped bring it on, the doctors said.
Probably. May have. But I knew the ugly truth. It wasn't just stress. It wasn't just "Type A." I hadn't been eating. For quite a while. I looked in the mirror and saw a cow where most people saw a skeleton. Of course, I didn't tell anybody that. They would've killed me. But I had to be perfect! So I...quit eating. At first it was because it was convenient. With 4-5 hour rehearsals every night, I had to have some time to study. So the GPA stayed up and the weight started shrinking. And loved it. I was making it work. Yes, I could be perfect. I, Stephanie Anne Geter, could be super Christian extraordinairre.
Tears fell. Yes, I've earned my stay here. My "perfectionism" isn't a good thing. What a novel thought. It impresses everyone else. But not my Lord.
11 months have passed. I had surgery and a few more unpleasant hospital stays. But I'm recovering....from the perfectionism, that is. People often ask me when or why I became so joyful, so exuberant about life. It all goes back to that moment when the Lord took everything--all my strength, all my talent, all my ability--and showed me that He alone was worth living for. That even if I had to spend the rest of my life in that hospital bed writhing in pain, He is good. That my GPA didn't really amount to (pardon the colloquialism) a hill of beans.
I'm still recovering. Still learning to rest. Learning that it's ok not to be perfect. That I'm not supposed to be Superwoman. Learning that His love is more than enough for me. That life is not about me.
So, I know this blog has been less than perfect. It's rather long. Maybe confusing. But, hey, who ever said I was supposed to be perfect, anyway? I just had to let you know: 1. I am not perfect, and 2. When everything else is gone, He is still worthy of worship. Praise His holy name for dumping me upside down and making me weak enough to need Him!
Hence was born the unusual marriage of ideas you may have noticed in my blog:
rest. cease from striving.
be exuberant.
one necessarily depends on the other.