16-03-2005, 08:12 AM
He restores my soul. Psalm 23:3
"What a beautiful reception," I thought as I flipped through the recently developed stack of photographs.
There was my newly married niece, her face flushed with happiness. There was her new husband, beaming and proud. There were the children, dressed up and excited, and the older ladies beaming with satisfaction at another wedding in the family.
And there I was in my white Battenburg lace dress - looking pretty good, if I did say so myself.
I should have looked good. I had poured a lot of effort into pulling myself together perfectly for the occasion, paying special attention to my hair, my hose, my shoes, my bag. Trying so hard to get everything just exactly right so that my elderly auntie, for once, would have nothing to criticize.
Well, I finally did it, I thought as I flipped another picture. There was my aunt sitting at ther table with a big smile on her face. My smile was big, too, as I remembered it. For the first time in my memory, she hadn't said a single critical word about how I was dressed or how my makeup looked or anything else. I talked to her on the phone several times since then, and she still hadn't made a negative comment.
I glanced at the clock. I really needed to call her again. She was very independent, even in her eighties, but I still tired to check on her every day or two.
Auntie was in a wonderful mood when she answered the phone. She had gotten her pictures, too. So we reminisced about the ceremony, speculated on how the new couple would get along, and replayed the events of the reception.
"And, oh, Emilie," she enthused, "you looked just beautiful."
By now I was actually grinning. This almost too good to be true.
And then she added in a thoughtful voice, "Emilie... you really need to consider getting a padded bra."
Zing. I could feel my grin slipping down to the flour, that old familiar knot thightening my stomach.
I should have seen it coming, of course. It was only the hundred-millionth time she had doen that to me. (I was beginning to realize that she did it with everyone she loved.) But that didn't keep the words from stining - as they always stung. With one little remark, my auntie had managed once more to fill my cup with criticism.
Do you know somebody like that, who seems to delight in pouring closes of criticism? If you don't, just wait a little bit, and one will almost certainly come knocking at your door. Someone who excels in bowling over your confidence with just a word or a look.
It may be direct, overt, controlling:
"You shouldn't pick up the baby when he cries."
"I'm afraid blue just isn't your colour."
"Thank you, but it's just not our style. I know you won't mind if I return it."
No matter how the criticism is poured, the message is clear. You did it wrong. Your efforts just don't measure up. You just aren't good enough... smart enough.... pretty enough.
It's hard to live freely and creatively and lovingly with that kind of criticism. it's hard to risk flying high when you're always afraid of being shot down. I know, because my critical auntie had peen pouring out caustic cupfuls for me ever since I could remember...
And how did I respond?
For years, I just tried harder.
I spent so much of my life in a constant struggle to live up to my aunt's impossible standards.
I would visit the hairdress and have my nails done before a visit. She would give me the number of her hairdress and manicurist.
I would choose my words and my grammar with care, tyring so hard not to say antying wrong. She would still find something to criticize.
And then it finally hit me.
All my life I had been holding out my cup to my auntie, waiting for her to fill it with encouragement and praise. And she couldn't do it! Her own cup was too full of a critical spirit to pour anything different into mine. Holding up a bigger or better or more beautiful cup wasn't going to make any difference. And Satan was still using her poured-out criticism to make me feel inadequate and insecure and thus damage my ability to share Christ's love.
.... cont.
"What a beautiful reception," I thought as I flipped through the recently developed stack of photographs.
There was my newly married niece, her face flushed with happiness. There was her new husband, beaming and proud. There were the children, dressed up and excited, and the older ladies beaming with satisfaction at another wedding in the family.
And there I was in my white Battenburg lace dress - looking pretty good, if I did say so myself.
I should have looked good. I had poured a lot of effort into pulling myself together perfectly for the occasion, paying special attention to my hair, my hose, my shoes, my bag. Trying so hard to get everything just exactly right so that my elderly auntie, for once, would have nothing to criticize.
Well, I finally did it, I thought as I flipped another picture. There was my aunt sitting at ther table with a big smile on her face. My smile was big, too, as I remembered it. For the first time in my memory, she hadn't said a single critical word about how I was dressed or how my makeup looked or anything else. I talked to her on the phone several times since then, and she still hadn't made a negative comment.
I glanced at the clock. I really needed to call her again. She was very independent, even in her eighties, but I still tired to check on her every day or two.
Auntie was in a wonderful mood when she answered the phone. She had gotten her pictures, too. So we reminisced about the ceremony, speculated on how the new couple would get along, and replayed the events of the reception.
"And, oh, Emilie," she enthused, "you looked just beautiful."
By now I was actually grinning. This almost too good to be true.
And then she added in a thoughtful voice, "Emilie... you really need to consider getting a padded bra."
Zing. I could feel my grin slipping down to the flour, that old familiar knot thightening my stomach.
I should have seen it coming, of course. It was only the hundred-millionth time she had doen that to me. (I was beginning to realize that she did it with everyone she loved.) But that didn't keep the words from stining - as they always stung. With one little remark, my auntie had managed once more to fill my cup with criticism.
Do you know somebody like that, who seems to delight in pouring closes of criticism? If you don't, just wait a little bit, and one will almost certainly come knocking at your door. Someone who excels in bowling over your confidence with just a word or a look.
It may be direct, overt, controlling:
"You shouldn't pick up the baby when he cries."
"I'm afraid blue just isn't your colour."
"Thank you, but it's just not our style. I know you won't mind if I return it."
No matter how the criticism is poured, the message is clear. You did it wrong. Your efforts just don't measure up. You just aren't good enough... smart enough.... pretty enough.
It's hard to live freely and creatively and lovingly with that kind of criticism. it's hard to risk flying high when you're always afraid of being shot down. I know, because my critical auntie had peen pouring out caustic cupfuls for me ever since I could remember...
And how did I respond?
For years, I just tried harder.
I spent so much of my life in a constant struggle to live up to my aunt's impossible standards.
I would visit the hairdress and have my nails done before a visit. She would give me the number of her hairdress and manicurist.
I would choose my words and my grammar with care, tyring so hard not to say antying wrong. She would still find something to criticize.
And then it finally hit me.
All my life I had been holding out my cup to my auntie, waiting for her to fill it with encouragement and praise. And she couldn't do it! Her own cup was too full of a critical spirit to pour anything different into mine. Holding up a bigger or better or more beautiful cup wasn't going to make any difference. And Satan was still using her poured-out criticism to make me feel inadequate and insecure and thus damage my ability to share Christ's love.
.... cont.
