Fearless.
I wish that was a banner I could wave.
Kind of. But it’s not.
It’s a word that’s as intimidating as the flawless Proverbs 31 woman.
I’m not her, either.
Well, at least not the her I had previously pictured.
Fearless walks faster than I do. She has no weakness.
She’s confident in everything she puts her hand to.
She’s the first one picked in grade school for kickball.
And if not the first one picked, she’s the captain.
She stands on the field, ready to pick her team from everyone else.
She’s set apart. She’s different. She’s flawless.
She runs faster and jumps higher.
She probably won the vote for most likely to succeed.
Her childhood is void of trauma. She’s never been in want.
She’s always belonged. She’s always been accepted.
She’s never doubted her beauty, purpose, calling, or her beliefs.
She just is.
She gets up early in the morning to start her perfect life.
She’s never late for an appointment.
In fact, she’s always early.
She always knows just the right thing to say
She never stumbles over her words.
She doesn’t have to demand her own way
Because she’s always right.
People move to the side in the hallway and offer to carry her books.
Her nails have never been anxiously bitten.
She’s never been stressed so much to pull out her perfect hair.
But Fearless isn’t real.
It was sometime between my not caring what people think and feeling alone sitting next to the stinky kid on the bench in 4th grade that I started to see her.
She stayed with me through my childhood, always walking ahead.
I tried to follow her. I tried to be like her.
But I never could learn the rules of her game.
As soon as I stepped out to try to play, she had already moved ahead.
Finances were never an issue, and she soared through school with perfect grades and multiple scholarships. She could go anywhere. I knew I couldn’t keep up.
She was respected, honored, loved, and adored, but… silent.
Fearless, this imaginary perfect girl has never had a voice.
If she did, she’d probably scream. But instead, she just smiles.
And sees past everyone around her.
In the 2nd grade, we had a high school pageant contestant winner visit our classroom. She was named Miss Something or Other.
I remember thinking, “She has to have tape over her mouth to hold up her smile. Her teeth are too shiny. What did she do to them, rub them with Vaseline?”
I never heard her speak. She just rode in on the praises of the people cheering as her parade passed by. She sat quietly, smiling, waving, and looking over our heads as the parade car kept her moving.
She rode in with fanfare and disappeared just as quickly as she rode off into the sunset in her sparkly red Mustang convertible. Someone probably just gave her the car because, well, she probably deserved it.
That’s when I discovered she had a middle name.
Fearless Perfection.
Maybe your imaginary friend had a much cooler name, like Drop Dead Fred, but mine was terrifying.
Still, I couldn’t stop myself from wanting to be her friend.
The longer I followed in her shadows, the more I realized I didn’t just want to be friends with her. I wanted to be her, if not better.
I hesitantly admit that somewhere out there exists VHS video footage of me in 5th grade exclaiming, “I am a woman with a heart of gold!” as I rode around on one of our horses, trying to look really cool.
It wouldn’t be out there if my stepdad hadn’t wanted to tape over himself practicing his pitch to sell what he’d found to be the greatest thing to hit the market since sliced bread: bi-tron oil.
Looking back now, I wonder if he knew Fearless Perfection’s parents.
I lost track of Fearless P. somewhere in my later teen years. Not that teenagers ever lose track of anything.
She came back around shortly after I started college.
I tried to quote her with my own soapbox declarations, feeling like I needed to defend myself against my accusers, whoever they were. I’d boldly assert: “I’m not a statistic; quit stereotyping me! I’m not like everyone else sitting on the bench.”
And yet, my voice just bounced off the walls, like an echo in an empty concert hall.
Little did I know that while chasing my brutal imaginary idol friend, Fearless Perfection, the Real Fearless Perfector was relentlessly pursuing me.
Prideful me, prancing around on my high horse, declaring my golden heart had only managed to decorate the world’s golden calf, doing nothing to transform my wayward, lonely heart.
My Fearless Perfector was after my heart to set it on fire, burn out the impurities, and show me what real gold truly was.
It was heavy and costly.
It sat by the stinky kid in the 4th grade when he was alone on the bench.
It purposely tarried in the back of the crowd so someone else would get picked first.
He taught me that a pure heart doesn’t belong to someone who never makes mistakes. A pure heart is grounded in perfect love and isn’t afraid of messing up.
A pure heart simply trusted the Refiner, who knew how hot to turn up the heat because He knew my heart far more than my fake, fearless, perfect idol or I ever would.
Little by little, I have discovered that my Refiner’s ways remain forever higher than mine.
He knows my weaknesses and gives me the strength to overcome them.
My idol was static. She could only be moved by fanfare. She was as fake as the golden idol that reserved her place under the shiny surface of my heart.
My masked heart didn’t fool the Lord. Over time, He’s replaced and given me new desires after replacing my cold, hard heart.
But I had to reject my rejector, my childhood bully, my imaginary “friend.” Over time, I’ve learned that if I didn’t diligently reject her, I’d feel rejected by everyone else.
We’re created for so much more than worrying about belonging when we’ve been created to thrive in communities. Can I encourage you today to reject your childhood bully, whoever that may be? You were created intentionally, you’re being pursued relentlessly, and you belong in community!
Can you relate? How has God transformed your heart?
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