man-child

I returned from my vacation with a burned out headlight this past February and decided this was the time to prove I was a man. Opening the hood, I scoped out the machinery and loosened the hoses that blocked the passage to my destination. The manual was clear that the next step was detaching the plastic clip that shielded the accidental removal of the bulb. I strained with all my might, but the clip wouldn't budge. First time, second time... eleventh time -- same result. While other men were exchanging their own belts and breaks that lovely weekend, I couldn't even detach a half-inch clip of plastic.

Of course, this is nothing new for me. I had long since determined that I would never be a real man. What use was making the best espresso and preaching the best message if I could never change a flat tire? Clearly, God had messed something up and was unable (or unwilling) to do what was necessary to be the kind of "warrior" that male devotionals describe. As other men were aspiring to be William Wallace, I would be fortunate to compare with the bipolar nature of Martin Luther... save his intelligence.

Flashback nearly nineteen years: an abnormally miniature 8th grader just had the best three hours of his life with a smiley girl that appeared to share his affections. The following Monday at school, she makes a point to find him in the cafeteria and inform him of her recent breakup with her jerkface boyfriend. [Hint, hint.] I'm immediately happy inside, but haven't the sense or experience to know what to do. A few days pass and I see her in the hallway with friends. She passes by, smiles, and continues towards class. The same the next day. And the next. Never another word exchanged, never an explanation for my sudden loss of tongue. As the school year approaches its end, she passes by with indifference.

"I don't even know what to say."

"I've never been told how to treat a woman."

"I'm probably not cool enough for her anyway."

Or on her end, "I thought he liked me..."

The ridiculous nature of junior high romance aside, I wish I could say I've grown. I would hope that years of physical growth and life experience would train me to behave less like a child and more like a man. In all seriousness, it has not. A good part of me still feels underdeveloped and ashamed of my ignorance. It's time to buck up and get over it already, right?

I can't turn back time. Even if I could, I could not force my dad to help me grow. It was always easier for him to do it himself. I would screw it up. I was in the way. He met my basic needs and taught me the value of providing for a family. Everything else I had to figure out on my own. It hasn't happened yet.

Physically and socially, I will never be the man that I thought I needed to be. Somehow, I must accept God's grace in this and presume that He has a plan despite my lack of basic training. My struggle will always be against my own standard of what is required to be valuable, as I strain to find usefulness through any level of competence that accompanies my shortcomings. Maybe I could be loved if I learned a new trade. Maybe the effort I place into failing will be noted. As I kick the tires of my beat up Escort, maybe this headlight will miraculously fix itself...

It hasn't yet, so I'm forced to adopt a different identity. Amidst the labor and frustration of the daily grind is a glory waiting to be revealed. It's been there since the beginning, but it's time He told me who I am. I must accept the paradox of being His beloved. I must choose to acknowledge myself as a son. As I walk over the hill desperate and dirty, I must return the embrace that my Father offers.

Being His man has always been a greater comfort than being yours.