On Strong Daughters

My mom is what my generation will look back on and call a “Mommy Blogger.” I have lots and lots of thoughts and emotions and opinions about the highs and lows of being a Child of a Mommy Blogger, but they deserve their own reflection and so I’m just going to leave it at that by way of context as to why I sometimes get frantic emails asking me for examples of certain stories from my childhood that would demonstrate how my parents taught me not to spend all of my allowance on glow in the dark rubber ducks or to stop getting F’s on my report card for lack of self control or to fortheloveofgodchildpleasepleaseplease remember to put on deodorant before I leave the house.

A couple weeks ago I got an email from said Mommy Blogger asking me and the other two Children of the Mommy Blog (my sisters) to help her with a post about Raising Strong Daughters. Someone had asked her to guest-blog on this topic, and she was at a loss as to what to tell the Mommys of the Younger Generation to make sure their daughters end up as stubborn and headstrong and steamroller-esque as me and my sisters (kidding) (kind of).

I often roll my eyes when she sends me emails like this (sorry, Mom) because they bring the same kinds of feelings I got when I first started seriously studying literature: is there really, truly, actually all that much to read into this book/poem/situation? I’ll give you a few examples:

• Are we seriously going to read Jesus imagery into a book about an old man and a sea?!

• Yes, Sylvia Plath obviously likes the color red, but are you for real asking me to write a twenty-page paper analyzing the psychosis of one color in one poem?!

• Sure, my sisters are two of the kindest, smartest, and fiery souls I’ve ever met in my life, and I haven’t wound up in jail yet, but are you actually going to take credit for that?!

It’s an age-old problem, I think. As kids who have grown into adults, we raise our glasses around the dinner table and laugh together about how we turned out so good despite our parents, closing our eyes and covering our ears the second we start wondering whether we actually turned out all that great, after all, and whether our parents might deserve a little more credit than we give them. It’s simple, very simple, to look at a character flaw or insecurity and blame it on your parents, since they’re usually not in the room, everyone else does it, and it’s easier than breathing to shuffle the blame to someone else rather than to own it yourself, especially when that someone gave you life and is supposed to have some kind of supernatural bond to love you unconditionally as long as you shall live, or whatever.

So, when she emailed me to ask about how she made me strong, I immediately went to hit the delete button. I paused, however, when an image from 2nd grade popped into my head, and groaned when, yet again, I was confronted with the fact that I owe most of the things I like about myself to my parents. This consistently surprises me, although by now it probably shouldn’t. While some can blame their parents for their problems, and maybe rightly so, I have the distinct privilege of post after post and page after page acting as evidence of just how intentional my parents were about raising me and my sisters to be a certain kinds of people.

I’m sharing my resulting response to my mother here, because self-reflection has always been difficult for me and because, more often than not, I’m not even sure if I AM a strong person. I struggle with self-doubt in every aspect of my life. I have more flaws (ironically, often concerning pride) than I know how to hold in my two hands, let alone how to go about starting to tackle, flaws that dangle in front of my eyes as I go about every day, taunting me, making me question whether I’m capable to even drink a glass of water as a productive citizen, let alone cross the street by myself or live on my own or manage a team at work. This simple image from when I was small reminds me that I am strong not because of anything I’ve done, but because of a God who is strong enough to work with my weaknesses, and I owe my knowledge of Him in large part to my parents.

Thanks, Mom.

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Of all your kids, I'm probably the one that has had the most trouble with an inflated sense of self over the years (#KatieRoxYourSox, anyone?). I'm no parenting expert, but I'm pretty sure that as a parent getting any kid to realize they have a pride issue is nearly an impossible task (since most kids assume the fact that there are people Very Invested in feeding them, clothing them, and generally keeping them alive with the idea that the world probably revolves around their needs), but I was worse because I realized pretty early on that I was somewhat smarter than my peers, and I equated my recognition of my own mental capacity with being God's universal answer to everyone's problems (I am a Joy and Delight, that’s for sure).

I know it was getting particularly bad in 2nd grade because of a conversation we had that has had a major hand in how I combat my problem with pride to this day. 2nd grade was a better year for me than 1st, because I wasn't new at Hawthorne anymore, I really liked my teacher, I was pulled into that accelerated reading program and finally kept engaged enough at school that I stopped bothering everyone (thank God), and, more importantly, I had a best friend for the first time. I remember telling you one day how all these kids in class wanted me to be friends with them, but I felt like I didn't need to give them my time. As usual, you started trying to reign in my pride, and you launched into yet another explanation of how I'm really, really, REALLYKATELISTENTOMEI'MNOTKIDDING not more important than my classmates, no matter what I might feel or think about myself. You told me that for the next two weeks you wanted me to give three compliments to other people in my class each day, and you were going to ask me about it every night (and did). You also told me that the compliments couldn't be about what someone was wearing, because a real compliment should be about a person's heart, not their outside.

No problem, I thought, but was immediately surprised at how hard this was for me, to think and give three genuine compliments to three different people throughout the day. Giving compliments is a vulnerable exercise, and for someone as equally proud and insecure as I was (and am), vulnerability is extremely uncomfortable and extremely difficult. Genuinely complimenting another person meant that I had to become smaller so that I could escalate that person above me, which in turn magnified the insecurities I tried so hard to mask with the things I was most proud of. This exercise ended up being so good for me that you actually asked me about it for a couple months instead of a couple weeks, and even after you stopped asking me, it had become such a habit at that point that it's still something that to this day, nearly 20 years later, I consciously try to do daily.

I keep it up because I realized that this exercise has a major impact on my posture as a person, and as a Christian: it's fundamentally against my nature as a human being to think that I'm not the center of the universe. That's how the Fall happened, by my read: our posture as creatures created to bring a Creator glory was fundamentally inverted the second we doubted that we shouldn't be elevated to be equals with that Creator, thinking we're important enough that we should be able to eat that fruit he said not to touch. The more I let myself believe that I am more significant than my peers, the more that I give into that first sin: believing that I have some kind of elevated worth in the eyes of that Creator which, in turn, makes me live my life less and less in accordance with the reality that I am dust, and to dust I will return.

So, you're asking, how does this small exercise lead to "strength?" Well. Actively considering the worth of my peers is fundamentally crucial in not only remembering the insignificance of my nature as a human, but also in understanding the significance of the Creator, the only source of strength. This small exercise (and your wider parenting style that originally sprouted the idea in the first place) has grown in me a deep confidence in the nature of God. Confidence tied to your own sense of self and your own sense of worth is fleeting, but confidence rooted in the unshakeable nature and love of the one that made you lasts forever. Ripping my gaze off of myself and turning it to others--others that Jesus loves the exact same way as he loves me--was the first trigger that helped me start to see and understand that I am insignificant, and that ultimately this insignificance in contrast to the supreme significance of my Creator means I have nothing and no one to fear.

There is strength in understanding that your worth is found only in the work of he who made you: you are loved beyond measure, you are saved without contingency, and you are free to fail without fear.

If my worth is only defined by the one that made me and loved me enough to die for me, then there isn't anything this world can throw at me that would make me doubt this worth. I could lose my mental faculties, I could lose my ability to make friends and all those friends themselves, I could lose the job I love, I could be asked to move across the country and leave all I know and hold dear (heh heh heh, this just happened), and I can handle it all--my confidence is unshakeable because the only One who dictates my worth remains forever unchanged.

So. Whenever I start to doubt my worth because I'm comparing myself and my life to others, I give someone a compliment. Whenever I recognize that I'm feeling like hot stuff and of more value than others, I give someone a compliment. This simple action reminds me to view myself and those around me in the eyes of Jesus: creatures collectively reflecting the Creator, whether they know it or not, who are so worthy of love that they were worth dying for. There is nothing besides this truth that gives me more strength, and I'm infinitely grateful to you and Dad for adjusting my posture while you were parenting me to peel the veil from my eyes and make this reality known.