Droopy Bikinis

I don’t fail. I just don’t. I honestly cannot remember a time in my life where I failed at something. I'm not trying to sound prideful. It's just, well, it’s foreign to me. I rise to every challenge, I take on lots, and I do it well. Or at least sufficiently.

A few days ago, I was at the pool, like any normal working adult, at 3:00pm—on a Thursday. (I love my job!) The only other people in sight were two tween-aged girls. We entered at the same time, and I must say that I sensed they were not happy to have another person at the pool, much less an adult-type person.

I purposefully went to the south end of the pool and angled my chair toward the sun. They headed north. The shallow end with the stairs was on my end though, so after slathering on lotion and wiggling out of their cover ups, the girls headed toward me. I slyly watched them over the top of my sunglasses and chuckled at what I saw. Ah, junior high. These two girls were a caricature of the stage in life. One prettier than the other; the other one cute. Long spindly legs, knobby knees. Tan lines indicative of shin guards and soccer jerseys. One very tall, the other fairly average. Scraggly no-color hair, hastily thrown into a pony-bun. Swimsuits that attempt to look grown up, on bodies that aren’t grown up. Triangle top bikinis covering … well, nothing! Droopy bikini bottoms limply sagging off their someday-to-be-but-currently-non-existent curvy hips. Little girls trying to look so grown up. I’ve been there. Heck, most times I’m still there. Especially at the pool. But I digress.

The girls wade into the pool and go to the deep end. Splashing around a little (proving yet again they’re not­ ­­­real
teenagers yet) they start to chit chat. They talk a little about their summers, one asks the other to spend the night, the other asks the one if she’s at her dad’s or mom’s for the weekend. The prettier one says to the (possibly younger?) cute one, “When I first met you, I didn’t think I’d like you.” I almost laughed out loud; the innocence and honesty of children. The conversation turned to grades and school. The cute one said to the prettier one, “Oh I worked so hard to get a B in that class.”And went on to describe how she worked hard, and how somehow this all related to a boy she thought was cute.

For some reason that struck me. Working hard to get a B? I know that statement makes sense to so many people … it just doesn’t to me. I didn’t ever work hard for grades. Maybe once or twice I thought, “Oh shoot, I need to step it up a bit to insure I get an ‘A’ not an ‘A-’” Obviously I know getting a ‘B’ isn’t failing, but in my world, it kinda was. Simply because, well, I didn’t get them. I got ‘As’. I excel. I succeed. I accomplish. I am a ‘doer’. I don’t fail.

And yet, I’m failing. I am failing at the most natural thing a woman does—conceive. Create. Carry. I am failing. Do you know how awful it is to fail? To excel in anything you set your mind to, but fail at the one thing that would make you feel so complete?

Now don’t get all, “Oh but Kristin, you should only look to find your ‘completeness’ in the Lord!” I know. I get that. But, the Lord, who I do find my worth, value, and 'completeness' in, created me with the desire to conceive, create and carry. He created me with an undying burning need to be a mother. And right now, He’s allowing me to fail at it. I am not accomplishing. Not succeeding. Not doing. I am failing.

So yes, ultimately, my worth and my completeness is from Him. But today, at this moment, I’m pretty much thinking that conceiving, creating and carrying, when I finally succeed at that … when God allows me to succeed at that … I will feel complete in a way that I never dreamed. Because I will have succeeded at doing what I’m naturally created to do.

I don’t fail. And that’s why this sucks so much.