Brave Old Girl in a Safe New World

Through a friend’s post, I recently was introduced to the Brave Girls Club. Check out the site. To tell you who they are and what they do and why they exist would take more words than I can write here. In joining this online community, you’re asked this question: “What does being brave mean to you?”

Simple question, right?

Not so simple answer, though I came up with something like “not being afraid to try new things and fail.”

Being brave — that’s not really my thing. Leaps of faith are rare in my life. My favorite hymn is “The Solid Rock.” Firm ground. Unchangeable truth. Solid. Safe. These are words I cling to.

The word “brave” for me evokes images of scaling a rock formation while wearing a harness or jumping out of a plane wearing a parachute or driving cross country with a map and no plan.

I’ve done a few brave things in my life. Leaving the country for a semester in college to study in England and travel in Europe was brave for a girl who hadn’t been on a plane since she was 2 and had only barely been into Canada and Mexico. I once drove myself from my hometown in northern Illinois to North Carolina to attend my first ever writer’s conference by myself without a clue as to why I was there or what I would experience. I have other similar stories. For some reason they all seem to involve travel.

That’s part of what has me thinking about bravery again. We’re about to take our first family vacation in a couple of weeks. The four of us are driving to Florida to meet my parents for a beach/Disney trip. We’ve traveled long distances in the car with the kids many times, but this will be our first trek into new territory with hotel stays and new driving routes.

I’ll admit it: I’m part excited; part scared. I’m a constant worrier about what could happen (bad) and ever fearful that I will not be able to enjoy the trip until we arrive safely in Florida and I won’t be able to really breathe and relax until we’re back home in Pennsylvania. (I would have made a terrible pioneer.)

See, I feel like I left the smidgen of “brave” I had behind when I had kids, although maybe some would say having kids is also brave. Some days, just leaving my house with two kids to run errands seems brave.

So, what’s your definition of “brave” and how has that changed?

I’d also like to compile a post of “the bravest thing I ever did” stories. Want to participate? Send me an e-mail: lmbartelt[at]gmail.com with a story about the bravest thing you’ve ever done. Put “Bravest Thing I Ever Did” in the subject line. I’ll keep your name confidential, and I’ll publish the stories in a future post.

Let’s encourage each other to do something brave.

Ready? Me, too.

Why Stuart Smalley got it wrong

During my SNL (Saturday Night Live) obsession, the good old days of Mike Myers, Chris Farley, Dana Carvey et al., the Stuart Smalley segment was one of my favorites. You know him, right? “I’m good enough. I’m smart enough. And doggone it, people like me.” Here’s a clip, in case you missed ’90s late night television.

Lately I’ve found myself in the Stuart Smalley camp of self-esteem. Building myself up. Affirming my abilities. Reminding myself of my accomplishments.

But the truth is: it’s not helping. Those tactics only make failure seem worse.

Take, for example, this writing project I’m working on. I sent in the first drafts. Getting to that point was tough. I felt physically exhausted. (I’d also been dealing with a sick toddler away from our home doctor and recovery from a week at Bible camp and multiple days with less than 4 hours of sleep.) But I felt good about the ideas. Not great. Just good.

They came back on Friday with comments for me to work on for final drafts. This is part of the process. It’s not a big deal and it’s not like I was told everything was crap and I have to start over. But I get a letdown sometimes when I’m given suggestions for improvement.

I’m like that with life, too. When I realize I don’t measure up. I’m not who I want to be. And I’m not making the kind of progress I think I should.

I’ve failed, my mind says. I’m not competent, I hear. I shouldn’t be doing this, I convince myself. I’m not talented. Or capable. Or (fill in the blank).

So, I was liberated listening to a series of messages by James MacDonald this week on insecurity. He taught from Exodus 4, the story of Moses telling God all the reasons He shouldn’t use him to deliver the Hebrews from slavery.

At one point, MacDonald drives home the point that the truth about us, compared to God, is we’re nobody. God doesn’t need us to do His work. We are nothing without Him.

That’s tough stuff to swallow, especially in a country where we’re ranked by our accomplishments, levels of success and income.

Nothing? Isn’t that sort of self-defeating? Putting yourself down? Even Christians have trouble sometimes calling ourselves nothing. Aren’t we made in the image of God? Fearfully and wonderfully made? A work of art?

Yes to the latter questions. We are created, but we are nothing without the creator. Can a masterpiece hanging on the wall of a gallery praise itself for its artistry? Can a sculpture boast about the work of its hands? Can a story tell itself?

The reality is I’m not good enough. Or smart enough. And some people don’t like me. (My apologies, Stuart.)

But God loves me. And He made me. And He wants me to be a living, breathing picture of His mastery. And I can’t do it alone.

Whether in writing or in life, I need help. And that’s OK.

Being able to say what I’m not gives me the freedom to tell who God is.

I am nothing. He is everything.

It’s not about me. It’s all about Him.

I’m a slow learner, but I have a patient Teacher.

Freedom. Can you taste it? It’s oh, so sweet.