Last night I took the plunge and started taekwondo class, which is number five on my bucket list. Along with my friend and fellow taekwondo mom, we stretched and kicked and punched (and moaned and giggled), but as promised by the instructor, we managed to get through the class and even enjoyed ourselves.
Because I am horribly uncoordinated, I decided I'd better practice what I remembered of the moves this afternoon. When Elijah came home from school, I said, "Hey, does this right knife hand strike look okay?"
His response was honest: "Yeah, it looks good, but you need to work on not letting your muscles wobble so much."
After a little laughter and a few more strikes, I let that sink in a little. And it stung.
I have been lifting weights most of the summer, and I can verify that I'm a lot stronger than I was in the spring. I'll even show you my biceps if you ask, but my daughter will roll her eyes in embarrassment. The problem? That nasty stuff that lingers. (Men readers, please don't tune out now. I do have a point.)
My first response was laughter, yet that self-doubt that plagues me (and you too, I bet) whispered that I'm no better. I'm wasting my time. This is all just a joke.
Yet I know this is not the truth. I know I'm worth more than my level of physical fitness or how smart I am or how much money is currently in my checking account.
A poem that I had hanging on my desk in my college dorm room came floating back into my consciousness, and that good old Trumbull (and Van De Stroet) stubbornness sunk in once again.
I am not a quitter. I am a victor. I am not a victim. I am an overcomer.
We are constantly barraged with the lies we choose to tell ourselves about our self worth, but you and I? We're priceless. We've been paid for, lifted up, and redeemed by grace.
And that means that a mistake that you've made at work, a poor decision you've made in a relationship, or something as silly as a little old wobble under my (nicely developing) biceps should never stall us. Together, let's agree to just keep pressing on.
