There’s this voice inside, the voice that says nothing special, or not that great, or even failure. The voice that accuses, discredits, invalidates, and discourages. It’s a woman’s constant companion. And she fights it. Oh, every day, she must first silence the Voice just to plant her feet on the floor, shove the Voice aside to reach for her devotions, stop her ears from the Voice to go about her errands and appointments, strain to hear the sweet sounds of her own children and husband above the clamor of the Voice. It takes struggle to fight the Voice. Because it never, never stops. But for thousands of years, my friend, that terrible Voice has attacked not only women but flesh-and-blood men, as well. Jesus, walking by the Sea of Galilee, saw two brethren, Simon, called Peter, and Andrew, his brother, casting a net into the sea; for they were fishers. And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men. — Matthew 4:18-19 And then Peter said, “But we are just fishers!“ Not. Then Andrew said, “Fishing …
Somewhere deep inside of me (and within you, too, I think) is a desire for significance, a yearning to be more, do more, and know more. That’s a good thing. It’s the mark of divinity within, the god-image baked into our souls since women began.
Satan has to stop that, or he’s doomed.
These things are humiliating. They both bring me, every day, face first into my flaws. It’s one thing to think about performing and to talk about writing a book. It’s another thing to pick up your instrument and let others hear your mistakes, to send a manuscript out for someone to count the errors.
There’s an upside as well as a downside to being a high-strung, sensitive, Type-A melancholy. The benefits are so great that I wouldn’t trade my unique make-up for my husband’s sanguinity or my daughter’s steady smile or for all the money in the world. And the reason is this: The highs are FANTASTIC!
If I believed it, everything would change — from my thoughts to my face to my hands to my time. If I believed ordinary is extraordinary, I wouldn’t worry about that email that never comes or shake my head over the bathroom scale or bite my nails or snap at my son or hold back from my husband or complain about the housework.