False Hopes for Failure

I like to feel like a failure. I have a wonderful routine for those days of self-pity where I sit in pajamas I have owned since I was fifteen, drinking coffee despite the late hour. I scroll through other's music, noting the lack of my own collection, trying to find the perfect series of songs that will resonate with my hatred of self; reminding me that I really am not worth as much as I claim. A reminder that someone else feels just as useless.

And sitting on my little sofa, in the box I call my room, I sing along to a tune from the alcoholic days of an apostate guitarist rambling on about how God has forsaken him, or at least never shown up, leaving his still totally depraved but without an ounce of hope left.

And its easy. Life is easy when you have no ambition. When you feel like you've crumbled. Its at that point that you stop trying. That you rest in your brokenness and rejoice in the loss of all goals and desires.

I was stuck in an ice storm in Indianapolis one Christmas Eve. After breaking an axle when my car merged with curb, I was sure that my future was doomed to be lived in an isolated hotel room. I would never leave, I thought, devolving into an unintelligible brute, living on Cheetos and cheap hotel coffee. Clearly, one night in ice must produce a life of failure and confinement in a hotel in a city so close to home.

You see, I like to think the worst. I call it optimistic pessimism: if you always think everything is going to fall apart, you will never be disappointed.

Yet, somewhere near the fifth repeat of "In Stitches" by David Bazan, I realize my error. I am not failure; I am a child of God. I am redeemed, and restored to right relationship with God. I will stumble a thousand times, but I will always have Christ to lift me back up, dust the dirt off my shoulders and lead me back in the way of righteousness.

I spent about a week crying about my depravity. I told my best friends and bosses that I felt like my life was falling apart. I was full of pride. My family was as dysfunctional as always. I was getting sick. The girls on my floor didn't love me. And certainly, no man ever would. Nothing was the way I dreamed it would be when I was 15.  I thought I would be married by 20, have children at 23 and a Ph.D. by 30. Yet, I couldn't even accomplish getting a coffee date with a girl on my floor, let alone a date with someone of the opposite gender. I was useless. A bad leader. A worse Christian.

I was like Bono, calling myself a crap disciple, forgetting that in God's eyes, we're all equally awful and bad at this life of discipleship.

Then the notes started to come in. A post-it on my door. A letter in my CPO. A note slipped under my door. Little reminders that while I have a lot of growing to do, I wasn't a complete failure. I shouldn't need letters to know that's the truth, but I appreciate them nonetheless.

Today, I listen to Christmas music. Granted, it's Sufjan, and sounds way more emotionally devastating than the average Christmas hymn, but I like. Today, I jump on the birthday celebration early. Reminding myself that Christ was born so that he could carry my burden. He could give hope when all else seemed doomed. And today, I'm going to live in that truth. Not with regrets and old pajamas, but with prayer and sunshine.