I still remember the two-letter grading code I was assigned in dental school: MY, appropriately enough, because I allowed it to define my worth for four years. Every time grades were posted, a cluster of students could be found searching for their scores on a piece of paper with those codes listed. And more often than not, my code screamed, “Mediocre!”

It felt brutal, especially since I spent my earlier years destroying curves in various classes. School was easy; I felt its favor and I reciprocated by allowing it to form the basis of my identity. Numbers and letters consistently told me I was smart, and I comforted myself with the evaluation. Until MY came along, and I had to take ownership of my new place, in the middle of the heap. Stripped of the accolades my performance had always provided, I felt lost.

I’m a lifelong approval addict, and grace is my sober companion.

But no matter how much permission grace gives me to redefine myself based not on what I do, but what has been done by someone else for me, I still have moments when I flail. I lose sight of the lighthouse that has always led me home, and I think my legs and effort will get me there. And they so cannot. Last week, I was asked to give my job more of myself than what we agreed to. I felt the pull in opposing directions: the manager who would owe me, and maybe even like me more, because of the potential sacrifice; the time I would have spent writing and mothering and, to be honest, putting my feet up for a damn second. The Sis called and dismantled what I called a dilemma immediately. “It’s hard to justify turning down the money,” I said. “You already make enough money,” she replied. “You just want to please everyone. Stop.” And just like that, I felt free. Because when what we’re doing is allowing the world to define who we are, there is no such thing as enough and there never will be.

After three decades of black-and-white, performance-based, right-and-wrong living, I found myself living paycheck-to-paycheck on an island full of over-achievers; and because grace has a kickass sense of humor, this is exactly where I learned that it’s not a list of accomplishments or a series of perfections that gives me worth. Now that I’m off-island, I carry the grace revealed to me there as I fulfill roles for which no book or studying can prepare me (believe me, I tried): marriage and motherhood. And rather than three flights up, alone on a fire escape, I find myself in a home with two guys who see the whole of me daily. Which has got to be scary for them, what with the “in-progress” state I’m in, but it’s real. And it means they know me. And all the hidden places that used to lie protected underneath layers of performance are becoming more exposed as I find a love that never lets go. Because they, and my sober companion, aren’t going anywhere.

The Kid’s physical therapist has quite an eye for CT scans, it turns out, which is a good thing because apparently the radiologist who first read the scan did not. So in addition to the cervical vertebral malformation at the top of his neck, we’re now seeing a thoracic one at the bottom. What feels like a curve ball is, I know (and have to tell myself over and over so I keep knowing), the continuation of a pre-planned story and space for more grace to be revealed. So we’ll see another neurosurgeon next week and find out if the plan for him has changed. Meanwhile, he wants to walk everywhere, and just last night I checked on him and found him sleeping with his head turned to the left. I cheered silently and told The Husband triumphantly, because what is “normal” for some is a victory for us. Your C, my A. And I couldn’t help but remember the part in Silver Linings Playbook when the dance has ended and the scores are averaged and Pat and Tiffany jump up and down screaming and the announcer wonders, “Why are they so excited about a five?”

courtesy hypethemovies.wordpress.com

Your five, my ten.

“Everybody’s got issues. That’s what makes us normal,” a coworker said recently, and I loved it, because I don’t know about you but I think “perfect” is pretty boring. So I’ll be right over here, with my eyes darting back and forth and my temper threatening to flare and my sweetness nonexistent, and if you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me and we’ll work on it together. TK may be there too, head tilted left as he circles us in a victory lap because every lap is a victory in our book. And at the end of the day we will not be receiving a grade for our performance. We’ll be sitting at a banquet of grace, where disabilities are redefined as strengths and the plot points are not safe, but they are good, and curves are just sections of the path where we see the light more clearly.