acne turned to...chicken pox?

“How can you stand his breath?”

I stated the question with an honest curiosity as it brought a hue of pink to my brother’s cheeks.  He was in junior high, engaged in a conversation with a cute girl who went to church with us.  In my mind, his breath was horrendous and I couldn’t figure out how she could handle being in such close proximity to the stench.

It is one of those memories that gets stretched and warped over time as he and I both retell it—our perspectives slightly skewing the actual events that occurred.  All I know was that it wasn’t the first time or last time I had spoken too honestly and freely about something that affected someone else.

Another time I was in middle school and my oldest brother was taking me somewhere with a few of his friends from youth group.  I remember sitting in the middle seat of the van next to one of his female friends.  I began comparing our thigh size…and while she was 6 years older than me, displaying the body of a woman while I was very much still a child—I quickly announced the differences in size and shape.  I don’t know to what extreme I went to, but I remember my brother being humiliated, my mom giving me a lecture, and having to go apologize… so it must have been pretty bad. 

It wasn’t until a few years later that I realized how people had felt when I had put them in such an uncomfortable situation.  I was helping out with a VBS as a sophomore in high school, working primarily with 4-year-olds.  As I held one of them, she reached to my face and asked loudly, “What are those red dots all over…?” I fumbled over possible answers to her question, uncertain of how to explain acne to a 4-year-old.  I settled for chicken pox.  I remember looking around quickly, to see who else had heard this child call out my shame, humiliated by the possibility that anyone else had been present.

It was a startling realization to know that the thing that I had worked so hard to mask was, in fact, unhidden from all.  If a child could see through the pounds of make-up, I was quite sure anyone else could. 

Isn’t that sometimes one of our biggest fears?

We walk around through life, attempting to conceal our biggest insecurities about ourselves, terrified that somebody is going to notice or, worse yet, bring it to someone else’s attention?  It seems our fear is driven from a place of wanting to be loved and accepted—we are scared that if people found out what we really looked like, who we really are… that they would reject us.

I guess I just don’t think anyone cares (except for annoying little sisters who don’t really care, they just seem to thrive on ways to be obnoxious).  While that 4-year-old called out one my deepest insecurities at the time, there was no reflection of that mattering to the people who called me friend, to the guy that was dating me, to the athletes that let me compete alongside them.  It wasn’t a reflection of who I was. 

I think we get a little crazy in the ways we try to present ourselves to others- whether that is external or internal.  I think we get a little crazy in the ways that we try to impress, in the ways that we shield the truth about who we really are, even in the smallest ways.

What a beautiful thing it would be if we all let ourselves be the mess that we actually are—flawed, imperfect, yet created by a holy and perfect God.  What a beautiful thing it would be if we all allowed others to live freely in a world where they can be themselves and walk in the fullness of what that truly means—instead of judging, condemning, and rejecting.

It goes both ways.

Holding our tongue when talking to and about people- especially when it really doesn’t matter (and teaching our children how to do this), and being able to embrace who we are fully- with our quirks and flaws…the things that make us human. 

Bad breath, big thighs, and acne certainly don’t define any of us.

Let’s discard the masks and walk confidently in our idiosyncrasies…and may much joy and laughter accompany us in a place we are finally all ourselves.  

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