Having expectations is a normal part of life. It is impossible not to look forward to something happening, unless one is deeply depressed. Nevertheless, expectations can hurt.
I have stopped expecting people to know my name. Even at a recent meeting at my church, I was greeted with, "Hello, Mary Beth." To my credit, I stopped and immediately corrected the person, something I have been loathe to do in the past. But when I am mistaken for someone else's wife and told my pottery is lovely, I begin to wonder if it is because I am in line right behind the man in question, or if I truly blend into the fabric of life in such a way as to morph into whomever anyone needs me to be at the moment. Do I even exist? Maybe I'm a figment of my own imagination. Or an apparition of someone's long lost relative floating around looking for something to do.
When it is my turn to speak, I face a crowd who looks at me as though we have never met. I am at a loss for what to say. Those who kidded around with me several years ago are not present or life has changed them to the point in which making a joke is too much of an effort. I wonder why more people who know me are not in attendance. I hope for the best in the midst of a sinking feeling.
When the vote comes back, my name is at the bottom of the list.
It suddenly feels like being picked last for a sports team in elementary school--pick a sport, any sport. I remember standing on the playground, head bowed, fingers crossed, voice in my head quietly chanting, "Pick me, pick me" and by some miracle I would often be chosen before the fat kid who cannot run or some kid the group decides they dislike more that day than they dislike me.
This is no big deal, I tell myself. I served on three boards; now I serve on one. I did what I was called to do. I just didn't get asked back for a second term. It really is ok.
Why does it always feel like this?
I have friends who will tell me when God closes a door, He opens a window, or something to that effect. I do not need to be distracted with the endless analogies I can think up. It is what it is. I am no longer the rejected red-haired girl who is probably crying by now, on the playground wishing she had friends. I have friends who love me, an identity given to me by God, and my name is Mary Ellen. I have nothing to prove to those who do not care to know me. I have nothing to prove to those who do.
Through the open window I will breathe in the fresh air of a new day.
I have stopped expecting people to know my name. Even at a recent meeting at my church, I was greeted with, "Hello, Mary Beth." To my credit, I stopped and immediately corrected the person, something I have been loathe to do in the past. But when I am mistaken for someone else's wife and told my pottery is lovely, I begin to wonder if it is because I am in line right behind the man in question, or if I truly blend into the fabric of life in such a way as to morph into whomever anyone needs me to be at the moment. Do I even exist? Maybe I'm a figment of my own imagination. Or an apparition of someone's long lost relative floating around looking for something to do.
When it is my turn to speak, I face a crowd who looks at me as though we have never met. I am at a loss for what to say. Those who kidded around with me several years ago are not present or life has changed them to the point in which making a joke is too much of an effort. I wonder why more people who know me are not in attendance. I hope for the best in the midst of a sinking feeling.
When the vote comes back, my name is at the bottom of the list.
It suddenly feels like being picked last for a sports team in elementary school--pick a sport, any sport. I remember standing on the playground, head bowed, fingers crossed, voice in my head quietly chanting, "Pick me, pick me" and by some miracle I would often be chosen before the fat kid who cannot run or some kid the group decides they dislike more that day than they dislike me.
This is no big deal, I tell myself. I served on three boards; now I serve on one. I did what I was called to do. I just didn't get asked back for a second term. It really is ok.
Why does it always feel like this?
I have friends who will tell me when God closes a door, He opens a window, or something to that effect. I do not need to be distracted with the endless analogies I can think up. It is what it is. I am no longer the rejected red-haired girl who is probably crying by now, on the playground wishing she had friends. I have friends who love me, an identity given to me by God, and my name is Mary Ellen. I have nothing to prove to those who do not care to know me. I have nothing to prove to those who do.
Through the open window I will breathe in the fresh air of a new day.
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