I had to laugh at myself last week - well, it was more like a grimace than a laugh. We were strolling up our street reminiscing about our recent week in Thailand and the conversation turned to Judy, the lovely, funny, slightly irreverent missionary we met in Bangkok. She and her husband run The Well, a shelter for bargirls interested in leaving prostitution. My 17 year old daughter was saying how much she loved Judy, how absolutely wonderful she thought she was. I felt a slight pang, because Judy is a completely different personality than I am; we're like night and day. In case you are not sure which is which, I can tell you that no one in my immediate family is wearing sunglasses.
True to form, I sighed and confided to my husband that I'd always wished I were lighter, happier, more fun than I am. More like the woman my daughter currently admires. He laughed knowingly and said in his own lighthearted way, "You'd like to be all things to all people, wouldn't you?" He's right; I would.
I think I must be rather like Bottom in the rehearsal scene in A Midsummer Night's Dream, wanting to play every part in the play. He is a ludicrous character, of course, with his constant interruptions and his earnest attempts to be the best at every part. He can't be content to watch someone else shine. He wants to do it all; he wants to be it all. And even at this late date in my life, I still often want to play a different part than the one I've been assigned. Or best of all, every part when the spotlight is shining on it. You'd think I'd know better by now.
We have an inside joke in our family - one of hundreds - from the days when we had two little "foster" girls living with us. They were both starved for attention and jealous of missing any that might be going around. If anyone ever said to S, "You look really pretty in that dress," J would sigh emphatically in resignation and say dolefully, "I guess I don't look pretty today." Or maybe it would be, "Thank you for helping me with the dishes, S." J would quickly interject, "I guess you don't think I helped you today." And so on. It became a favorite mode of response among our children. I hear an echo of little J at least once a week.
When I try to look honestly at my feelings I think I still react like J sometimes, though I am careful not to be so obvious about it. I feel uncomfortable when someone else is praised - someone who is not at all like me. I worry that I am somehow less worthy, that perhaps I should have become an entirely different sort of person than the one I am - that maybe my role in the play (Did I choose it or was it assigned to me? I can't remember) is a lesser one, and I won't earn the applause that someone else will enjoy. Maybe there is still some way to change parts.
But of course this is no dress rehearsal, but the real play, and I'm well into what must be third or fourth act by now, playing this introspective, somewhat moody character who is prone to frown when everyone else is laughing, who gravitates to sad movies, serious books and hopelessly idealistic causes. It's too late too late to change roles at this point; furthermore, it's impossible. I've been typecast.
As always, the wisdom that I need to hear is waiting in the Scriptures. The Apostle Paul sagely warns against the danger of comparing ourselves with each other, of wondering if another has been assigned a better role. He reminds us that to our own Master only will we stand or fall. We are playing to an audience all our lives, to be sure, but it is an audience of One, the same one who wrote the script, assigned the parts and is even now directing the action. Thousands of years ago David acknowledged that "in Your book were all written, the days that were ordained for me, when as yet there was not one of them. . . You have taken account of my wanderings; Put my tears in your bottle; Are they not in your book?" God wrote this part just for me, tears and all. I would be a fool to wish to play a different role.
Using a completely different metaphor, Paul wrote of the "multi-colored grace of God," conjuring in my mind an image of a prism through which the pure light of God's grace is broken into many hues, looking different as it is displayed in each life, through each personality. The rainbow colors that dance upon the wall or the floor are all lovely, equally beautiful, all reflecting the sunshine that pours through the glass. A pure beam of sunlight entering a room is lovely, but it is never so fascinating or enchanting as the sparks of color created by a crystal in the window. God demonstrates His grace in every hue as it works throughout our unique lives, our indispensable appearances in the play He is directing.
Will I never be jealous of the limelight again, never wish to be loved for my sunny disposition, to be yellow or orange instead of blue? Of course I will. That's one of the challenges I face in my role. Will I remember the stage manager's directions and throw my whole heart into the one part I've been assigned no matter what anyone else is doing? I hope so, but that remains to be seen.
"LORD, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance. I will praise the LORD, who counsels me; even at night my heart instructs me. I have set the LORD always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken."Psalm 16:5-8
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