I ran on a treadmill this morning. Well, not entirely. I walk, increasing the speed every minute, then every 9th and 10th minute, I run, increasing that speed every 30 seconds. It’s like this: minute 1: 3.7 mph, minute 2: 3.8 mph, and so on, then when I get to 8 minutes, the speed moves to 6.0 mph, then at 8:30: 6.5 mph, 9:00: 7.0 mph, 9:30 7.5 mph. I do this for 1 hour, every Tuesday and Thursday. (I lift weights Mon, Wed, & Fri.) If I were to tell you I like to run, I would be lying to you, and I do a lot of things here but lying to you is never one of them. While running is mostly horrible, it does have some psychological benefits and today, running led me into a nice train of thought that I may or may not agree with, yet.

There are 2 kinds of perfectionism. I run because I am seeking to become more and more of who I have been created to be, to show up to myself in ways I might not have in the past. Yesterday, I posted about not overreacting to disrespectful, demeaning comments. I often do. And I think rejecting the complacency of “oh well, nobody’s perfect, that’s just who I am,” is vital to our development and growth. I know the danger of the shoulds, but maybe I shouldn’t be raising my voice because I can’t control myself, right?

I want my wife to always have the best time, safe and fulfilling, in all situations and experiences, because she deserves it. If she doesn’t, maybe it’s not the worst thing to want to be better for her. I want to have a heart that is healthy to be here for the 3 who I live with, my sister, mom, my beloved church community, friends, neighbors, and the whole world, who might need what I have to bring, because they all deserve it. (Yes, that feels like the delusions of a narcissist, but I think it’s true, and I also think you can replace the “I” with “you,” the world desperately needs all of us to show up, just as we are.) If that means I run, that means I run. And if it means I run harder and harder each time, and feel some disappointment if I cut corners or blow the workout off because I don’t feeeeel like it, that is an altogether good thing.

Last Saturday, I was given the honor of officiating a wedding. This is not unusual, I get to do quite a lot. But what was unusual is that I had a moment where I stumbled over some words.

No big deal, right? Actually, yes it was a very big deal to me. You see, 2 or 5 or 15 years ago, this would have led me to acknowledge it, then and there, stopping the ceremony, apologizing, then lying awake night after night ruminating on the FACT that I had absolutely ruined their ceremony and probably their marriage. Everyone was worse for me being there, I had a responsibility and I failed. I was ill-suited for this line of work, who did I think I was, anyway? I was mistaken for believing I ever could have been good enough for something so beautiful. [This is a brief glimpse into the dysfunctional downward spiraling loops I have lived for so long.]

But Saturday, my tongue had somehow gotten itself in knots, and as someone who makes a living communicating clearly, this is not ideal. However, it was only a few short moments, I smiled, remembered to breathe, and moved forward. Maybe no one even really noticed, except for the Angel & I, and even if they did, they would have discovered that I am a person. It wasn’t a lack of professionalism or preparation. It was like tripping on a sidewalk crack, which doesn’t mean I can’t walk, or shouldn’t be walking. We just sometimes trip.

Old me was the perfectionist you imagine, unhealthy and psychologically violent. Anything less than perfect was an indictment on my value. It meant I was totally worthless, that the voices were right, I wasn’t enough and never would be. The searing noise in my head drowned out the obvious truth that those voices were lies. My identity isn’t tied at all to my production, no matter how good or bad it is. My worth isn’t found in a grade or a title or a paycheck or a status or relationship, it isn’t found in anything other than the reality of who (and far more importantly, Whose) I am.

It’s funny, I am never confused about that when it comes to you. I’m only so mean and unforgiving to me. Or maybe, I used to be…I slept like a baby Saturday night, peaceful and contented. I should prepare like I do, I should do everything as well as I possibly can, as if I’m working for God and not man. And I should give myself a break when I trip and fall. And I should definitely not listen to any voices whose shoulds might bring shame.

Maybe, in these contexts, growing is learning to tell the difference between the shoulds that kill and the shoulds that call up, that heal. And recognizing that the same word doesn’t always have the same meaning.