Perfection is over-rated. Grace gives life.

By Erin Sharp

Like many of you, I have always been a perfectionist. I shouldn’t say “I have been.” It’s more accurate to say that I am and probably always will be. When something doesn’t seem to be working out, I assume that it’s my fault and that I should be able to make it work.

Leaving my call as the pastor to Calvary felt a bit like failure. Despite my frustrations with the particular habits and problems of that congregation, I should have been able to “fix them.” It has been hard for me to accept that I did the best I could and that what I was able to do with God’s help was actually pretty amazing.

At the time I left Calvary, I was preparing to give birth to Iona, our first child. Now, I am steeped in feminist theology. Images of God as the Mother of Life, Wisdom-Sophia, and “the one in whom we live and move and have our being” have inspired and strengthened me for all of my adult life. So I had expected that in pregnancy I would feel competent and powerful, absolutely in control and ready to be the perfect earth mother. Yet, what I was feeling was overwhelmed, tired and annoyed by a dozen strange and uncomfortable things that my body was doing in conjunction with this pregnancy. I was not feeling empowered. I felt vulnerable and like I had no control over my body anymore, especially given other health concerns I already had. But I knew my brain still worked. I had new GRE scores to prove it.

So, when I headed back to school, six months pregnant, of course I expected that I would not only get top grades but become a therapist extraordinaire within a short period of time. After all, I’d been a helping professional of sorts for years. All I needed was to learn and apply the methods and techniques I’d be learning in the Marriage and Therapy program. That should be a snap! I finished the first semester’s course work three days before Iona was born. I got excellent grades.

And then I gave birth, and I was reminded that control is just an illusion. Things didn’t go according to my birth plan. Iona was jaundiced and had a broken clavicle. Before my baby took her first breath, I was a bad mother. Even breastfeeding, that amazing sacrament of motherhood, was beyond either me or Iona. With all the pressure these days to nurse, I thought I was a miserable failure. Gradually, I grieved the loss of the earth-mother and moved on. Iona seemed just fine, growing and getting more interactive every day. So I let go, enjoyed my beautiful daughter and made peace with doing the best I could. Or so I thought. Really, I just refocused my drive for perfection.

I still had school. I’d be perfect there. And of course, I have been!
Then this fall, I started working in the family therapy clinic with clients. Suddenly, I realized that I had no idea which techniques to use with them. Now, my supervisor is the most mysterious and academic of all the supervisors. She’s from Argentina, and admits to coming from an authoritarian culture. I think she often reins herself in, choosing to be gentle rather than being naturally so. Of course, I wanted to impress her as she stood behind the one-way mirror.

After two clinic days spent stressed and uptight, wanting to “do it right,” the old pastor side of me realized that all my concern about technique, impressing the supervisor, and being the perfect therapist were getting in the way of actually connecting with my clients. I was welcoming my clients, receptive to them, but I wasn’t letting their story take priority over clever analysis. I decided to let go and forget about the supervisor behind the one-way mirror. I let go of self-consciousness and fell into listening. . .being curious. . .being attentive to how my clients were making meaning of their lives.

And I discovered how much love I have for them! Two of my clients are women separated from their spouses, for different reasons. They are both moms. They struggle. They worry about their children. They’re wrestling with their identity. Neither of them is trying to break the glass ceiling. They don’t even think about the ceiling. They’re just trying to do their best and make it on their own. They aren’t perfect. But they are loveable just the way they are.

I’m not perfect. But I love them. And in the process I found love for myself.

The technical side of therapy is gradually coming along. I’m not the super-therapist that I want to be. But I’m okay with that. . . . Perfection is over-rated. Grace gives life.