I teach eighth graders—perhaps the biggest bunch of walking insecurities ever to grace the planet.  So concerned with the approval of others, so lost as to their own identity.  I am, of course, many years and many miles removed from Eighth Grade.    Mostly.

Poser

I care so much what you all think of me.

Too much, really

I stand before you as I would a mirror

Trying to show my best side

Hide my flaws

I pose.

It’s what I do.

What I am

If I let you see what is really in me you will run

As well you should

So you see only what I would show you

Part of me

The part that does not bring shame

The part that looks worthy and right and good.

“Oh Lord, you have searched me and you know me.”

On Sunday I’m OK with that

On Friday…not so much

They are potent words.

Terrifying words

Healing words

Saving words

Words I am not brave enough to embrace.

To be known is…dangerous

Vulnerable

So I ape a form that is not mine, and I strike a posture that I hope is convincing.

I like the pose—it is wise and good and Godly and not me.

I pray that someday my form will fit this pose I take

That I will become

The man I pretend to be.