We all have that moment when you read an update on Facebook that incites a response. You feel charged to leave a comment. Commenting is for moments of brilliance. But you stop - because you begin to scroll down the Comment box and realize how not-special your comment would seem. A littered trail of avatars have not only expressed your exact thought, they have expressed it with a wit reminiscent of David Sedaris.
Your feathers fall and you retreat to the newsfeed crawl wondering if you should ever be so bold as to comment again, feeling that your 'brilliance' was maybe not so brilliant at all. You begin to question how unique you really are.
When I was seven years old, my mother sat me down in my room and gave me 'the talk'. Not about birds and bees. But more about peacocks and hummingbirds.
She told me I was I special. I was going to do amazing, magical things in this lifetime. I had a purpose. There was a reason for my existence. She couldn't wait to see what it would be. She said I was, special.
So I waited.
For the special.
Then I had children of my own and it hit me. My mother loved her children so much that she couldn't help but assume that the rest of the world would too. How could they not see what she saw?
Life has been a journey with roads turned onto themselves, at times crushing my soul like freeways collapsed into a white meat sandwich. Let's just say the only special I've felt is the fact I have survived it at all.
I was promised gold, I just didn't know I'd have to dig for it. To find how I just might leave some kind of mark on this world. Some type of proof that I was here. That I mattered.
This is difficult to do when you grow up and realize that every person on this planet is attempting to discover the exact same thing. It is as though we are all in a race we never signed up for. It's the amazing race for the equally amazing.
I tried everything to find my sweet spot in life. From studying the Bible to dating a healer. Practicing Indian spirituality to following rabbits down little black holes. But my special still evaded my search.
Then came my accident. The surgeries. The wheelchair. My body is broken. I am no longer able to force a life down my throat. Yet here is where I have begun to sense that meaning cannot be manufactured. Purpose cannot be planned. And that these can only be realized in a light so pure they could only have been sent by God.
The mistake I made, was assuming I would discover my special by actively seeking it out. When all I had to do was be stripped to the barest of bone to see the answer lived right inside of me. The key is not to worry about whether we shine in the eyes of others, but that we live each moment for only God to see.