From the Knock to the Headlock

I was homeschooled for almost my whole life. The exception was first grade, when I went to a small Christian school.

So many good memories from that time. My teacher, Mrs. Armentrout, was kind but also tough. At least once or twice a day a big second or third grader would knock on the door to have her pull out their loose tooth. She would put them in some sort of headlock and just yank it out. The whole drama, from the knock to the headlock to seeing big kids cry, was terrifying and awesome.

My childhood best friend, Jeremy Gray, was in my class. We were the coolest.

There was a kid whose last name was Neff. I always pretended it was Nerf. The most beautiful girl in the world was in my class. She was my first crush, but I don’t think she ever knew who I was. There was a girl with the last name Ziggafoos. We always laughed about her last name cause it was funny cool.

I was the third fastest boy in the whole first grade. Depending on everyone else’s lifestyles the past 30 years, I imagine I’m still top three.

I remember painting a tree in art class. I remember the art teacher showing my mom the painting. My mom and I disagree on what the teacher said, but I interpreted the whole conference being about my lack of artistic ability. I took it to heart.

A couple years later I checked out a library book called, “Draw 50 Cars…” It had step by step instructions on how to draw cars and other vehicles. I thought this was a surefire way to become an artist. My finished product was decipherable as a VW Bug, but that’s about it. My younger brother, Paul, would look over my shoulder and follow the steps. His vehicles always looked awesome.

And so I hung up my paintbrushes, pencils, and my dream of being a tree-drawer.

It’s funny. But, it’s actually an area that I lack confidence and feel a bit insecure about. If asked I say, “No, I’m not artistic.” Every once in a while I will try to sketch something out, but it goes downhill once the idea leaves my mind and enters the page.

I’ve been thinking about my brokenness recently. I’ve been asking God to show me ways in which I’m broken. This memory popped into my head a couple of days ago after an encounter with a less-than-friendly art teacher at work. It is not that my lack of ability, or my insecurity about art is a way that I am broken. Rather, it is a symptom that points back to the real broken.

You know what the beautiful part of discovering, identifying, and exploring your brokenness is?

A few things that come to mind are:

being able to better relate to others

letting go of self-inflated pictures of yourself

and finding ways to be okay with the broken.

I think I’m gonna go find a tree. And maybe I’ll write about how beautiful it is - cause I sure as heck can’t draw its beauty!