I gotta tell ya, the rat race is thriving in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia.  I know this because sometimes, I sprout whiskers, and on my worst days, a tail long enough to be worthy of a subway track in Brooklyn.  I also know this because every day of the week, I get behind the wheel of my car and drive somewhere. I might not go far.  In fact, some days I only drive the two miles to and from the kids’ school.  Still, there is evidence of the rat race at every red light I hit in that two mile stretch, and it has little to do with the array of expensive SUV’s stopped both in front of and behind me.  No, it isn’t the fact that despite ridiculously high gas prices and the sad reality of global warming, one out of every three cars in Atlanta is one of the biggest cars on the market.  It’s the mobile resumes displayed ON the cars that remind me the “keep up with the Jones’” mentality is alive and well in my hometown.

You’ve seen those mobile resumes I'm speaking of, haven’t you?  You know . . . the stickers.  Yes, those stickers all over the sides and backs of cars presenting tell-all declarations about the people inside.  There will probably be a collection of family stick figure stickers on the bottom left or right corner of the back windshield, so you’ll want to look for those first.  That way you’ll know exactly how many people are in the family riding around in front of you. In my neck of the woods, the stickers might show a father carrying a golf bag, a mother holding a tennis racquet, a boy with a soccer ball at his feet, a girl in a tutu, and a baby with a bottle in his hand.  You’ll know the baby is a boy, by the way, because he is wearing a blue diaper.  Of course, the display doesn’t end with the announcement that the car holds a family of five that includes two adults and three children.  There are important details to notice as well.  The stickers might show the non-human members of the family.  Some even show the adults wearing shirts or holding banners with their college teams written on them.  I can pull up behind a Honda Odyssey at the intersection of Peachtree Road and Peachtree Circle and immediately discover that the family riding in front of me is comprised of a dad who graduated from Auburn, a mom who graduated from Florida, twin boys who play football, a little girl who likes gymnastics, a dog, two cats, five goldfish, and a hamster. 

But wait . . . there’s more.  If the red light is long enough, and in metro Atlanta they usually are, you will likely get to know even more about the family who is introducing themselves from the back of their car – simply look at the rest of their stickers.  Within seconds, you will learn that someone in the family has completed a marathon, someone in the family likes to cycle, and no one in the family voted for Obama.  Another couple of stickers and you’ll know where the kids in the family go to school, whether or not those kids are in the honors program at their school, and whether or not their parents donated money to the annual fund at their school.  Keep looking and you’ll find out what sports the kids in the family participate in (and whether or not they made the all-star team), where the family likes to go to church, and the family’s favorite spot to vacation, IF you can figure out what those pesky initials stand for.  Amazing.  All that knowledge about a family gleaned from a collection of stickers on the rear windshield of an automobile. 

Atlanta is full of these mobile family resumes and I enjoy seeing them.  I really do.  Honestly, if I didn’t have that OCD issue I’ve mentioned in many of my previous posts, I might even have a few stickers displayed on the back window of my own SUV.  But alas, that OCD just won’t go away and stickers on the back of my car would just look like clutter to me.  I HATE clutter.  Still, I get a kick out of reading the resumes I see as I’m driving around town each day.  Sometimes I’d like to smile and wave at the family in front of me because I think we must have a lot in common.  I want to roll down my window and shout, “Hey there!  So nice to meet your family.  I used to go to your church and we thought about sending our kids to the same school your kids go to and what do you think of lacrosse because my son’s been asking to play and congratulations on your alma mater’s new football coach and are you training for another marathon because I’ve always wanted to run one myself and I’ve been to Amelia Island too but it was years ago and . . .”

Of course, then the light changes and everyone has to get where they need to go.  I step on the accelerator and move on, never knowing if I will see that particular family at the intersection of Peachtree Road and Peachtree Circle again.

I think the real reason I enjoy reading these mobile resumes, however, is because they help me remember I’m not alone.  The stickers remind me there are thousands of other women in my community trying to do the best they can as wives and mothers.  They remind me I’m not the only one trying to find balance in my own life and create it in the lives of my children.  Most importantly, they remind me of my intrinsic need to connect with others – to mean something.

Why are we so desperate for significance?  I’m not talking about a quest for love here, folks.  I think most of us get plenty of love.  Our parents love us, our husbands love us, our children love us, our friends love us.  Yet, despite the fact that we are well-loved by the people who matter most, we still have this burning desire to tell others . . . strangers even . . . who we are and what we’ve done and where we’ve been. 

Please don’t think I’m pointing fingers.  I mean, I totally am, but only when looking in the mirror.  Trust me.  I get it.  There are a zillion informative blogs out there about cooking and health and party planning and parenting and furniture and fashion and decorating.  I’m writing a blog about nothing, for goodness sake, so if anyone gets it, I do.  I may not have stickers on my car creating a colorful billboard about my life, but I want someone . . . anyone . . . to find me interesting or funny or helpful or at the very least, memorable.  I want to be seen.  I want to be noticed.  I want to be known.  The question is . . . why?

Why do I have this desperate ache to find significance through the eyes of others when I’m significant in the eyes of God?  Why do I feel the need to earn the approval and acceptance of people I might never meet when the one who created me approves of and accepts me the way I am?  Why do I want strangers to know things about me when the only one who knows everything about me, even the dark and dirty yuck that resides in my heart, loves me more than anyone else ever can? 

I will never be significant enough to others.  They have their own aches and needs and wants and dark and dirty yuck.  But I will ALWAYS be significant to Him. 

Psalm 139:1-4 says, O Lord, you have searched me and you know me.  You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.  You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.  Before a word is on my tongue, you know it completely, O Lord.

Romans 8:38 says . . . neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God.   

These two verses seem so contradictory to me.  I mean seriously, how can God know me so well and yet, still love me that much?  He sees me when I judge strangers.  He sees me when I’m insensitive to my husband.  He sees me when I’m impatient with my kids.  He sees me when I envy my friends.  He sees me.  He notices me.  He knows me.  And yet . . . He loves me?  He loves me anyway?

If I could kick this OCD issue of mine and create a mobile resume on my own car, my stickers would be just like all the others – they would be about the things I hold dear – my children, our church, vacation, family.  My husband would have a golf club in his hand and I would have on workout gear.  My son would hold a lacrosse stick and my daughter would be in a leotard.  I would even have a dog sticker, much to my own surprise.  

But my stickers would never tell the people driving around Atlanta with me who I really am.  They might see that I’m a mother, learn where my kids attend school, and discover how much I love visiting Lake Oconee, but a mobile resume would never make the one declaration that truly matters.  I would need a different sticker for that.  I would need a sticker that said “Child of God.”  Because that’s what I am.  That’s all I’ll ever be.  And it’s enough. 

It’s enough to be significant to Him.

I was upstairs doing my thing. Chickening, as my husband calls it. A rather odd verb, but one that has become a staple in our home as it is the term Adam uses to describe my method of homemaking accomplishment. I often race around the house like a chicken with my head cut off, darting from room to room doing all those things that need to be done in the daily life of a wife and mother. I realize the chicken without a head visual is slightly disturbing, but it’s also quite accurate. My friends call me efficient . . . productive. My husband calls me a chicken.

So I was upstairs chickening that Saturday morning, working away to the loud laughter coming from the basement where Adam was playing with our children. I’m sure you think my husband had the better end of the deal, but I was perfectly content to be dusting furniture and mopping floors. Cleaning makes me happy, and getting the house clean in the morning so I can enjoy it all day . . . well, that’s pure joy for those with a touch of OCD, like myself. There was a huge smile on my face that day as I rushed around heavily armed with cleaning products and washcloths.

Then I heard the scream, and all motion ceased.

I knew that kind of scream. It wasn’t a simple bump or bruise kind of scream. It was a something really bad kind of scream. A something is broken or bloody kind of scream. A something requiring more than a quick hug and a “you’ll be okay” kind of scream.

God really does have impeccable timing.

Just a few days earlier, Charlie had offered a rare piece of information from the school day during dinner.

“Addie* is on a diet.”

My stomach took a dive and I froze; my mouth opening in repute yet falling mute as the words stuck in my throat. My son had uttered such a simple sentence, yet it conjured decades of understanding and an immediate desire to stop the madness.

Only a parent can understand the amount of love behind the lecture that followed my son’s innocent remark. The love so full, so sure, so complete it overlooks any and all conditions. And it was a solid lecture, my friends. After my initial moments of shock induced silence, I rallied in a big way; offering up all those key phrases any other mother would use to convey the basic lessons of inner beauty.

Everyone is unique.
It’s what on the inside that counts.
It’s important to be healthy and active, not thin, and you should fuel your body with good food and plenty of exercise.
You are wonderfully and fearfully made by a God who loves you no matter what.
We love you no matter what.
AND SHE’S ONLY EIGHT YEARS OLD FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE SO WHY IN THE WORLD IS SHE ON A DIET???!!!That last piece of insight came out a bit louder than the rest, I’m afraid.

You see, one of my biggest goals as a parent is to avoid exposing my children to the insanity of the world when it comes to appearance and, especially, weight. I have never used the word “diet” in front of my children. Instead, I have tried to model positive behaviors, to set a good example. I eat healthy foods and exercise six days a week, often in front of my children. I rarely offer anything except water to drink. I make sure my kids have plenty of fruit and force them to eat vegetables. I frequently tell them which foods contain specific vitamins and minerals, and why such vitamins and minerals are important. I explain the necessity of fiber and protein. My children can name the superfoods.

I don’t own a scale. I turn off the Christian radio station when the commercials come on because half of them are about weight loss and laser hair removal. I frequently leave the house without makeup. My hair doesn’t spend much time with a dryer or straight iron – it hangs out with rubberbands instead. I don’t own designer clothes, I can’t recall ever spending more than a hundred bucks on a pair of shoes, and my shampoo and conditioner costs less than three dollars each.

Yes, I use anti-wrinkle cream every single night. Yes, I pay for my hair to look like I just spent a week at the beach. Yes, I require my son to wear khaki pants and collared shirts to a church where many people don’t and my daughter likely believes chocolate is a daily necessity, but in general, I think I’m doing what I can to make sure my children aren’t aware of the billion-dollar business often referred to as the beauty industry.

Despite my best efforts, however, it’s obvious the ignorance I crave for my children concerning beauty and weight doesn’t exist. They are aware. I can remind my kids every day that the perfect Creator made them just how they’re supposed to be, but at the ages of eight and six, Charlie and Libby have discovered that in our society, there is an importance placed on beauty that has absolutely nothing to do with God. And when my husband came upstairs holding a towel underneath our daughter’s nose after “the scream,” my own awareness of the importance of beauty took over and all my good intentions as a mother flew right out the window. Me, with a size nearly A bra that is still a tad too big despite having a husband willing to pay top dollar to change that fact became a walking billboard for plastic surgery the moment said husband pulled the towel away from our daughter’s face and I saw her precious little nose pushed slightly to one side.

I called the pediatrician first, but only to mask the vanity consuming me. I knew she would tell me to head to the emergency room and that’s where I wanted to go. I didn’t want to waste even a moment of time if there was a possibility it could affect the outcome of my daughter’s facial structure. I mean really, who cares if she is an honest, giving, responsible, caring, thoughtful human being? I just need her nose to be straight.

Turns out the doctors in emergency rooms don’t handle broken noses the way movies portray doctors handling broken noses. There is no quick jerk of the physician’s hand to set the nose back into proper position. The doctor touches the nose, looks up the nose, asks questions about the nose. Then he tells you to wait a week or so until the swelling goes down and see an ear, nose, and throat guy if your daughter is snoring like an eighty year old man or her nose still appears to be slightly off-center.

Libby’s nose wasn’t broken. It just swelled more on one side after her head-to-head collision with Charlie while they were both trying to dive for the same football. Hey, you gotta love a girl who is willing to bleed for a great catch. I doubt my daughter will be wearing a helmet the next time she plays football in the basement, although the doctor in the ER did suggest it, so I’m not sure what the lesson in the whole experience was for her. I do know, however, what the lesson was for me.

I learned that for all my efforts, I will never be able to convince my children, or myself for that matter, that the way they look doesn’t matter. Of course, I wouldn’t love my daughter less if her nose was crooked for the rest of her life. But the truth is, my nose is crooked and it does make me love myself a little less.

Every day, when I look in the mirror, I see things I would like to change about my appearance. Not one thing. Things . . . plural.

I don’t want my kids to do that. I don’t want Libby to wish for wavier hair, longer eyelashes, smoother skin. But she will. And maybe that’s how God teaches her humility. I don’t want Charlie to wish his peers would stop making fun of his buck teeth. But he will. And maybe that’s how God teaches him empathy.

I want my children to believe God created them perfectly because He makes no mistakes. I want them to understand that desiring to look different is just a way of saying God doesn’t provide. I want them to realize their worth comes from who they are, which comes from who He is, which will always be more than enough. And as much as I want those things for my children, I want them for myself. Because as of today, when I look in the mirror, I still see all the things I'd like to change about my appearance. I still see a crooked nose.