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.