I am a Ruler Bear!

I am having a bit of an identity crisis.  Not that I don't know what my identity is--no, that would be too simple.  My problem is that I know too well what I think I should be, how I should act, and what the results of these actions should be.  So well, in fact, that I will not accept the slightest deviation. Oh, the tyranny of "should." I am a Pharisee of Pharisees, practically born with a rule book in one hand and a stone to throw in the other.  Part of that has to do with being a coC preacher's kid from AL, and part of it is my own darn fault.

I have known this about myself (the whole "toe the line" attitude) since an early age.  I'm the kid that pulled an all-nighter at age 13, drinking black coffee to stay up and finish that homework. I had a pretty fierce temper tantrum later that year because I was getting a C in Advanced Algebra I (I had skipped pre-Algebra, you see, and didn't have the foggiest what was going on in that class.) and I was going to get kicked out of Jr. Beta Club!  If you know me, you may add your own anecdote here in the "she's a bit intense" category. But it has taken living in a foreign country to bring this flaw into high relief. And I think I've found pattern in my identity paralysis, the skeleton on which hang all my insecurities: 1) How others interpret my actions 2) How my actions match with the rules in place (this means private, interpersonal, judicial, state and national ordinances, you name it) 3) How I judge my provision for those I care about--mainly in the form of food.  As Joyce Meyer would say, "I have a hard time separating my 'who' from my 'do.'"

For instance--RIGHT NOW--I'm going outside to the convection oven to check on the Sticky Date Pudding that I've been nursing to health since 6pm last night.  The butter for the sauce is warming on the stove.  It's 10am.  Be back in a minute!

Lucky for this post, the pudding needs more baking. Back to the self-deprecation.  Last week I got pulled over for the first time while driving in Australia.  Superhusband and I were coming back from Fremantle from a Bible Study, and I was driving.  We had just gone through a traffic light and hadn't made it back up to cruising speed when I saw lights in the rearview mirror.  KNOWING I was not speeding, I pulled over and thought the worst.  Thank the Lord we were greeted by the sweetest, most handsome Welshman you ever did see. (We knew he was Welsh because Superhusband asked what part of the UK he was from (Superhusband is English and knows their accents within a 20km radius of their home.  It's uncanny) and he responded "Wales." Then we asked "Where in Wales?" and knew he was a true Welshman by the fact that his tongue was suddenly replaced with a hand mixer dipped in cookies n' cream milkshake. That girgling, whirring sound was the name of his home town.  I really wonder if even the Welsh can help but look a little alarmed when their language is spoken.  But I digress.) This little Welshman asked me if I had a drivers' license.  I replied "I have an international drivers' license and a passport, but my actual US drivers' license was stolen about two months ago." Come to find out, since (to hopefully passify immigration officers) we put the car in my name under a US drivers' license and had not re-registered it in three months with a Western Australian license, the police scanners picked me up as a law-breaker. We explained that I wasn't planning on living here...immigration status....theft...blah, blah, blah.  He listened respectfully and sent us away with a warning to get it checked out.  No harm, no foul, right?

Not in my little mind! The next day I was pestering Superhusband to take me to the traffic licensing department to clear things up right away! He assured me that I was within my legal rights, and that if I wasn't, he would drive from now on. But I wouldn't let up. At the time I was pestering him we were in a shopping center--about to be heading to another government office to correct yet another issue that I thought was right and good to do--and there was lots of background noise. He asked "Why does it bother you so much? They didn't arrest you." and my response was "I am a rule obeyer!" Of course, in the noise of the shopping he misunderstood.  "You're a what?" "A rule obeyer."  "Oh--I thought you said Ruler Bear." Hilarity, and my newest nickname, ensued.

By the way, the Sticky Date Pudding is amazing.  It worked, and you wouldn't believe how much my self confidence has increased by being able to make English food properly. See Identity paralysis point 3 above.

So, Friday we did go to the traffic licensing and got a piece of paper that says they don't need me to get another license. Then, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, the weekend was over and we headed to church Sunday where I got a much-needed Biblical kick in the teeth. This whole time I had been bewailing my identity. My little combination of cells and ideas and screw ups that I think are sooooooo important.  The lesson at Fremantle Church of Christ was about What it means to be a Disciple--this week, "Salt and Light." 

You have all heard the Sermon on the Mount (if you haven't, it's Matthew 5 in the New Testament. All the cool kids are reading it.) where Jesus tells his listeners, and us by extension, that they are salt and light.  Now I've heard scores of lessons taught on a Christian's seasoning power, the small-amount-big-influence-factor, and the Don't-you-dare-lose-your-saltiness approach.  But Garry added a new bullet point about salt's preservative power.  Up until one hundred years ago, salt was the only way to keep food from being rotten.  Christians are the world's preservative.  I liked that, and started thinking about other properties of salt.  Then I got it.  In order to be effective, the salt MUST dissolve.  It must lose its granular identity and liquify into the substance its preserving.  One cannot reclaim salt in its exact grain structure after it's been used.  Conversely, if salt STAYS in it's grains, it's useless. (Mind you, I then began on a thinking tangent about times when you can still see grains of salt on prepared food, and all I could think of were giant soft pretzels. And while they're tasty, the salt still has to dissolve on your tongue before it's pleasurable.  So, just know that if that's what you were thinking, I already thought it.  And disproved it.  Booyah.)

There my lesson stands.  It doesn't matter how many times I have heard "Your life is in Me" from the scriptures, I didn't get it until yesterday.  As long as I hold on to my rules and my little idiosyncrasies, that's all I am--a bag of rules and idiosyncrasies that do no one any good, least of all me.  I need to dissolve.  Let go of the crystalline binding and see how far I can stretch into effectiveness.  Of course, as soon as it is learned, the lesson is tested. I attempted making quiche last night which utterly failed after 4 hours of cooking/prepping/baking time all while Superhusband erected a new tarp-roof, finished fixing our antenna for perfect reception, and completely installed a new water system in our caravan.  Inferiority complex, anyone? I was barely consoled by the Satay Beef and Special Fried Rice from Golden Harvest Palace at 8:45pm--because it meant I had again failed to perform a nourishing duty.  But I must look at it differently, just like everything else here, in order to survive.  At 8:45, being salt meant not fighting Superhusband in his decision to ditch the quiche and get take out--dissolve my pride in order for the greater good of getting dinner.

And that's the only way any of us will survive. Let go of your imperfections and dissolve into the Living Water.  Perfect, law-abiding, love-washed, eternally-preserved.  Just the way a Ruler Bear wants to be.