An Accusation. A Truth.

My sister-in-law’s ice-blue eyes sparkled in the silhouette of the aquarium behind us as she turned to my boyfriend and said, “You know, AJ has low self-esteem.” I was mortified. I know she spoke other words that dangled in and around that sentence, but all I heard was: AJ. Has. Low self-esteem. She might as well have jumped up from the table, belted out “Yepa-yepa-yeap” like a Mariachi performer, and then shrieked for all to hear, “Hey, let’s cheer to the loser at table six. Give it up to the bottle-blonde failure.”

I thought of only one thing while my face turned Jersey tomato red and smoke poured out of my ears.

Bitch.

Then I lashed out in defense. I don’t remember what I said. Something along the lines of “No I’m not,” but in a very defensive tone and with more and big words so I sounded smart. The truth was, I was embarrassed. Humiliated. I felt I had to do damage control and quickly salvage this broken, ugly, and messy portrait of me. I didn’t want my beau to even slightly entertain the notion that I questioned my self-worth. Honestly, I didn’t want to hear it myself. It made me cringe and took me on a supersonic trip down memory lane…reminding me of things I did to myself that I’d rather since forget.

I continued to defend myself with much passion, even taking verbal jabs at my sister-in-law here and there out of spite. I was on a roll. My boyfriend tried to step in. From the corner of my right eye, I saw him try to aim a forkful of cheddar cheese-topped crabmeat toward my mouth. I was actually offended. Did he think I was a pig? That I was so pathetic that I’d trade my defensive monologue for a bite of greasy goodness? For Pete’s sake, nobody else was stepping in, lifting up sword and shield, to fight for my worth.

A few minutes later, it was over. My sister-in-law and I ironed out that accusatory wrinkle. Only it happened after I was able to crawl out of my foxhole of self-protection to actually hear the point she was trying to make. Do you know what this woman—who has known me since I was thirteen—was really saying?

That it was a shame that I wasn’t able to see how creative and smart and beautiful and talented and dedicated and hard-working she thought I was. That I didn’t give myself enough credit for my accomplishments. That she admired me. That she thought I was an amazing woman. And that she wished I would stop questioning myself and simply enjoy me. That I needed to be reminded of how important it was to keep believing in myself.

I was touched. I shed some salty discharge. And though it happened in December of last year, I’ve not been able to get that conversation out of my mind.

Sure. Self- image and esteem have been things I’ve struggled with for many years. It’s a thorn in my side. But I’ve come a long way, baby, and I’m continuing to dare to believe in myself. My sister-in-law, in her inimitable way, reminded me that I still have to beware the demons and ghosts on my shoulder that hiss terrible things in my sometimes sensitive ear. It’s something I need never to forget.

It’s an interesting road, this thing called believing in yourself. I’m quickly realizing that it is, at least for me, a battle for my life…and my future.

God Sees Us Poo

My hair dresser is a twenty-something, non-practicing Catholic who believes in Jesus. He’s also gay and, surprisingly, very conservative. Every time I plop in his chair wearing the salon’s unflattering black smock and he devilishly eyes my mop to see what creative thing he can do with it, we immediately launch into discussions about the relationship of spirituality and the realities of life. In between “Make it a little blonder,” and “How about some streaks here?” I tell him about my church, and he tells me about the gay community. We talk about politics, the twelve disciples, abortion, and the Bible. Faith always lies at the core of every conversation.

He did my hair one year on the National Day of Prayer. I kinda made a big deal about it, and encouraged him to pray. He admitted it was a great idea and told me he would. “Yeah, I just need to talk to God. Tell him what’s going on. I mean God knows and see everything we do anyway. He sees us poo, for Pete’s sake.”

While that was certainly not an image I wanted to capture in my head, I thought about its truth. Our lives are pretty much an open book to God. He sees when we say no to temptation. He sees the affair we are having. He sees the cheerful heart we have when we give in secret. He sees our hypocrisy when we don’t practice what we preach. He sees our dark secrets, our good intentions, our tries, our failures, our victories, our defeats. Because of this, there are opportunities to either enter into an honest and open relationship with him, or to run away like Adam and Eve, leaving a trail of fig leaves in the dust. Sadly, I believe many folks do the latter.

If the truth can really set us free, it would serve our ultimate good to peel away the facade and purge our secrets, especially the ones that are chipping away at our sanity. Isn't that the point of believing in a God of love...of mercy...of grace? If he can't handle the messy parts of our lives, I don't think having faith in him matters at all.

Not that I have had (or have) any secrets of course. I'm perfect.

And a great liar:)