When failure is a gift

I felt like a kid the night before a trip to Disneyland. The storytelling event I told you about was approaching and I couldn’t wait.      

I was ready.  I’d written and polished my story, memorized and performed it hundreds of times—a wooden spoon as mic and my long-suffering dog Buster as an audience of one. The rehearsal went flawlessly.  I was confident, my delivery spot-on, and I was looking forward to a rare opportunity to shine.

When I was young, accolades were my drug of choice.  Compensating for my dad’s heavy hand and emotional isolation, my mom had praised me lavishly whenever I brought home an award or glowing report card.  I lived for applause.  External affirmation was the only way I knew how to feel worthy of love.  Accepted. Visible.  The choice was simple: shine or vanish.   

Adult life is stingier with its kudos.  The world expects you to behave without a lot of “atta girls.”   Social media has become the stage on which many of us act out our quiet longing to be noticed, liked, followed. Loved. 

So I was thrilled when the local organization offered me an opportunity to share my story of caregiving, family dynamics, and grace.  My only concern was that I’d blank out during the presentation.  I’d done that once before while performing a monologue in front of the entire church—not so much forgetting the lines as temporarily teleporting to another planet.   It was not an experience I ever wanted to repeat.  As I practiced, I prayed, “God, please just help me keep my focus.”  

That night, He answered gently: “I love you, but no.”   

With a rain-soaked crowd of two or three dozen senior citizens, the environment couldn’t have been less threatening.  But it was a big deal to me.  I was last to speak and felt my left leg bouncing uncontrollably as the other four speakers delivered their presentations well. By the time it was my turn, my nerves had fully grabbed the wheel.        

I laid my notecards on a nearby table (just in case), accepted the microphone and began speaking.  As the story unfolded, I felt the audience engage, chuckling at the entertaining parts and gasping when it took a dramatic turn.  Then suddenly, I froze.  It was a Men-in-Black moment, a cosmic eraser zapping the contents of my brain. The nightmare I’d dreaded.  With panic masquerading as calm, I stepped over to the notecards, took a breath, then miraculously, was able to resume where I’d left off.  A few moments later, I did it again!  Somehow, I was able to gather the fraying threads of my tale and sew it up to completion.  

My sweet family and friends who were there insisted that the story came across well, despite the unintended intermissions.  So evidently, it wasn’t a complete disaster. 

Still, once upon a time, I would have been devastated. This had been my moment, and I had failed.  The amazing thing? I wasn’t totally demoralized.  Disappointed, for sure.  But the message I heard that night was this: I’m okay being just okay.  This wasn’t my time to sparkle.  I wasn’t the best.  I wasn’t outstanding.  I was good enough.

And that was good enough.