Diving deep.

I am new to this and I’m not sure if this first post is supposed to be introductory, or if I’m just supposed to dive straight in head first. Diving has never been my forte, it’s always frightened me and through my entire life it has always been a bit of an awkward manoeuvre. I’m fine with swimming, I can comfortably freestyle the length of a pool. Although, when I say ‘comfortably’ I’m not referring to onlookers, I imagine watching my excessive splashing would be anything but a comfortable experience. Every 4 years I see Olympians thrust themselves downward majestically, every muscle so areo-dymanically positioned, into the deep with increased force and decreased fear. Where as, my diving resembles a bent over ‘drinky bird’ style approach. Where I lean forward far enough that my hands hesitate as they approach the water, legs rigid and with eyes shut tight, waiting for the ever forceful gravity to do its work. In I go, with  about as much  grace and coordination as a new born giraffe attempting to run, but I always seen to manage to find the surface and take breath. So here’s hoping I come up for air after this dive. I can’t promise a Russian ballet or liquid fluency when I write, I’m going to stumble, I’m going to interrupt myself and forget where I was going and I’m going to make a sentence or two uncomfortably too long. Perhaps some abruptly short. Though I can vow to you, my best attempt. I may not be an Olympian, or Shakespearian, but I will do my best to highlight the impact grace can have on this baby giraffe.

What drove me to squeeze into my one piece speedo and swimming cap to give the head first writing dive a good ol’ try? I tell you what, I certainly didn’t just fancy a dip. I felt a push to communicate. A subtle push, and at the same time a soft pulling. A small push toward a new opportunity, a small pull away from dormancy. I am exploring what can happen when you give a maniac access to global online communication, and the endless chaotic possibilities that could bring to the planet. My madness could be contagious, and we could all end up in our speedos speaking ‘grace’ with our mouths, and telling a different tale with our technique. So I hope you have your umbrella ready, my passion pathogen can be spread by contact with contaminated water. Or I could simply post snippets of a story episodically, to be forever undiscovered by any followers. This could be either a social experiment, to determine the rate of which my passion becomes contagious to hosts, or a spiritual experiment, a study of the therapeutic effect sharing revelation online has on the female Homo Sapien. I realise that yes, in the space of 500 words I have managed to change species twice, (highlighting the neurotic nature of this experiment) and promise from now on I will put my long neck away and attempt to remain human. Back to the physics of it all, both these ‘pulling and pushing’ opposing forces spring from a calling to share my heart about the one who created it’s beats. 

I aim to encourage using my life as an example. The most encouraging thing about my lack of physical grace when it comes to diving is that I am never going to be an Olympian. I am exempt from Olympic comparison (except for the comedy value, it’s quite hilarious to compare!). No one expects me to pull a 9.8 on the judges’ cards, and I am excused for my lack of perfection. On lookers can have ‘grace’ for my lack of ‘grace’, which saves me from critique and judgement.  This free grace that I receive from on lookers is a concept that is not too difficult to comprehend, I mean, I deserve it right? I deserve a little leeway, don’t I?  Not everyone is a perfect diver! Only those who train for their whole lives can be perfect divers…But what if we receive grace that isn’t deserved? What if an Olympian did a massive bomb and expected to get 9.9 based on the premise that ‘we all deserve a little grace’?  Who sets the bench mark for perfection? The judges do, people who are often experts in the area compare each individual to a level of perfection set by a standard. These judges are credible and experienced and their scores are generally held as accurate evaluation. 

So who sets the standard of perfection on whether or not we are good people? Where does the notion of ‘good’ come from if it is commonly believed that ‘no one is perfect?’ How can one person say ‘I’m a good person’ if there is no scale of perfection on which to evaluate themselves? I’m here to express that there is an example of perfection. Not everyone acknowledges His perfection, but it is historically undeniable that he existed. Such perfection was tarnished for my lack of perfection. Tarnished to make us exempt from comparison. To give us the opportunity to receive reward, ‘gold medals’ and eternal glory for our mediocrity, for our inadequacy cannot be seen past His excellence.  He sacrificed himself so that when it comes to judge our best attempt at the 10m somersault tuck from the spring board, the footage of our bodies painfully flailing, is replaced by His perfect manoeuvre. His sacrifice gives us opportunity to not be judged and embarrassed, or to obtain possible internal injury from a painful belly flop. He is my advocate from judgement and our protector pain. 

I am so incredibly grateful for advocacy. No one likes to feel embarrassed, or judged, or compared, or hurt. I have a long list of mistakes and pains and wrongs against me and wrongs I’ve done to others, that are accounted for by grace. I am considered royalty though I am a barbarian. Through him we can live eternally as a Cinderella, pauper to princess. Now there’s a character, Cinderella! How many times have you starred at your empty wardrobe wishing that magical creatures like song birds and mice would flutter in through your window and wizz you up a gorgeous outfit, glass slippers and all? I know I have. We live in a world where transformation is celebrated, where pauper’s turned princess’ are praised. The drastic comparison between what was lacking and what has become. The contrast between imperfection and undesirable, and what is considered ‘better’. Note that I didn’t say perfect. Though we hold these idealisms that it is possible to be whisked away to a life different than our own, we never acknowledge a state or scale of perfection. We don’t live ‘perfectly’ ever after, just happily. Almost like happiness is proportionate to the appearance of your life, now that I am in this ball grown with this prince I barely know, I am happy. I am sure if you looked closely at those glass slippers, Cindy would still be harbouring a few cracks under her hem. No matter how hard our Cindy tries, she can’t be prefect (even with the help of magical critters).

That’s the good news! We don’t have to hide our creases, or the cracks in our glass to be beautiful. People look at a shattered window and see ruin, what can be seen through it now? What light can shine in? Don’t miss the beauty of your own imperfection! A pile of shattered glass reflects light in all directions, projecting a beam of beauty into a space that was never there before. This bouquet of light rays is not possible if we don’t allow His light to shine onto us to reflect his glory. His abundant grace allows ruins to be restored, ashes to be revived, shattered to be renewed and indebted redeemed. 

I know that grace isn’t a concept that is easy to understand, such a scandal to soil imperfection for the sake of our own shortcomings. They also thought that the Earth was flat, because round didn’t fit their linear idealism. If they had their way, we wouldn’t have beautiful sunrises or sunsets. The imperfect shape of the very planet we reside upon is a testament to the grace He has for us. If the Earth we linear, we would never be filled with wonder when the northern light tapestry meets our eyes. Light reflecting off of the surface of our cornea, like the sun’s light on the surface of the Earth. Your imperfection brings a necessary beauty to the world that God designed to be there. Never lose sight of your northern lights.