Deliver Me From Prom Queen Purgatory

Twenty some years later, and I still have trouble getting the words out of my mouth...  

I was the prom queen.    

Not that a lot of people are asking these days, but you know what I mean.  Actually, there’s even more to the story, because at my school, the prom queen was also designated as the high school representative in a state-wide beauty pageant.  And guess what…

I was also the pageant queen.

And at the risk of sounding like an announcer on an infomercial, might I take it one step further to let you know that…THAT’S NOT ALL!    Along with winning prom queen and pageant queen, you also get this free gift…

I was the homecoming queen as well.

It’s starting to get obnoxious, I know.  And the worst part is that I don’t even really know how it happened.  I had absolutely no poise or grace, and the only two items in my make-up bag were chap stick and eyeliner (not much has changed, by the way).  Shouldn’t beauty queens have a little bit more to offer?  

Recently, while visiting my mom, I stumbled upon a dilapidated cardboard box that she had carefully tucked away for safe-keeping.  In it contained all of the relics of royalty from my days of old.  I felt frozen in time as my fingers fixed on extracting the mind-boggling memorabilia; newspaper clippings, photographs, leaflets, and cards.  

Digging deeper, I finally uncovered them; three jeweled crowns nestled among dried flowers and interwoven banners.  I was feeling very "Miss Havisham" as I examined the treasures from a lifetime ago.  And as I sat there, soaking up the nostalgia, the tiniest creak from the bedroom door stirred me back to my senses. There stood my daughter, surveying the room, and looking very puzzled by the mess.

As I motioned her over to sit down and join me, I realized that I had never really shared this part of my life with her.  I’m not sure why, really.  I guess I just didn’t want her to feel as though this was something that she had to live up to.  It’s one thing to pretend to be a princess as a little girl.  It is quite another to realize that the glass slipper was your mother’s, and your foot might not be the same size.  

“All of this stuff,” I began to explain as she surveyed the room, “It’s not who I was.  It’s just something I did.”  

It sounded like the noble thing to say at the time, but as we sat amongst so many objects that reflected the need to perform, I wondered how true that statement actually was.  Perhaps that really was the case in my high school days, but what about now? 

 Why do I often look to others for approval and identity?.  

I can't tell you how many times I have sat down to try to write this story about uncovering the box of pageantry pleasures.  And with every attempt, I kept hitting delete.  Why? I was too worried about what you would think of me, of course.  Will someone reading this think that I am bragging?  Being too haughty? Living in the past of my high school days?  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.   Let's face it...

Some days, I feel like I'm stuck in prom queen purgatory.

I strive for votes and feel pressured to impress.  I want people to be dazzled by me and like what I have to say.  I long to seem confident and clever, my clothes always cool.  I mean.... What does this shirt really say about me, anyway?  

And just when I think I'm  making some progress with this sorted little issue of mine, a sorted voice from the bowels of hell comes creeping into my ears. "You're not enough," it whispers.  "You need to be more, do more, accomplish more, and have more in order to be accepted."  

That is a lie that I cannot afford to believe any longer.  Not only for myself, but for the daughter that I am trying so desperately to raise in a world full of voices and images that are telling her the very same thing.  Sitting with her in the midst of royalty rubble mad that all too perfectly clear. 

So I hereby declare that I'm relinquishing my crowns.  And I'm not talking about selling the three I own on eBay, either.  I'm talking about the ones that I feel I have to earn in order to be accepted.  I'm cashing them in for the truth about me; a truth that I have known for a very long time, but often struggle to accept because honestly,  it's just too good to be true...

God loves us with an everlasting love (Jeremiah 31:3) and to as many as receive Him, He gives the power to be sons and daughters of God (John 1:12).

I don't need to seek acceptance from others when I am loved by God.  The need for approval of man is a trap that leaves us feeling empty and lacking.   But when we realize that God loves us, accepts us, and does not ask us to perform in order to be accepted, we find freedom.  We can stop striving to earn the merits and metaphorical crowns from others and rest in the knowledge that we are already members of a royal priesthood.  All we have to do is say yes to it. 

I never did end up bringing that under- the- bed box back home with me.  I figured I might as well leave all that striving behind.  And maybe the next time I open it my daughter can take out the crowns instead and put them on and dance around the bedroom.  And my prayer for that sweet princess of mine is that she will know how much she is loved and accepted; not for what she does, but for who she is. Only there will her identity be found.