What are You Expecting for Christmas?

by Rita Klundt

I was twelve years old that Christmas. I know that because it was the first year we lived in our house on Veerman Street. The house still smelled of new carpet, and my bedroom furniture had yet to be stained or scratched. Back then, I had more drawer space than I had socks, underwear and old T-shirts. It was also the first winter I walked more than a mile to school. That year, it seemed colder and windier than usual.

My Christmas wishlist in 1967 started out brief. Very brief. One more pair of blue jeans and a game. The jeans my mom and I had shopped for in late August were still in style, and they fit, but I never seem to own enough jeans. I was too big for toys, but Twister was a big deal that year.

Among our circle of friends and acquaintances, we were one of only a few two-income families. Mom had just started her new job, which meant a bigger paycheck, and we’d heard her tell Dad that she was going to make sure we had a good Christmas before she got serious about decorating the walls and paying down the mortgage. Well, let me tell you, that was great news to the four of us Lisanby children.

And then, we heard her tell Dad, “Howard. Now that I’m working, I think you should do some of the shopping. Why don’t you get the kids a present from just you?”

“I can do that,” he answered.

Secretly, we all hoped Mom would offer him suggestions, but I will admit that a gift with my Dad’s forethought, time and effort would be intriguing. Where Dad lacked asensitivity to popular culture and trends, he had (and still has) a spirit of generosity. My wish list grew and my Christmas expectations elevated to somewhere near spectacular.

The presents began to accumulate. Big packages with bows and tiny boxes, too. But for the longest time, (possibly more than a week) none of them were tagged with my name. Yet, I wasn’t worried because Mom reassured me, “Yours is coming!”

At every opportunity, and with people who didn’t care to hear, I shared how I was going to have a “very merry Christmas.” Mom was a good secret keeper, but every glance that she exchanged…it didn’t matter with whom, I just knew… it must have had something to do with my Christmas.

Mom had agreed to do a Christmas program recitation of the Christmas Story that she hadn’t done since she was about twelve years old. Only in hindsight can I understand the additional stress that caused her during the Christmas season. Shortly after Thanksgiving, she had started re-reading Luke 2:1-19 every evening. Sometimes aloud. Every evening, starting with verse one, Mom would recite as much as she could. Then she would hand off her Bible to one of us kids, or Dad, and have us check her memory.

We were in the living room the first time I heard her recite all nineteen verses without error or hesitation.

Luke 2:1-19 (KJV):

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.

(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)

And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.

And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)

To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.

And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.

And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.

But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

Whether it was a Sunday morning or evening, I can’t say. But I’ve never been more proud of my mother as I was to hear her tell the story of Jesus’ birth. Mom, even with her beehive hairdo stiff with hairspray, came close to convincing me (and the rest of her audience) that she’d been a first person witness to events that had happened two thousand years earlier.

Presents tagged with my name were among the last of gifts Mom wrapped and placed under that scrawny aluminum Christmas tree which was decorated with nothing but store-bought ornaments. No homemade popcorn strings or cotton balls and pieces of felt that had been glued together by a first-grader, approximating the imageof a “snowman.” You might remember those shiny aluminum trees…the ones with a separate device that rotated a disc over a lightbulb. It lit the tree with an alternating hue of red, green, blue and yellow.

Finally, one small package, wrapped without the benefit of a box or bow had my name on the tag. It was a pair of knee socks. At least that’s the best I could guess based on size and feel of the contents. Then, a bigger box with a ribbon and bow drew my attention.

I picked it up and shook it. No noise. It was heavy. I held it up to admire the quality of the wrapping, and the light from our living room window hinted of some writing on the manufacturer’s box. Not wanting to spoil Mom’s surprise, I returned the present back to its original spot near the tree. That’s when I realized I could read the lettering if I pressed the paper against the box, and turned it at an angle to catch the sunlight coming through the window.

I saw a large “S”and a small “e.” It’s a sewing machine! I hadn’t asked for one, but I had taken an interest in sewing, and Mom had noticed. She had taught me some simple stitches, how to read a pattern and had allowed me to practice sewing straight seams on her machine.

The impulse to hug her neck was restrained because ruining Mom’s surprise wasn’t something I should do. But I did announce my expectations to friends at school and church. They (the ones who weren’t jealous of my expensive gift) celebrated with me.This was going to be the best Christmas ever.

In our family, we take turns opening gifts. The youngest opens one gift first, then we go according to birthday, and repeat the cycle until all gifts are open. Everyone has the opportunity to offer and receive their thank yous that way. And we all have a personalized strategy for selecting which present is opened first, last and in between.

Delayed gratification can sure be sweet, so when it was my turn to open a gift, I opened the Twister game first. I’d been correct about the socks. At least they were knee socks, and dark colored. Not white or the kind that easily slip to your ankles before lunch time. Mom had made her practical gift more acceptable by tucking some dollar bills between the cardboard tag and the socks. We all knew to watch for cash. It was the way Mom equalized the number of gifts with how much she’d spent on each of us. She was a stickler for fairness.

Several passes around our circle came and went without much excitement for me. I remember wishing I’d properly rehearsed surprise at the opening my new sewing machine.It would be a present worthy of some drama. But I managed a pause and to gather a thought while my big sister, Jan, lifted the gift and placed it on my lap.

I began ripping at the wrapping paper, without noticing the picture on the box. “It’s what I’ve always wanted. How did you know?”

The pleasure on my mother’s face told me that my acting was believable. But the writing on the box was clear. I saw the big “S” and the small “e.” Only, the proportion of the letter sizes was all wrong, and the words sewing or machine were nowhere on the box. Instead, the word read “Oster”—as in the brand name of a hair dryer. My “sewing machine” turned out to be one of those big, shell type hair dryers, typically seen in a beauty salon.

I should probably tell you that, like many of my friends, I had long, straight hair, and I liked it long and straight. I’m a low maintenance kind of gal. Wash it, comb it and go. From my perspective, it was a useless gift.

A bit of hope wafted between my head and heart with remembrances of other gifts that Mom had creatively disguised by using strange boxes and packaging, but this box was stapled and still sealed from the factory. Mom couldn’t have repurposed this box. Then, I thought maybe the hair dryer was intended for my older sister, Jan, but mom said nothing, and my hair dryer was the last gift in a box big enough to be sewing machine.

I hadn’t rehearsed for this moment. I doubted my happy smile fooled anyone and was grateful for everyone’s attention to turn toward Jan while I waited for my last turn. Dad’s gift.

All four of us were saving Dad’s gift until last. I think that might have been at Mom’s suggestion. My joy had been deflated. My Christmas was now significantly less than spectacular. And my “less than” turned to devastating when I saw how Dad had spent his hard-earned money. The clothing box was stamped with the logo of the town’s most exclusive lady’s dress shop. The price tags were intact, supporting Dad’s legacy of generosity while adding to the travesty of my Christmas 1967.

Mom gave me one of her “looks,” so I knew not to let Dad see my disappointment or blurt out what I was feeling. I placed the white furry hat on my head, pulled the tabs over my ears and tied the strings (with white balls on the ends) under my chin. My siblings snickered. I pulled the matching muff from the box and lifted the string over my head, allowing the muff to hang loosely at my waist.

“You put your hands in there,” Dad said. “You won’t even need gloves!”

Again, there were more snickers. The fur was soft, the kind your cheeks beg to stroke, but what would my friends think? My new hat and muff stayed in the box for my entire winter break from school. I played around with my hair dryer…putting rollers in my hair, and actually enjoyed reading while hot air from that big, clunky “hood” warmed my head. I made sure Mom saw me trying.

I went to church with curled hair, and the compliments were nice, but having to wake up an hour early to hear a few kind words? Really? It wasn’t a sewing machine, but Mom’s gift had provided a believable excuse for not wearing Dad’s.

I knew what it was that had robbed my Christmas of its joy. It was a hasty, unfounded and ill-gotten expectation.

I’ve had half of a century of Christmas’ since then. But that hair dryer, hat and muff are most memorable. They sold in my first garage sale sometime in my late twenties. I recall feeling a pinch of guilt at letting them go. As I make this personal experience a public one, I remember the rest of the story:

I didn’t tell Mom, and I tried not to let her see my disappointment with the hair dryer. However, she might have known. That was the year she took me to the fabric store and, for the first time, let me pick a pattern and all the notions for making myself a skirt.

I denied that it was cold and windy enough to wear my hat and muff to church, except for once. That Sunday, I placed it on my head as we left home, without tying the strings, and once we were in the church parking lot, I removed it and stuffed it inside the muff. I blamed the static fly away and abnormal crease in my hair on the wind.

Dad had already left for work when it was time for me to leave for school in the mornings, and Mom drove me to school. If I took my furry hat out the door, it was tucked inside my muff. Dad usually arrived home in the afternoons before me, so on those really cold days, I’d slip my hat on as I neared home so Dad would see that I was wearing his gift.

Then, one afternoon a gust of wind smacked my face as the school door slammed behind me. It was a cold and moist smack…the kind that freezes on your eyelashes and burns your cheeks. I was proud, but not stupid, so I pulled my hat and muff from my school bag. This time I tied the strings.

Tears formed and then froze on my face as I walked home. I used the furry muff to wipe them away. They started because of the cold and blowing snow, but before too long, I was crying for how much my mom and dad loved me and had wanted me to have a wonderful Christmas. Why had I cheated and peeked? I’d received everything on my Christmas list and much more! With each swipe over my eyes, that soft muff reminded me of what I had done to ruin my Christmas.

The cold, wet wind was merciless. I walked fast and looked down, using my hat as a shield. I was crying hard enough that I could barely see the sidewalk, and not yet half-way home. When I heard a car horn, I raised my head for a quick look. Dad’s van. He passed by me, then turned around.

“Cold out there,” he said.

“It’s not that bad,” I replied. “But I’m glad you came to get me. My feet got wet and my toes feel like they could break off.”

Dad suggested I should have some new boots, and offered to take me shopping. He said he knew just the kind I needed, and exactly where he could take me to get them.

“Can we go another time?” I asked. “Right now, I just want to get home.”

We Have Much

Nov22

A hole the size of a car’s front bumper (and then some) is now an eye sore on the side of our house. The police report states that there were “no significant injuries” and our insurance adjuster assures us, “We’ll take care of everything. All of this will be like new.”

We can’t help but thank God for his protection and for the help we’ve already been given in cleaning up and sorting through the aftermath of a concrete block explosion.

I was working at my computer, caffeinated, and feeling great about all I was accomplishing when a lady left her nine-to-five day job and hi-tailed it to our house. Trouble is, she wasn’t invited, and she didn’t drive to the corner and turn into our driveway, or ring our doorbell. She drove on the wrong side of the road for a while, nearly went into a creek, then overcorrected (or perhaps went unconscious), jumped the curb two lawns down from ours, plowed down a solidly posted mailbox, and made straight and clear snow tracks between two of our neighbor’s trees before the crash. All that, with no evidence she saw danger or attempted to avoid what one can only assume was an accident.

The noise was deafening. Chunks of concrete block, and other debris, flew all around me. Some as far as thirty feet across our basement. I felt something scrape the side of my head as it flew by, and a blow to my upper arm, but my computer screen was still lit. My new, hi-back office chair had shielded me from the biggest pieces of flying concrete. I didn’t click to save my work or shut down anything. I turned to see where the rocks had come from, and screamed, “Roger!”

He thought lightening had struck, but I thought gas explosion. The electrical box, previously attached to the wall, was now dangling. I should have known how to shut the gas off, but I yelled for Roger to do it. Turning off the gas seemed the immediate thing to do.

“The gas shutoff is outside.” He looked at the hole in our wall and pointed toward the stairs for me to go. But I wasn’t going without him. He says that he didn’t smell gas, which is why he stepped deeper into the cloud of dust for a better look instead of following my command. But other than a gas explosion, what could have caused this?

“There’s a car out there!”

Now, the immediate thing to do was to run outside and tend to the driver. I grabbed my phone, not thinking that it might not function, ran up the stairs, and raced out the front door. One of the two drivers who had witnessed everything outside our house called 911, and the other was assisting the lady driver. She was walking on her own, steady and coherent. Whew!

Thank God for airbags.

Police and firemen arrived. “Ma’am. Were you hurt? Is there anyone in the house?”

Roger? Where is Roger? Is he still in the house? And then I saw him…with flashlight in hand, checking out the car and the property damage.

So, I’ve been thankful for my husband for about sixteen years now, but never more thankful than today. He tells me that he’s never been more thankful for me. We have yet to know the extent of structural damage to our house, but our home is intact and as beautiful as ever.

Thank God for homes.

Thanksgiving Day 2018, and the parade in New York City is happening as I write this, and I still need to make a pecan pie. We have much – for which we are thankful.

Win. Win.

Aug27

by Rita Klundt

I fell asleep last night struggling with the commandment to love my enemies. And I woke up this morning feeling I could end this struggle, or at least make it through the day if I could find an answer in my Bible. I know I must, but how can I love this particular enemy?

(Now, before anyone assumes they know who my “enemy” is, consider that I might have more than one. Please don’t make assumptions, and don’t share them if you do. My struggle is difficult enough.)

Instead of picking up my reading at the bookmark in the Gospel of John, I went to Matthew 5:38-48. That, of course, is where Jesus talks about loving our enemies. I’d memorized some of those verses as a child. They were easy for me to find.

When I got to the part about “praying for those who persecute you” I stopped and uttered a prayer for my enemy. I said the words, “Bless…,” but I wasn’t “feeling” it. God heard me confess that my heart wasn’t behind any of what I was asking. I really want justice, and I want it now. I’ve been wronged, and I want things made right. I kept reading into Chapter 6—daring God to give me something I could pray with integrity, if not anticipation and enthusiasm. The next twelve verses prepared me to discover God’s answer.

“And do not lead us into temptation. But deliver us from the evil one.” (Matthew 5:13a NKJV)

YES! Not me or them, but us. I read that verse with the emphasis on the word us. Upper case US! Something I can pray for both me and my enemy! And think about it….God really wants to deliver us from evil. Not just me, but my enemy. Win. Win. And if God should lead my enemy to pray for me? Win. Miraculous win.

Heavenly Father,
Thank you for knowing my heart and hearing the prayers of your hurting and struggling child. Lord, God of all things great and small, lead us away from temptation and deliver us from the schemes of the evil one. Make your kingdom, your power, and your glory the highest priority in my heart and life. Help me to love my enemy. Amen. ps…I really mean it.

That Bridge

May23

by Rita Klundt

A short, narrow bridge somewhere between Princeton, Kentucky, where Grandma lived, and the little town of Cadiz, where one of my aunts lived, is the subject of an often told story at family reunions.

Every time Grandma traveled over that bridge she repeated a story from her seat behind the driver. “A car full of teenagers had been drinking and they must have been going 90 miles an hour when they went over that bridge. The impact killed them all. That shiny piece of guardrail is where they had to put a new section on the bridge.”

Without fail, word for word, we heard the story. Our cousins heard the same story whenever Grandma was riding with them.

Twenty years after Grandma’s funeral, I was in the car with my cousin, Barry, and his wife, Kim. As we approached the bridge, Barry was the first to think of Grandma.

“This is the bridge Grandma used to always talk about. She would always say, ‘A car full of teenagers had been drinking and they must have been going 90 miles an hour when they went over that bridge. The impact killed them all. That shiny piece of guardrail is where they had to put a new section on the bridge.’ She told the same story, word for word, every time we crossed this bridge. We [referring to him and his two brothers] used to do a count down with our fingers. Whoever got closest to zero when she started the story was the winner.”

We all smiled at the memory of Grandma, but Kim was the first to notice the irony. “Barry, our kids do a countdown every time you approach the bridge.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. They were with me the last time I crossed here. I couldn’t help it. I had to remind them about how, every time we cross this bridge, you tell us about how every time your grandma crossed this bridge, she told you about the car full of teenagers who’d been drinking and must have been going 90 miles an hour over the bridge. Our kids interrupted me with a countdown of their own.”

It doesn’t need to be the short narrow bridge between Princeton and Cadiz for me to smile for a memory of my mother’s mother. Any bridge will do. I think of Grandma and look at the speedometer nearly every time I cross a bridge. If a low guardrail is involved, I reduce my speed, check the mirrors more frequently, and am sure to have both hands on the steering wheel. Depending on the height of the bridge and the depth of the water below, my knuckles turn a different shade of white.

Mere repetition does more than seal a permanent memory. It changes us and changes the people around us. I don’t repeat what Grandma said to every passenger who happens to be in the car when we’re on a bridge, but if there is a conversation in progress or a good song on the radio, I might not be able to listen. Grandma’s voice overpowers everything for the time it takes to cross the bridge.

I’ve been crossing a lot of white knuckle bridges lately, not the kind with painted yellow lines and guardrails, but the kind of bridges that get me from a comfortable past into unknown, and possibly unfavorable, territory. Somedays, I’d like to make a U-turn, avoid the bridge, and head in a new direction. Jonah tried that. He ended up crossing the “bridge” anyway—after a few days detour in the belly of a big fish.

So I’m using mere repetition to my advantage. I’ve got a bookmark at Proverbs 3. There is some good stuff in that chapter. I already memorized the fifth verse ages ago, but for the next forty days I’m going to read it, repeat it aloud, and meditate on it daily. I plan to read all 35 short verses in the chapter every morning as part of my quiet time. Repeating and meditating on the same passage of scripture for a length of time isn’t an idea original to me. I’m finally following up on some advice offered to me several years ago.

If Grandma’s words come to my mind after decades of not hearing her voice, and give me cause for caution, how much more can God’s Word do for me when I read and meditate on it daily?

“So shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth; It shall not return to Me void, But it shall accomplish what I please, And it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it.” Isaiah 55:11(NKJV)

The Pedicure: A Better Kind of Beautiful

Apr23

By Rita Klundt

If you were looking for a “pedicure” when you stumbled onto this blog…well, you might have found it.

It’s finally sandal season. For those of us who make it through our winters and live for spring, it’s time to close the sock drawer and put away those furry boots. Yeah!

The problem (and there is always a problem): My feet have been hidden and ignored while this year’s winter has trespassed deep into my spring. May is only a week away, and I’ve yet to make that early March pedicure appointment.

I’m not usually one who pays much attention to feet, but it’s obvious, after one trip to Walmart, that I’m not the only one with scraggly toenails and rough heels. Lots of us are anxious to slip into a pair of sandals and get this summer started!

My feet say more about me than I care to share. They give away my age. They expose my need and my priorities. My doctor looks at feet for clues to my state of wellness. I should look at my feet more often than I do. It shouldn’t take a trip to Walmart and glaring examples of neglected and abused feet for me to realize how much I need a pedicure.

My feet, much more than the graying hair on my head, deserve a regular appointment—maybe not at an expensive salon, but if I want to look good, feel good, and live well, my feet need more attention.

Even the Bible speaks to the importance of our feet. In Genesis, Abraham begs three angels to rest with him and offers water to wash their feet. In Deuteronomy, The Lord reminds Israel of how He provided for their feet. Forty years of wandering in the desert, and not one shoe needed replacement. I expect there were hand-me-downs, but forty years without going into a shoe store! Yep, that really happened, and not for just one person, but for a huge tribe of people.

David thanks God for feet that did not cause him to slip and fall (2 Samuel). He encourages and instructs, using feet for memorable imagery and metaphor, in the Psalms. Solomon warns us, in the Proverbs, about feet that tend to run toward evil.

In the Gospels, we can read about people sitting at Jesus’ feet, worshiping at His feet, and washing His feet with tears. And then we learn how to serve and how to love when we read about Jesus washing the feet of the twelve disciples.

John likens Jesus’ feet to “fine brass” in the book of Revelation. He says a lot about Jesus and His feet with those two short words. I don’t understand all there is to know about Heaven, but “fine brass” tells me that when I see Jesus, face to face, even His feet will be beautiful and amazing.

A verse of scripture came to my mind on the way home from Walmart: “How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the gospel of peace, Who bring glad tidings of good things!” Romans 10:15b (NKJV)

I realized my need for more than a salon appointment. I won’t be satisfied with polished toes and softened heels. It’s not enough for my winterized feet to look good in sandals or meet the approval of other women. I want a better kind of beautiful for my feet!

So, the salon where I go is closed on Mondays, but my feet can still get beautiful today. I’ve got plans to go out and about. I’m praying that God will walk me into what my pastor talked about yesterday—a gospel conversation. As surely as He walked in the desert with the Israelites for forty years, and didn’t allow their shoes to wear thin, He will be with me.

I love the way Romans 10: 14-15 is translated into contemporary language:
“But how can people call for help if they don’t know who to trust? And how can they know who to trust if they haven’t heard of the One who can be trusted? And how can they hear if nobody tells them? And how is anyone going to tell them, unless someone is sent to do it? That’s why Scripture exclaims,
A sight to take your breath away!
Grand processions of people
telling all the good things of God!” (The Message: NavPress)

Hope to see you out and about real soon. I may, or may not be wearing sandals.

Imposter Syndrome: Guarding Lies and Keeping Secrets

Mar5

by Rita Klundt

A favorite nursing instructor discussed the term, “imposter syndrome,” in one of her lectures. I wrote the term in my notebook, added a dash and the time frame of “about one year.” The instructor told us it was a fairly new term, also known as “imposter phenomenon.” She warned that we had already been exposed and should be aware that imposter syndrome could happen to us.

I didn’t tell anyone or seek help when, about nine months into my first nursing job, I noted the symptoms. I expected that my instructor had been correct, and the syndrome, with its symptoms would last only a few more months.

I felt like a fraud. That’s what imposter syndrome is. It’s a feeling, not a reality, but it’s a feeling to be reckoned with.

I had done my homework, passed exams without cheating, and graduated from an accredited and respected university. I had passed the state board exam. My name was spelled correctly on a piece of paper with the official state seal. It identified me as a “Registered Professional Nurse.” Still, I felt like a fraud—a phony who didn’t deserve a nurse’s salary or the trust of my coworkers and patients. I had imposter syndrome.

When others congratulated me on my accomplishments, I doubted their sincerity. If someone thanked me for solving a problem or giving extra effort, I had difficulty accepting their praise. The fear of being exposed as a “phony” was a frequent distraction. I thought, “Someone better than me should have this job. There must have been some sort of mix-up or crack that I slipped through.”

The phrase “imposter syndrome” was coined in a 1978 article written by Dr. Pauline R. Clance and Suzanne A. Imes. It’s not a physiological or psychological illness, or even a distinct personality disorder, but it has all the markings of a syndrome. It happens when high-achieving individuals are unable to internalize their accomplishments and they “feel” like an imposter.

My nursing instructor admitted to having had a “case” of it herself. She told us that it was common among professionals where “excellence must be the standard, not the exception.” Nursing is one of those professions. She encouraged our class, although it wasn’t required reading, to review the article by Clance and Imes. I’m glad I did.

When I found myself anxious, lacking confidence, depressed, and frustrated with maintaining my new professional image as a registered nurse and a single mother of three young children, I had a clue as to my problem. My defenses were constantly deployed because of my hypersensitivity to criticism. I couldn’t keep up the pretense. Something or someone had to give.

Sometimes it was me and my expectations. Too often, it was my friends and family.

Exactly how long I (we) suffered with imposter syndrome, I can’t say. For the sake of my former nursing instructor, and to preserve a bit of my own dignity, let’s assume she was correct in her estimate, and my flare-up of imposter syndrome lasted about one year. I’m no longer that novice nurse, and it’s been nearly thirty years since I’ve thought about that term “imposter syndrome.”

But lately, I’m wondering if I haven’t had another flare-up?

This time, it’s not in my role as a nurse that I feel like an imposter, fearing exposure, but in my role as a Christian. I’m experiencing that same feeling I had as a fresh college graduate. I know I am a Christian and have been since I was six years old. That isn’t what’s been bothering me. It’s more like “Why am I so weak? Why do I struggle with the basic Christian disciplines after all these years?” This time, it’s more than a thought or a feeling. It is reality. I know I’m not that smart, or devoted or spiritual, and that God has gifted me beyond my own capabilities.

“If I slip and mess up, everyone will see my failures.” “What if God suddenly decides His time and effort with me is a waste?” “What if He takes back His blessings?”

Imposter syndrome has been affecting my behavior. Feelings of inadequacy distract me. They stymy my decision making. Imposter syndrome wastes my time. Hours available for accomplishing a task or meeting a goal are squandered on internal self-talk, speculation and worry that my plans are flawed. I’ve been re-thinking almost everything!

I was talking with a friend, who happens to be a popular home-grown counselor, when the term from my nursing school days entered my mind. She thought imposter syndrome interesting, and recalled a time in her life when she might have experienced it. Then, she labeled her problem as perfectionism. She suggested that perhaps I had a “touch” of perfectionism as well. She said, “You’re too hard on yourself.”

I argued, and compared myself to mutual friends whose perfectionism manifests itself in physical ways, like meticulous and obsessive organization and neatness. She reminded me that perfectionism is doggedly remaining loyal to an unachievable standard. Any unachievable standard—physical, emotional, intellectual, or spiritual. She gets me.

My friend also reminded me of a recent betrayal and rejection, and wondered if that’s when the symptoms of imposter syndrome returned. That kind of insight is what makes her such a popular home-grown counselor. It’s been well over a year, and I am still hurting over the loss of a relationship. I’ve been misrepresented and accused with seemingly no opportunity to defend myself.

My anger over the injustice has settled, but the unanswered questions leave me choking in a dust cloud of doubt. What did I do to deserve this? Why me? Even if I had done what I was accused of, this punishment far outweighs the crime, doesn’t it? How long will this have a hold on me, and can I trust myself to get close to anyone new?

Since that conversation with my friend, God is helping me to resolve that I don’t need to have every answer. Some of my questions have actually been fueling the greatest imposter of all time. He has a name that I’d rather not mention. He gets into my thoughts, wiggles his way into my psyche, and then watches with satisfaction as my behavior begins to carry out his malicious agenda. I know better than to guard his lies and keep his secrets, but I do. He pretends to have my best interest, to be covering my back side, and to have the answers, but he is bogus. He is the fraud. Not me.

“So, now that you know I’m a perfectionist with imposter syndrome, can we still be friends?” I asked my friend.

She gave me a big hug, and said, “Of course we can.” We made plans to do lunch.

Is my imposter syndrome in remission because of one conversation with a friend? Not quite. But my feelings of inadequacy are no longer secret. Imposter syndrome no longer has power over me. There’s no need to fear being exposed as imperfect, because I’ve already confessed. My friend was so kind in the way she reminded me that I’m not alone in dealing with imposter syndrome. None of us is worthy, but we all seek affirmation as good and somehow deserving.

Since that conversation, verses of scripture remind me that:
• Christ gave his life for mine, and it’s no longer me who lives, but because of my faith in Him, it’s Christ who lives in me. (Galatians 2:19:20)
• The term “Christian” was coined in the town of Antioch. (Acts 11:26) The term means to be an imitator of Christ.
• God’s grace is sufficient. His strength it made perfect in my weakness. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

I’m only a fraud or a phony when I try to impress others with something I don’t possess. My confidence isn’t a crock, it’s in Christ who lives in me. If my courage seems to be an imitation of Christ, I thank you for the compliment. And my strength…I have none. I’ll take God’s grace any day!

The conversation with my friend also brought to my memory (because she asked) how I overcame my first flare-up of imposter syndrome. It took some time. I spent hours reading and meditating over what God had for me in His Word. I prayed—a lot. I decided to risk being the woman God created me to be whether that was at home, on the job, at church, or hanging out with friends. That meant asking questions without fear of appearing ignorant. Learning the difference between what I know and what I think I know became crucial. I began to hear the intensions behind a person’s words as much as the legalistic meaning.

Most importantly, I wasn’t “so hard on myself” when God revealed a sin in my life. I repented and moved on. For me, and I suppose others with imposter syndrome, pride was the sin I confessed most often.

I gained some insight from the article by Clance and Imes, especially as to why I would see myself as an imposter. They point out two lies (although they don’t call them lies) that little girls hear either audibly or through overriding family dynamics.

One little girl hears that she is the “social” one. And while her ability or intellect are lacking, her personality or people skills will bring her success. That doesn’t seem so detrimental, except someone with superior academic skills (usually a sibling) is held in high esteem by the family, and noticeably a contrast to her. The girl can study and achieve enough to receive accolades from teachers, but it doesn’t seem to impress her family or advance her status. She keeps working for validation of her intelligence. It’s never enough. Turning to charm and social skills for a fix of approval becomes easy, and she feels better for a time. Attention for intellectual accomplishments is a secret desire, but she has learned to trust her social prowess for instant gratification. The seed of imposter syndrome has been planted.

The other girl is “told” she is perfect. Her family places her on that proverbial pedestal. They (usually a parent in this case, and not a sibling) tell her she can achieve whatever she wants. She hears them share examples of her accomplishments with others. She feels the hint of exaggeration and undeserved accolade, but risks embarrassment if she disputes the “files” of proof being presented. Pleasing her family begins to take more effort, and their praise adds pressure. To onlookers, her success seems effortless, and she fights to keep up appearances. She doesn’t trust parental approval to survive one of her mistakes. Others are blamed for her failures, and when no one investigates, she feels relief rather than guilt. Little failures are buried beneath new achievements, but not forgotten. Bigger failures lead to both mental and physical exhaustion, but quitting isn’t an option for her. What was intended as encouragement just gave root to imposter syndrome.

Clance and Imes made an omission in their article. I think it was probably a purposeful omission. They undoubtedly discussed it before the work was submitted for publication. What about the little girl who internalized both lies? Is that even possible? Oh well…that’s a question for another day.

Right now, the sun is shining. It’s beginning to look like spring, and I’ve been sitting in front of a computer all day. I’m not feeling the need to prove myself as a writer or impress anyone with more words, so I think I’ll go open the front door, take about three deep breaths, and see what happens next.

In case you haven’t archived old copies of Psychotherapy, Research and Practice (Volume 15. #3. Fall 1978), you can find the Clance and Imes article on the internet. It’s titled: The Imposter Phenomenon in High Achieving Women: Dynamics and Therapeutic Intervention.

Food for Thought

Feb8

by Rita Klundt

On the topic of leadership, there are volumes upon volumes of expertly written, best seller listed books, with proven methodologies out there. So none of my thoughts on leadership can possibly be original. Nonetheless, I offer some food for thought:

Excellent leaders don’t have all the answers.
They own all the right questions.
Excellent leaders don’t react to rumor, threat, or even a crisis.
They respond to need.
Excellent leaders can start in the middle.
…in the middle of a crisis.
…in the middle of the confusion.
…in the middle of a sentence.
…in the middle of a thought.
Excellent leaders understand the difference between equal and fair.
The heart of an excellent leader won’t try to hide behind attitude or image. It bleeds into actions and decisions, both large and small, without restraint.

Thank you, Heavenly Father, for godly leaders – those who make it seem natural and easy, as well as those who’ve worked diligently because they know people like me are watching and following. Amen.

God Is Good – All The Time

Jan2

by Kathy Stanford

Blessings in the New Year! Some of you will wonder who this stranger is that’s posting on Wet Feet, since I didn’t post anything for the whole of 2017. I thought of calling it the year of Hospitals. During the first three and a half months, I actually spent more time sitting with a loved one in a hospital or rehab room than I did at home. But I think the better name would be the year of “God is Good – All the Time”.

He was good when He strengthened my mother to come home after three months in hospital/rehab. He was good when we learned of expecting another grandchild. He was good when He let me get my husband to the ER before he collapsed, from a crises event of low blood pressure due to sepsis. He was good when my husband recovered from an illness that has a 50% fatality rate. He was good when He gave me some opportunities to reconnect with old friends. He was good when He blessed us with time away with family. He was good when He allowed me to say good-bye before He took my mother home and released her from the suffering of this life. He was good when He gave me the strength to be there and support my dad after losing his wife of 64 years. He was good when He brought another daughter into our family by engagement to our son.

God’s Word tells us, “The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” (Deuteronomy 31:8) If there is any value in looking back, it is to see God’s presence at work in all aspects of our life. It gives hope and encouragement to trust Him with the future. Because I know that He is good – all the time!

“Heavenly Father, thank you for Your love and faithfulness. Thank you for going before me and never forsaking me. Please forgive me when I let fear and discouragement creep in. I know that what ever 2018 holds, I will not be facing it alone. I pray you will help me to be strong and faithful to obedience.”

If you don’t have a personal relationship with Jesus, or are unsure, click on the tab “Do you know Jesus” at the top of the page.

Happy New Year!

Jan1

by Rita Klundt

For Roger and me, 2018 rang in very much like last year. The left-over roast, with potatoes and carrots, made for a fine New Year’s Eve dinner. Thank God for microwaves. The house had been completely Christmas de-decorated by 5 PM. The only task remaining is to discover which stubborn ornament didn’t make its way into the red and green Rubbermaid tubs. But not to worry. It will reveal itself sometime around Valentine’s Day.

Our big celebration plans included sweat shirts with unmatched sweat pants, fleece blankets, and re-runs. This year, it was Sonny and Cher followed by an old episode of Law and Order. We talked about popcorn or nachos, but why sabotage the diet we were starting on January 1, 2018. Adding some ambiance and romance by lighting a candle and moving the table that separates our recliners was a good idea, but Roger is recovering from an emergent appendectomy. He still has a weight lifting restriction, and I was tired after unclipping every single light on our 7 ½ foot pre-lit Christmas tree.

Yes, pre-lit trees can be re-lit. Is it wise? Probably not. The scratches on my hands and the bruising on my fingertips have me convinced that the six hours of time invested in my project would have been better spent trotting form store to store, in the bitter cold, shopping for a new pre-lit tree for Christmas 2018. I do hope I can find replacement lights on sale, and that clipping them on all those individual branches next December won’t require much more than the six hours I’ve already invested. Roger did vow not to interfere with my work or belittle my project with sarcasm, but he questioned my plan to replace 1000 tiny lights, and were it not for my tears, I think he would have said, “I told you so.”

Neither of us was fully inspired to remove our fleece covering and forego our reclining position to find that new, exotic scented candle. We decided that fleece and candlelight are nice, but in combination, a terrible fire hazard. As for the table between our corduroy covered recliners? It’s still in its place. Where else would we put the lamp, or the stack of partly read books? And which one of us would return the variety of nail care tools (used on Christmas Eve) to the bathroom drawer?

There’s hope for us. A Happy New Year’s kiss is as good at 9 PM as it is at midnight, and there’s a lot to be said for putting in a good eight hours of sleep before the sun comes up. We can always meet in the hallway or in the kitchen if last night wasn’t exactly the celebration fairytales are made of.

Wait. I hear water running. Roger must be awake. It’s 07:30. Sounds like he’s brushing his teeth. Might be a good time to meet him at the bathroom sink.

Happy New Year!

Times. They are a Changing.

Nov11

By Rita Klundt
I’m not a fan of the spring forward—fall back thing we have to do with our clocks twice a year. If I’m ever ruler of the world, that’s one of the first things to go. That, and junk mail.
I forced myself to celebrate the extra hour of sleep last Saturday night by staying up an hour after my usual 10 p.m. bedtime. Roger and I watched one of those movies with no plot and a no-closure ending. The only thing I had to show for that extra hour was… Well, come to think of it, I had nothing to show for it. Absolutely nothing!
Roger changed all the clocks in the house, and even changed my everyday watch, but left the clock in my car for me. It was Thursday before the discrepancy between what the clock on my dashboard indicated and the actual time caused me any anxiety. As I drove to work that morning, I determined to reset the clock as soon as I arrived home that evening—before I got out of my car.
I won’t bore you with the details of my frustrating day’s work. Let’s skip straight to the stoplight where I typically sit through three cycles before crossing the intersection. I’d made it to the right lane, where I needed to be for my exit onto the interstate. The only thing keeping me from 70 (plus) miles per hour was that stoplight, but I wouldn’t waste this precious time. I decided to reset my clock.
But how to do that? Do I press or turn the dial? And am I sure which dial or button will get me to the Main Menu? Ah-ha! The manual. I scolded myself for needing to use the manual for such a simple procedure. I said to myself, “I’ve changed this clock twice a year for seven years. I ought to know this by now!” At least I know how to open the glove box and turn on the overhead light. Funny thing. I remembered the page number with the instruction I needed.
The light turned green, but I had two more cycles with which to complete my task. I eased forward, put the car in park in order to prevent one of those pesky rush hour fender benders. I read the instruction, placed the manual on the passenger seat, and proceeded to press the knob until the words “Main Menu” appeared. The option to “Set Clock” came and went too quickly. I pressed the knob again. The car ahead of me was easing forward, and the cross traffic had stopped, but there was time for one more try at scrolling to the “Set Clock” option and taking back that virtual hour.
Yea! I got it! But traffic was moving, and it looked like (this time) I’d only sit through that red light twice. I merged on to I-74 without my usual mumbling and grumbling.
I was happy to be heading home, and in a good mood. My day’s frustrations were minor compared to the man who had called in to the radio program for advice on how to get his wife to live within a budget. Still, I listened to the advice, wondering if the show’s expert would have a suggestion as good as mine. Her thoughts were carefully thought out, based on years of experience, before she opened her mouth to speak. My thought just sort of flew out. It’s a good thing no one heard my advice, especially the caller who was seeking a serious answer.
I missed the next caller’s question. The red flashing lights of a state trooper were now behind me, gaining on my rear bumper, and my automatic reaction was to glance at the speedometer. 103! Big trouble! Speaking of budgets, this is going to hurt.
Cars in the fast lane had passed me just moments before, going at least ten to fifteen miles per hour faster than me. “How can you be stopping me?” I said as if the trooper could hear. “If I was going 103, how fast are those cars going?” I took my foot off the accelerator, eased to the other side of the white line and onto the shoulder. The words of my father came to mind. “Use the word ‘Sir’ liberally when talking to a police officer with a pad of tickets in his hand.”
The state trooper passed me by and took the next exit. Whew! My left turn signal came on, but I allowed several cars to pass before merging back into traffic. My paycheck was safe. Surely God was with me. Cruise control. Click on the cruise control. Praise God for cruise control! I set it on 70. Not 73 or 74, but seventy.
Other drivers had not felt the same moment of regret and dread of consequences that ought to come with those flashing lights. Did they have no fear of the law? They continued to speed past me. What arrogance!

After a few miles of frustration that the “real” speeders were getting away with breaking the law, I focused on the fact that I had avoided traffic court. That’s when I noticed there was time to read the small print on billboards and the street lights weren’t flickering by at their usual pace. That shouldn’t be happening. Hmmm? Now I realized that every car, pick-up truck, and semi was passing me. Some of the drivers turned to glare my way as though they weren’t happy with my driving. I hadn’t left my turn signal on. What was their problem?

“Enough of this. I’m going with the flow of traffic. This is ridiculous. Forget cruise control.” I decided to join the crowd of speeders. It felt comfortable and right. Then, I looked at my speedometer again. It said 100, but cars were still passing me. And my odometer said I had over 150,000 miles on my gently used engine. That’s when I remembered my time living in Germany and recalled there is such a thing as a Metric System. I was going one-hundred kilometers per hour, not one hundred miles per hour!
Somehow, in trying to reset my dashboard clock, I had switched from English to Metric.
Is there a moral to this story? Probably not. But tonight when I passed a little old lady in her green, 1990 something minivan, I didn’t scowl at her. I considered following her home and offering to help reset her dashboard clock.