There’s a character in one of the novels I’m working on, The Distance Between High and Low, called Hobart McSwain. He was born in Detroit, and adopted as a child by an Alabama family. Expressing his need for acceptance in the fictional town of Highlow, he says:
“I never asked for Alabama; I never asked to be her son. I had no choice over my deliverance. A child has no muscle, at all; just a displaced leaf riding on a stale wind, blowing this way and that. But when the wind stops, the leaf descends. I descended into the high side of Highlow and was raked aside, and it hurt that I wasn’t good enough to be noticed.”
Not good enough to be noticed. A frightening and continuous worry that most of us have throughout our lives.
On July 20, 2013, from 11am-2pm, I had my first book-signing at Barnes and Noble, here in my hometown.
I worried a lot–like a child: Will anyone come? Will I sign any books? As a new author, will I be accepted?
Since then, I’ve spoken at many events and venues, always wondering the same. Am I good enough?
Acceptance is what we all want, isn’t it? From the time we are born until the time we die, we strive for the acceptance of those we admire. Am I good enough?
In high school, in college, on the job—am I good enough?
In marriage, in parenthood, as a friend —am I good enough?
Living on the edge of a materialistic world that places wealth, power, and beauty on the altar of success—am I good enough?
Do I hide as if I’m inferior, and only now and then, peek out? If so, I need to remember that I don’t have to please another’s version of ‘good enough.’ I only have to satisfy that place in my own soul that pricks me to follow my highest inclinations, not my lowest ones.
Because in that place, I can relax in comfort and ask the Lord to lead me, then hear His voice as a Father to His child: “I love you no matter what you do, or who you are. I accept you. You are mine.”