A Perfect Love to Conquer Perfectionism

Introduction

Initially, I was a bitter, hardened soul as a perfectionist child of divorce. I was in a spiritual battle for my life and my Savior Jesus Christ instructed me on how to defend myself against the onslaughts of anxiety and depression. I have been free from panic attacks for over twenty-five years. I am extremely grateful for the abiding peace I now enjoy.

A pervasive loneliness tormented me while a single adult in my thirties. After many years of dating confusion and trying hard to impress others, I eventually found true freedom when I learned to value my Creator’s high view of me regardless of anyone else’s shallow opinion. When confronted with Jesus’ call to service and sacrifice, I was able to release unrealistic self-centered standards for a husband, develop trust and marry a devoted husband despite guardedness from past wounds.

Without trials I never would have enjoyed the privilege of witnessing His power as God answered many of my prayers with miraculous interventions of provision and words whispered to my heart to encourage and guide me. Solid Christian friendships, following truths from the Bible and sensitivity to the Holy Spirit helped me stay the course for godly living in a world of temptation.

The Lord also desires to reach into your heart to bring restoration and comfort, if that is what you need. He is able to work the miraculous in your life if you ask Him for help, submit to His will and wait patiently as He works. I hope the reflections I share about my life inspire you to aim higher and believe God is always there for you, too.

Chapter 1 - The Early Years

Born in Ann Arbor, Michigan in the early 1960’s, I grew up with only a limited awareness that just a few miles away political unrest and innovative ideas were churning. The focal point of protests and speeches lay in the heart of the city where the central campus of The University of Michigan resides. The student body was primarily comprised of intellectuals who thrived on academic excellence, intense discussions and idealism. John F. Kennedy helped to inspire these young minds to strive for a better world when he presented his plan for the Peace Corps on the steps of The Michigan Union on October 14, 1960. Discontentment with the current state of our country grew among the students as they saw what was going on around our nation and abroad.

It wasn’t long before Civil Rights demonstrations and anti-Vietnam War protests on the campus started drawing national media attention and, as a result, attracted more radical elements, especially from the West Coast. Like hoards of students in California, many broke with traditional morals and reveled in free love and illicit drug use. During that same decade, leaders of the Women’s Movement came to speak to receptive crowds about equality for both sexes. In the midst of the upheaval, a primarily Catholic charismatic group, The Word of God Community, started gathering people from various mainline denominations to worship God in a deeper and more expressive way. The status quo was being challenged on all sides and large numbers in the city were interested in riding the waves of change in one way or another.

Though my father witnessed anti-Vietnam War protestors shouting atop the hoods of parked cars and throwing bricks at police near the building where he worked on the central campus, he remained merely a curious observer who kept abreast of the latest news reports. He primarily occupied himself with supporting a family and enjoying the great outdoors during his free time. On the other hand, my mother was swept onto the waves of the feminist movement and new psychological theories as she devoured book after book and listened to Gloria Steinem, Marlo Thomas, and Margaret Meade when they came to town.

It was just a matter of time before my parents’ worlds collided. The fun-loving country boy who honored traditional values was not evolving along with the serious feminist. Though they had come from basically the same stock, their perspectives on life grew increasingly divergent. In addition, they had marked personality differences that presented ongoing challenges in communication. The ground beneath our family began to shake. I was oblivious to the tremors, however. I was busy being a kid.

My parents were both raised in small towns in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula where family ties were strong and most of the men worked hard in the mining industry. Being Christians of Finnish descent, all of my grandparents attended Apostolic Lutheran Churches. Strict rules were laid down for the congregations, such as not lighting a fire for the sauna or playing cards on the Sabbath. Consumption of alcohol and going to the movie theater were forbidden. Owning a television was prohibited at my dad’s church until it was discovered that the pastor had one.

It was a joy when I was a young teen to visit the remains of the dairy farm where my father grew up west of Marquette. All that was left was part of the house’s foundation and bits of decades of wallpaper in the rubble. I imagined my dad rising at 5:00 a.m. with his oldest brother to milk the cows. Having viewed his old home movies, it was easy for me to picture his whole family in the fields gathering hay and running around, teasing each other. A short distance away in the woods stood a 7’x10’ shack he had built as a teenager. He constructed it so well that it still looked sturdy after over twenty years. Since then the land has been mined for iron ore, leaving a sad, gaping hole surrounded by a fence.

The general store and gas station where my mother was raised still stands alone on a remote highway. Her family lived with her grandmother who emigrated from Finland in the early 1900’s. She was a tall, robust woman with white hair plastered back in a bun. It is evident from her deeply lined face in old photos that she had put in many years of hard work. She looked as tough as nails, but I felt welcomed on her lap. I listened with envy to my mother’s stories about the days when she was little and would sneak candy from jars on the store counters and meet all kinds of interesting people who stopped for supplies.

My mother married my dad at the age of 18, much to the chagrin of her mother who wanted her to go straight to college. She joined my father in Ann Arbor, glad to move to a larger city. Two years later, once I was a toddler and my sister, Claire, was on the way, my mother enrolled at a nearby university and eventually earned two degrees. With working part-time in addition to her coursework, she was often elsewhere. But when she was home, she frequently encouraged us to expand our learning and creativity. I loved reading, especially biographies of famous people, such as Laura Ingalls Wilder, Daniel Boone and various presidents from the America’s early years. My mom set up a large desk in my room and placed shelves above it filled with paper and materials for art projects. I could spend hours reading or drawing.

As a reliable and amicable man, my father brought stability and playfulness to our family. I liked the fact that he spent a lot of time with me and my sister and that he was considerate. Even when we were young, my dad usually related to us in a manner that helped us feel as though our ideas were important – he truly listened. As a sharp contrast to Claire and myself greedily grabbing for the largest portion of a treat, I was always taken aback when my father habitually allow us to have the first pick from pieces of dessert. I also appreciated the fact that he took the time to teach me how to hit a baseball so I wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of my classmates. We were regularly humored by his coin tricks and the funny voices he invented to dramatize the fairytales he read to us.

We attended churches with a modernized and much more lenient version of the Lutheran faith than what my parents had grown up with. My mom wanted to avoid the fire and brimstone sermons she had heard as a child. However, our faith in God was rarely mentioned outside of church, so it seemed to have little relevance to our everyday lives. Still, I said my prayers at night and sometimes wondered who God and Jesus really were.

I don’t quite remember when it all started, but perhaps around the age of five my right-side-up world began to erode as my mother started yelling at me for things that obviously were not my fault. She had always been strict with me and I usually tried to be obedient to make her happy, but now I could no longer count on my good behavior to shield me from verbal attacks. I was too young to realize she had her own problems and was simply venting at me.

After awhile I blew off her repeated apologies because I saw no evidence that she was trying to improve her treatment of me. Born with a sensitive disposition, I was easily crushed by harsh words. I felt helpless and soon developed a root of bitterness and some insecurity. I would make vows in my heart never to speak to her again, but quickly discovered that I couldn’t keep my resolve. After all, she was my mother and I needed her.

Besides my mother’s moods being unpredictable, she had a habit of allowing her schedule to get out of control. Her free style approach to life frequently made me nervous since I wanted to do things in an orderly manner. Whenever it was time for her to take me to a swim lesson, my stomach would get in knots as I paced our front porch, periodically hollering with a glimmer of hope through the screen door, Are you ready yet?

I knew my mom was most likely trapped in front of the mirror doing battle with her thin wisps of hair, struggling to sculpt the voluminous hairdos of the late sixties. Amazingly, she rarely failed to look as though she had just stepped out of a salon. Our lives would have been much easier and more prompt if Jackie Kennedy had opted for a no fuss shag instead of a bouffant.

After a few years had passed, I started hearing about the new feminist and psychological theories that my mother was being exposed to. She felt inspired to achieve new goals and had become truly liberated. She even got a shag hair cut! Any resemblance she had borne to Elizabeth Taylor was obliterated, but at least she was free from spending hours teasing her hair and we were not quite as late for things as we used to be.

However, the theories that had liberated my mother embedded oppressive chains on my soul as she used them to psychoanalyze me. One evening my mom and I sat on the living room floor because she wanted to have a serious talk with me. She said I had to loosen up and get rid of my perfectionism. As I sat leaning against our stereo cabinet, her words shot at my soul as if they were a handful of cold knives, cutting away at my sense of worth. I was at a loss as to how to respond.

It was no longer just my behavior in a specific situation that was being addressed, but my mother had determined that my personality, indeed, my whole approach to life, was imbalanced. My head spun in confusion, trying to grasp what she wanted from me. All I knew was that I had been trying hard to be the best person I could be and do things the right way (except for occasionally tormenting my sister) only to discover that I had it wrong all along. How could she drastically change the game plan on me when I was already so in sync with the old one?

I felt like she didn’t really like who I was because she wanted me to become someone I wasn’t. I couldn’t pretend day after day that mediocre schoolwork gave me any sense of accomplishment. And no matter how hard I tried, I knew I couldn’t sigh with delight at the sight of my bedroom in disarray. I cried in despair.

But because I was a compliant child, I started draping my clothes on a chair instead of neatly putting them away every night. Even though I hated looking at that pile of clothes, I kept up the practice for many years until it became natural. That’s as far as I went toward loosening up. I really had no idea what it meant to free oneself from perfectionism.

However, I maintained a hard-line when it came to my appearance no matter what my mom said about how I dressed. I insisted on keeping the top button of my blouses closed even though my mom would sometimes reach down in exasperation and undo them. Modesty was a part of my fabric and I tried my best to keep myself covered. I had no desire to go out in public looking like a hussy. I could hardly stomach wearing the surprise bikini my mom bought me one year even though I looked good in it. I insisted on a one-piece swimsuit every year after that. Even though we were very young, the boys my age didn’t pass up opportunities to stare at a girl’s exposed skin. Their eyes went straight for my exposed midriff.

Though my mother wanted to free me of my rigidity, it was the main reason for the favor I enjoyed with my teachers. I was the ideal student, especially for my second grade teacher. She routinely gathered us in a circle to drill us on when we went to bed and what we had for breakfast to make sure we were taking good care of ourselves. She listed the basic ingredients for a healthy breakfast and determined that 8 p.m. was the appropriate bedtime for all of us. As far as I was concerned, her word was law. So, of course, I became panic stricken one morning when there was no milk for my cereal. I would have to mar my spotless record and confess to the class that I failed to eat a healthy breakfast. My mom couldn’t relate to my plight.

Even though another student’s parents had eventually protested the daily interrogations and got the teacher to stop, it was too late for me. Her rules were already cemented in my brain. For a few years afterwards, whenever we were visiting someone in the evening – be it a weeknight or on the weekend - I would grow anxious if I couldn’t talk my socially active parents into going home before 8:00 p.m. So I resigned myself to the uncomfortable task of asking the host where I could lie down. To this day some of my relatives will laugh when they remember me stopping my play and marching alone up their stairs to go to bed while everyone else continued to have a good time.

In spite of my strict, conformist attitude, school was usually fun since I enjoyed learning and I had many friends. All of my teachers liked me. Even the sternest teacher refused to be harsh with me. The day after I learned to hum, I was delighting in this newfound ability while we were all quietly doing our work. After a few minutes, the boy next to me raised his hand and complained to the teacher that I was humming. I had no idea that he could hear me. I thought this interesting sound I made was completely contained within my head since my mouth remained closed.

I froze in utter fear. I was the only student who never got their name on the board for bad behavior. I realized this could be my moment of dethroning and I, too, would have to bear the mark of shame like all the others. But the teacher just looked at me, smiled and said, Maybe she’s happy. Wow! At home I could be berated just because I was within shouting range. In school I was completely blameless even when I annoyed a fellow student while he was working! Yet I never hummed in class again.

My sister, Claire, and I were usually good playmates. Our imaginations conjured up far away places as we made houses out of an overturned boat in the backyard or by draping blankets over clotheslines. We also had a great time learning new games from the many neighborhood kids who were close to us in age.

We also relished our quiet, contemplative moments. Many a summer day was spent traversing the high, slender branches of our willow tree in the backyard where our parents built us a tree house. If we felt festive, we’d lounge above the housetops in our mother’s colorful abandoned party dresses that cascaded to our feet. On windy days, we felt like free, soaring birds, swaying back and forth on our delicate perches. It was a delightful place to sit and daydream about the possibilities of life that lay ahead.

Being older than my sister had its advantages for getting my own way through manipulation sometimes, but it didn’t mean I was always smarter. We often went camping with our relatives in Michigan’s state parks where Claire and I loved exploring the grounds with our cousins. On one of our outings, we stopped to watch a fellow camper’s TV because it showed a new child singing sensation. As I listened to the high-pitched voice sing the catchy tune, I thought the girl looked pretty with her thick, dark locks framing her face. Claire and I asked who this kid was and we were told it was Donny Osmond. We had never heard of the singer before and started debating if Donny was a boy or girl. Claire was so certain the singer was a boy and I was convinced the kid was a girl so we agreed to bet a whole week’s allowance on the matter, which was a quarter.

When we were told Donny was a boy, I became indignant and wondered, How could a boy have such long hair and sing with such a high voice? Apparently, I had never heard The Vienna Boys’ Choir. And it was now the 1970’s when men’s hair lengthened, their ties and sideburns widened, and fashion in general took a nosedive. I just wasn’t up with the times. Humiliated by Claire knowing something I didn’t, I reluctantly handed over the quarter as she beamed.

After that incident I wanted this Donny to disappear so I wouldn’t be constantly reminded of my ignorance, but he kept becoming more and more popular. Young girls were swooning over him and the eight-year-old neighbor girl was no exception. She invited Claire and myself to listen to her latest Donny Osmond record. As soon as the music started, a dreamy smile spread across her face as she closed her eyes and slowly danced around the room as if we weren’t even there. I thought the poor child had lost her mind. How could she be so in love with a boy she would never meet? Claire sang along and seemed to be enjoying herself. I stood there nauseated by the spectacle, squirmed through a couple of songs to be polite, then bolted, never to return to another Donny love-fest.

I knew where real love could be found: at my dad’s parents’ home where smiling faces and happy times abounded. My grandparents had a Christian faith that was evident in many aspects of their lives. I equated vacations at their home with visits to heaven because peace and love filled the air and I knew I would be completely accepted. Whenever we embarked on our eight-hour journey, my mind began spinning with delightful anticipation of loving arms, hikes in the woods, cardamom bread and stories about old photos. I was fascinated with the prospect of digging tunnels in snow higher than my head or of going in the cover of night to watch black bears dig for food in the local dump - from the safety of our car, of course!

Taking great interest in each of his eight grandchildren, my grandfather nurtured our individual talents. He had several hobbies and I was delighted that the two of us shared a love for art. In his free time he painted beautiful watercolors of the northern landscape with waterfalls and birch trees. I’d watch in fascination as he expertly sketched cartoons. My eyes were glued to the paper as he gave me precise instruction on how to draw people in a realistic manner. His tips went a long way in helping me develop my artistic skills. Amid his many wonderful qualities, I was most profoundly impacted by the tangible love that emanated from him. Clear memories of his brilliant smile and playful demeanor have never left me. No one had ever shown me such a genuinely joyful love.

My grandfather frequently recounted his story about becoming a Christian to the extended family - much to the annoyance of some. He had left home at sixteen because he figured there were too many mouths to feed, coming from a family with twelve children. It was the early 1920’s when he hopped an iron ore boat as it was leaving a dock in Lake Superior. He was late for its departure and literally grabbed a rope that was tossed to him, enabling him to clamber aboard. He was a sailor in the Great Lakes for awhile and eventually settled in Chicago where he worked odd jobs, such as making gold leaf signs for banks. It was not an easy life for him. Sometimes he found it difficult to make ends meet. He never wrote home during those tough years.

One day he kept hearing his parents’ voices in his head saying, Heaven or hell, heaven or hell... He knew he had to choose one or the other. Tormented by these recurring thoughts, he eventually went to a downtown mission where he gave his life to Jesus Christ. God did a dramatic transformation in him. He decided to return home after four long years. His stepmother was stunned as she opened the door, laid eyes on him and exclaimed, I thought you were dead!

He soon married my grandmother whom he met at a church conference. Because of his desire to tell people about salvation through Jesus, he taught a Sunday school class in their home on a dairy farm until their area got a regular pastor for the church. I have a photo of him with over twenty-five local children who came regularly to sing and learn lessons from the Bible. As the years went by he remained very active in his church. He also learned the trade of an electrician as he labored in the iron ore and copper mines.

Even as a young child, I admired my grandparents’ sincere faith and strove to follow their example. One day when I was about nine, my family and I returned from church and I was mulling over my Sunday school teacher’s admonition to be ready for Christ’s return someday. I took her words to heart and wanted my parents to be ready, too. When I told them of my concern, they surprised me with their laughter. They reacted as if I had swallowed some fairy tale. I was horrified about their possible fate and wondered if I might end up thinking like them someday.

I went to my room to pray. As I sat on my bed, I asked God to help me continue believing in Him even though I wasn’t quite sure what being a Christian was all about. I figured it meant that I should try to be good and go to church and pray once in a while. I had heard about kids becoming wayward when they entered their teen years, so I asked God to bring me back if I ever became rebellious and left Him. God was listening.

Chapter 2 - The Tearing of Family

When I was in the sixth grade, our parents announced to Claire and I that they were getting a divorce. We were given no explanation as to why. Just like a kid is left aghast after his friend tells him with the utmost certainty there is no Santa Claus, Claire and I were left standing there, stunned by the revelation that we were not the sunny family we had thought. Had we been living in a fantasy? Were our parents merely performing defined roles until they reached a breaking point? Who were they after all? What did they really think and feel?

I thought my mom had been discontented primarily with me, not our dad. And I assumed my dad had been pleased with everything. The façade had been stripped away and we were left staring at the ugly empty hole of a love that had been pretend for who knows how long. With no control over the course of our lives, the two of us just had to go with the flow and try to make the best of a perplexing and scary situation.

I felt ashamed when I had to tell my friends the news. They nodded with some surprise and sympathy, but didn’t make a big deal about it. I realized with dread that I was part of the growing statistic of children from broken homes. I tried to console myself with the fact that I wasn’t the only one in class to suffer the same fate. Society was changing, particularly in Ann Arbor where progressive ideas were welcomed and the women’s movement was in full swing, presenting new challenges to marriages.

We sold our house and my mom, Claire, and I moved a mile away to an apartment complex that had a stream running through a pretty setting. My mom tried to get us to be optimistic and excited about this new adventure. She had an aversion to television, but wanted us to join her in watching a new comedy called Rhoda, which was about a single woman having a good time living on her own. The show was funny, but it didn’t help me get in the spirit of enjoying life without my dad at home. Couldn’t my mom see that our new life was much worse than before?

Within a few months she started dating a couple of guys who were nice, but they didn’t belong in our family. I eyed these intruders with suspicion when they would come to our place. Going on special outings with my dad every other weekend was ten times more fun than hanging out with the dad imposters who sometimes already had their own kids to love.

To the casual observer Claire and I were coping quite well with the divorce. The only apparent change in our behavior was our introduction of a form of civilized wrestling to our routine. For some strange reason we both felt the urge to grab and pull something in contrary directions. Why not use each other’s limbs? On occasion we inflicted more pain on each other than we liked, so we agreed on rules to restrict us from all out combat: no scratching, biting, pulling of hair or eye-gouging (well, the last one was understood).

We faithfully adhered to our rules because we did not want to end up like the kids from a family we visited. With parents off in another room, tempers sometimes flared between the siblings during play and they would resort to guerilla tactics. With horror I had witnessed flailing fists clenched around clumps of extracted hair, followed by ear-piercing screams and more hair pulling. Claire and I were too delicate for that.

I also had more constructive ways to forget about my troubles. A journal entry from that time period described one of my favorite recreational activities - biking around the nearby neighborhoods:

I have just returned from dad’s house…wonderful dad. It has just stopped raining and there is a fresh, exciting and dreamy feeling in the night air. I’m riding the green bike I got yesterday. I ride swiftly down the slushy path beside the road. White and red lights fly by. I feel wonderful…like a bird soaring over the world. I see the backs of houses across the road. They seem so obedient and asleep. I look at mom pedaling her regular dull pace and Claire pedaling furiously on her small bike. It looks silly. I then ride slowly and gracefully sucking all the night air in. I’m so relaxed and happy that I feel like singing out loud, but I don’t dare.

I wasn’t entirely content, however. Recorded amid the joy were complaints about my mother’s comments of frustration during the ride. My struggle with her lived on.

The divorce only lasted six months. My mom was the one who had wanted the divorce and now decided to return to my father. Still no information was shared with us as to what was really going on between them. I was happy that the divorce was short lived and I naively hoped to proceed as if nothing had happened. Maybe my parents really did love each other after all, I said to myself. Little did I know what lay ahead, as I would witness my parents forge an impenetrable wall between them.

My father was not interested in seeking family or marriage counseling, perhaps because it had a stigma at that time. On the other hand, my mom was all for therapy, especially the newest types. I wasn’t comfortable with her choice of therapy, however, because it encouraged very intense emotional expression. The goal of the treatment was to regress to one’s childhood and achieve healing in one’s soul by reliving painful incidents from the past. I became fearful as I overheard her efforts to attain emotional healing through wailing and hitting things from the bowels of our basement. Not knowing how to cope with my mom’s expressiveness, my dad withdrew to some degree.

At a loss as to how to deal with the pervasive tension at home, I started experiencing frequent bouts of depression. I wrote in a journal addressing my entries to God, asking Him why He was allowing so much anger and hatred in my family. Sometimes I lay in bed crying at night while staring at the moonlit sketches of lions on my wallpaper as I kept asking, Why? I hoped that God would somehow speak to me and soothe my heart, but there were no divine intrusions on my thoughts.

Imaginary comfort seemed better than none at all, so I pretended to have conversations with the lions, telling them my troubles. They were not far off in the heavens somewhere like I thought God was. They were close and visible. I could stroke their flat manes with my fingers. They looked so serene as they lounged in their African scenes. I wished someone could hear me and understand my heart. I dreamed of the day when I would be old enough to be genuinely happy and at peace in my own home.

My frustration in trying to converse with God resembled how I felt one night years earlier when I was about five. My mom’s mother was putting me to bed in her sewing room. As she stood in the doorway, she told me that God would talk to me as I said my prayers. I believed her, so after she left I excitedly asked Him a question, then waited to hear a response. I don’t recall what I asked, but I expected to hear an audible voice as I strained my ears and gazed at the ceiling. As I kept asking and hearing nothing, I grew angry with God. If He talked to others, why wouldn’t He talk to me, too? I gave up trying to hear Him.

But now years later my desperation and confusion moved