Smugly self-styling myself as the expert of the day quickly clouds this self-absorbed egotist with self doubt when the correct answer is found with a quick Google search.
I have groaningly attained the grand age when escaping brain cells have turned to pink fluffy cotton candy. But don’t you dare tell me that one of the bulbs in my chandelier is dim. I will word wrestle you to the floor.
Why does painful pride destroying humility arrive, whimpering, as a sad little afterthought? A broken snip of a caustic, thoughtless comment can throw me into a livid frenzy of self-righteous self ardor, self absorption, self-adulation.
What makes my own over inflated opinion so ridiculously precious to me that we I must fight shark toothed and crushing claw to preserve it? Why must I always be proven absolutely right and, therefore, by mere process of elimination, you are proven to be absolutely wrong, wrong wrong?
Indubitably. I know, the grammar checker dislikes this word, but I find it utterly delightful undoubtedly.
Does my desperate wannabe craving to always be the quickest wit, fastest draw, to always cleverly top your little mundane stories, always be the experts’ expert, the unquestionably correct one, the most lovable one preclude the unshakeable fact that in order for Christ to be right, I must accept the fact that I could be, oh no – wrong?
I am an expert sinner. I have devoured the Bible enough times to realize I am exquisitely gifted at breaking God’s Heart. I have failed Him by trusting my heart over His, blotting out His desires for me.
Why is being an expert in this vein so painful? Well, I certainly cannot take this to the “top of the class” with full bragging rights.
One thing I know for sure. It hurts me to hurt God. For over half my lifetime, I struggled to be the best – the most dependable, the most faithful, the most honest, the expert/master of every undertaking taken.
I wasn’t. I’m not. I never will be. Yes, I strive to win the prize, but if I brag about how humble I have become – well, I agree I can be pretty silly.
I am an expert eater. My expertise runs the gamut of whatever pleases my tastebuds. I will put anything in my face but liver, mushrooms, okra, lima beans, pinto beans, ad nauseum.
After over fifty years of applying eye make-up, I can proclaim myself an expert – the mascara queen. But my mascara still gleefully runs down to my chin at the first opportunity.
I am an expert dieter, having endured years of grueling self-exaction, hollow and hungry-bellied through life. I can pick up my lower stomach and toss it casually over my shoulder. I amaze myself. I should write a book.
A happy wordsmith, I could brag on my expertise at Scrabble, Crosswords, almost unbeatable until I Farkled all over the boards. I truly shine at the “Sorry” game.
I feel humility trying to nudge its sweet little beingness into my diatribe. But I am truly lacking in the experience of humility. What is that line? “If I weren’t so humble, I’d be perfect.” I can hear the chorus of angels guffawing over this erstwhile prose.
I have children, thereby missing so many wonderful opportunities to be the expert at all I do. No ecstatic beaming child bragging to his classmates about my scrumptious peanut butter cookies.
I am an expert at not ironing clothes. Since the advent of wash and wear, I have been set free from washday drudgery by a faithful washer and dryer pair. I still cannot fold a dratted fitted sheet. Do I grieve over this, desiring to be the resident washroom expert? I’m good if I can remember the toilet paper needs.
My Bible tells me I have not arrived yet, my journey must and will take me out of myself and into the Christ. This takes time and effort – I must relinquish self-adulation, self-aggrandizement, self ardor, even self doubts.
I have become an expert at biting my tongue, forestalling outbursts of me me me ism. I am not speaking musically. A mere mirror can shame me. I find that happiness attends a meek and quiet spirit. There is life beyond me, for which I praise God fervently.
Jesus paid the ultimate price for my expertise. He points me to The Expert – The Father, and pride sloughs off me like water off a duck’s back.
Who am I to argue with Perfection?
KJV James 4:6, Philippians 2:3-11, Luke 14:11, 1 Peter 5:6,
Proverbs 22:4, Romans 12:3, 1 Peter 5:5, Philippians 4:12:30, Ephesians 4:2, Matthew 23:12, Colossians 3:12, James 4:10, Jeremiah 9:23, 2 Corinthians 12:5-12, Micah 6:8, Luke 14:10, Proverbs 11:2, Luke 10:30-37, Mark 10:43, Galatians 5:26
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