As I have been trying to get moved into my parents' new house and keep my room from becoming a complete disaster area for the guests who will shortly be staying in it, I have been contemplating what my room will tell people about me. For one thing, it will tell people that I love books. I have old books and new books, books that are beat up and books that in mint condition. I have books about writing, psychology, criminal justice, abuse/neglect, orphan ministry, language, art, horses, sports, travel, law. I have classic literature, literature about the French Revolution, spy novels, fluff books, mysteries, comics. Well known books by well known authors. Obscure books that probably will only ever mean something to me. I have kids books and books that are even above my head at times. I even have a calculus book. And I'm not all that fond of nor particularly good at math. I have scrapbooks of life moments shared with people I love... which leads to the pictures around my room.
Each picture is special, filled with significance, including the one of a child I don't even know. My books tell you that my interests are varied. My pictures tell you that my friends and family are very dear people to me, that I love sharing the journey of life with people. But the picture of the child I don't know, and the picture that sits next to it were very difficult for me to put up. They involve awards from my job.
I stressed over putting these two pictures up, to display the awards associated with my job. I don't want my room to be a shrine to my accomplishments. But then as I was unpacking some things I came across a veritable treasure trove of things I held onto from my job because while I was doing the job they made me feel better. They're mostly emails from colleagues. One, though, is a letter from my mom written almost exactly two years ago now. I wonder if she had any sense then that in less than a year I would be walking out the door of that job. Anyway...
In this letter from my mom, she reminds me of something she told me pretty much all throughout my job, that by doing this insanely difficult job, I had become a superhero. I laughed when she first told me she thought I was an everyday superhero. I was just doing my job. But then one day, not even two months in, a little girl was riding quietly in the back seat of the State car I was driving. Very softly and very seriously, she said, "Miss Lisa, I want to be you when I grow up." And it hit me. To that little girl, I was exactly the superhero my mom said I was. Instead of making me feel prideful in myself though, the thought absolutely terrified me. What if I screwed up? I had been ready to yell at her earlier for kicking the back of my seat. I was not worthy to be this precious child's superhero. But that didn't change the fact that I was. That moment will probably be with me for the rest of my life as one of the best moments in my job. It was scary. But it also let me know I was right where I needed to be.
As I went through the stack of emails, I found an email the DHS director sent out to us just before Christmas in 2013. In it, she quoted someone else who said that what we did was just like being a superhero. "What is a superhero? Very often someone who is fated to help others because of their history, but has to hide their identity." Really, the whole quote was great and explained so well what I have been going through emotionally, but this just stood out to me. A superhero has to hide their identity. And I cannot tell you how true that is of child welfare workers. They will probably be cautious about sharing anything about their families. They will be creative with their Facebook accounts. They may try to work outside the community in which they live. But even more than that, they find themselves hiding pieces of themselves not just their families. It's that missing piece of soul we talked about earlier. It has to be hidden. It has to be sheltered. Not because we want to be something we aren't. But because we have to be tough enough to handle the emotionally challenging situations that come our way. We have to be prepared to hear about all manner of evil and not bat an eye. You can't do that if you expose the truth of who you are. It just doesn't work. Batman wears a mask because without he can't do what he needs to do in Gotham. Bruce Wayne can't eliminate the threat to his city. Batman can.
So every day, I wore a mask to work. Never a physical mask, though some days I think my make up was a mask. I'm less likely to cry when I wear makeup because I don't want it to get messed up. But that's beside the point. The point is, I had to wear a mask. I didn't have a cape. There was no giant S on my chest. And I certainly couldn't shoot spider webs out of my wrists. But every day, I put on that mask and hid my identity so I could try to save a few children from despair.
So, yup, the awards are up in my room right now. Mostly because I need the reminder that I didn't fail miserably. I did the right thing doing that job. But I also did the right thing in leaving it. And right now I struggle to believe either one let alone both. I don't know if I actually made a difference for any of those kids. I don't know if their lives are better. I pray they are. I pray I get to see them in heaven some day. But for now, I have to hold onto the things that say, "You were someone's superhero." So maybe that makes my room more like the Bat Cave and I should put a sign on my door.
Whatever the case, I guess what I am trying to tell you in all of this is two-fold:
1) If you are doing something for the Lord and it's hard but you know it's where you are supposed to be, don't let the difficulty get you down. You are probably someone's hero and they haven't told you. Or maybe they have. Don't scoff them. Thank them that they took the time to let you know something you did mattered. God's not finished with you; keep letting Him use you.
2) If you know someone is doing something that has been hard on them, encourage them. Write them a note. Give them a hug. Bring them a cup of their favorite tea. Whatever you do, let them know you know this has been hard, but you are there for them. Believe me, it means the world, even years later.
God gave me talents, gifts, emotions, and ways of thinking that made me good at the job I did. He gave me the strength to get up and do it every day. The awards are a tribute to what He can do with a broken individual who is willing to be used by Him. Awards don't always come on this earth. But when they do, make sure the glory goes to Him, not to yourself. And yes, I know that can be tough.
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