NotFailing

Felicity didn't pass her swim class. She'll have to take it again. She doesn't seem troubled, or even overly aware, of this fact.
But I am reminded of my failures. I laugh and joke about them. But the memories still hurt. I lost my race and ran off to pout. My daddy followed me to scold me for my attitude, to make me congratulate the winner. Her freckled face and red hair and confident smile hurt. Because of the ugliness of my heart. Because of my own sense of inferiority. Because I wanted to be someone important. The only compliment my gym teacher ever gave me was something of an insult, "She has good form, but no momentum." I sat on the bench when I played basketball in junior high. When the rest of the team wasn't playing well, the coach turned to me and counseled me to go out there and execute a play as she described. I went out there, flapped, flopped, and failed and got pulled back onto the bench. I guess coach had forgotten for a moment, why I was sitting there next to her to begin with. Even as a high school cheerleader, I was remarkable in taking out two other girls with my round-off.
My husband dreamed of skiing in the mountains with his wife someday. He got a woman full of fears and awkwardnesses, ineptitudes. But he's not complained.
My daughter feels no real sense of loss by this failure. Because she is loved. Because she knows she has other skills. Because she is who she is. Because she will have other chances.
My failures have taught me that I am small and God is big. That I am His and He may do as He will. That He gives and takes away. That He loves me unconditionally. That tomorrow is another day.