Kind of a Big Deal

Not long ago I had dinner with a woman I admire. We’re remarkably similar in many ways—age, personality, upbringing, and even our hopes and dreams. She, however, is realizing her goals in much bigger ways than I am. She has become a bit of a role model for me, and I relished the time to chat with her and learn from her.

As the evening went on, I noticed she seemed to use one phrase a lot: “kind of a big deal.” As in, “My friend so-and-so has this great job in New York. She’s kind of a big deal.” From her family to her friends to people she’d run into on the street, she seemed to know a lot of folks who are “kind of a big deal.”

To be fair, she wasn’t being snobbish. She was simply excited to talk up the people she loves, and that’s fantastic. But I couldn’t help leaving our dinner feeling inadequate. Not only am I nothing, I thought, I don’t even know anyone who is something! This woman is extremely talented, but she also has great connections. What hope do I have in my little corner of Small Town America?

I wish I could say I quickly let this idea go, but it stuck with me. My insecurities wrapped themselves around it and told me I am far from a big deal, I am far from significant, I am far from enough.

Do you ever feel this way? Maybe life hasn’t turned out the way you thought it would; you’ve had to let go of a dream because of choices or circumstances. Maybe you play the comparison game with a friend or family member or even someone whose blog you read, and you just don’t measure up. Or maybe you lost your temper with your child and you feel that oh-so-familiar mom guilt weighing you down.

The burden of feeling inadequate is almost impossible to avoid. We’re inundated with social media, where it’s all about putting our best foot forward. We’re surrounded with examples of people who are doing exactly what we’re doing but better, faster, and with more “likes.”

My daughter has been wrestling lately with who she is. She’s smart but not the smartest in her class. She’s musically talented but not a prodigy. She’s active but not likely to be a legendary athlete. She’s helpful and a great leader but can come off as bossy. She is a devoted friend but can come off as needy. She has asked on more than one tearful occasion, “Why did God make me this way? What is special about me?”

This is what I tell her: “Sweetheart, you are the daughter of the almighty God. You have been created uniquely to accomplish something no one else can, because no one else has your set of strengths and weaknesses and experiences. You have been entrusted with a family who needs you, friends to love and encourage, and a mission to serve the Lord. And not only is the God of the universe your heavenly Father, but he is also your very best friend. You are incredibly special.”

Lightbulb moment.

Here’s what I know to be true for me:

My posts may be read by thousands of people, or they may never leave the safety of my hard drive. I may one day be known across the country as an author and speaker, or I may be merely the world’s best book reader to three little munchkins. Either way, I am going to work at it with all my heart, because I am on a unique mission to serve God.

And here’s what I know not only for me but for you, once you know the love and saving grace of Jesus Christ:

You are the beloved child of the almighty God. You have been created uniquely to accomplish what no one else can, because no one else has your set of strengths and weaknesses and experiences. You have been entrusted with a family who needs you, friends to love and encourage, and a mission to serve the Lord. And not only is the God of the universe your heavenly Father, but he is also your very best friend. You are incredibly special.

I think that sounds like kind of a big deal.

Katy Epling is a writer, speaker, and “masterpiece in progress” (Ephesians 2:10) from Akron, Ohio. She and her husband Jon have three beautiful children who provide her with multitudes of material—both dramatic and comedic. Learn more about her heart and ministry at katyepling.com.

Photograph © Henri Meilhac, used with permission