Being used, feeling useful and finding your true worth

Last night I went to see the latest Mission Impossible film.

As we have come to expect from the franchise it is filled with unbelievable stunts and incredible actions sequences, all wrapped around a thrilling edge of your seat storyline. It might not be completely credible but it’s easy to suspend disbelief in reality, sit back, munch your popcorn and enjoy.

The one line that jumped out at me was

                “He can use you. He will see your value.” (paraphrased)

Ethan Hunt is talking about Kittridge, the puppet master of the IMF, who pulls everyone’s strings should you accept his mission.

He will recruit those with worth to the cause, those with the right shady skill set, the kind of talents that would put most people behind bars. But if you mess up, leave too many dead bodies in your wake, or if you go rogue, you are immediately disavowed, abandoned on your own.

So why did this almost throwaway line stick in my head? I’m sure most people sitting in the cinema would not have given it a second thought.

Probably because I’ve been reading a book called Valuable by Liz Carter. Under the beautiful gold lettering of the title, it says “why your worth is not defined by how useful you feel.”

Liz suffers from a chronic lung condition which can stop her from leaving the house for days and has on some occasions been so severe that she has been hospitalised. Further lung damage from complex pneumonia meant she had to give up teaching and one day she faced the inevitable introductory question. “What do you do?”

It’s said so innocently, it trips off the tongue as if what you do is what makes you important in life.

I will admit it’s my least favourite question too, I’m a full-time mum, but my boys are now in their twenties, a housewife without a husband to care for since he died, a volunteer, a cancer survivor, a writer??? Maybe? Please ask a different question or compliment me on my hair instead.

We are obsessed with what people DO, but does a fancy job title make them valuable? Liz calls this the “productivity lie.”

If we are not USEFUL to society what about as a Christian being USEFUL to God?

Sadly, it has become common parlance in our prayer lives when we face tough times. I have prayed that God can USE my situation of being widowed young and I so often see writing a book about it that helps others as the reason it all happened in the first place. In my tiny human brain that sort of makes some sense of the tragedy.

Liz wonders if this language is helpful? Does God really USE us like an object?

It is a crass way of seeing things, we don’t have our own children to be our objects, seeing their worth in what they can do for us and God is the perfect heavenly Father. We are not created to be His puppets.

Unlike Kittridge in Mission Impossible God does not judge our worth in what we can do, he won’t disavow and reject us if we fail.

He loves us unconditionally and, in her book, Liz highlights other words to redefine our relationship with God “partnership, joining and co-working.”

God’s Kingdom is an upside down one where he comes alongside the broken, the messed up, those who feel they don’t measure up. Just look at the disciples, mostly fishermen, a tax collector, a motley crew of misfits and hardly the brightest bunch but Jesus chose them as his closest friends and revealed his secrets to them, even if they rarely understood the bigger picture.

Jesus didn’t USE them, he gently worked alongside them in partnership and even in their failings they were not USELESS. Their stories give us hope that there is a place for us in our weakness too. We are VALUABLE.

As Liz says in her concluding chapter, “you are a mirror of God’s glory, not an object of God’s use.”

It could take some time to completely change the language we use (pun intended), to be honest we probably never will but maybe being more aware is a good start. Better yet got hold of a copy of the book - just click here  https://www.thegoodbook.co.uk/valuable 

And a final takeaway from Mission Impossible – while Kittridge may think he’s all powerful and in control, Ethan Hunt and his allies never doubt their worth and always look out for one another. Not because they might come in useful for the next mission but because as painful as it might be to admit they are true friends.

Hands up who remembers Friends Reunited?

Hands up who remembers Friends Reunited? It all seems such a long time ago, my children were tiny and we had a dial up connection for our shared family computer, housed in a cubby hole under the stairs.

I can hear the squeaks and beeps, with the sound of Tellytubbies on in the background. Meanwhile I furtively looked up old friends and acquaintances to compare notes.

I may never have had a brilliant career but now I had my own little family, and for the girl who never had a proper boyfriend until she was twenty-four I had finally “made it”. How had everyone else fared I wondered?

Of course, Friends Reunited was only the first of many, Facebook superseded it and many other social media platforms have come and gone in the intervening years.

I have always been a big fan of Facebook. Andrew and I joined when our eldest was still twelve to get ahead of the game before he turned thirteen and was officially allowed to have his own account – we were strict parents.

One of my favourite tasks each day is to catch up with Facebook memories, the online photo diary of yesteryear.

I joined Twitter when I started writing, came off it a few years later but decided to start a new account a couple of years ago – my old Twitter handle still existed, it was almost as if I’d never been away – only much has changed including number of characters you could use in one tweet – it had doubled - that’s inflation I suppose!

Meanwhile Instagram is still all new to me and I will confess I don’t really get it – how am I supposed to share stories? How do I share a blog post? What’s with all the #######?

But apparently it is essential for a writer’s profile, all that promotion potential, if you know how to work the system. I’m certainly followed by plenty of people – lots on new men every day – Johnny Depp and Keanu Reeves – oh I don’t think so matey – Block! Block! Block!

This is all stopping me from writing in the first place.

And now Twitter is collapsing into a black hole – although its demise seems to be in slow motion, much talked about but is anything happening or is it just hype?

Only a few months ago people were jumping ship to Mastodon – I never bothered. But now there is Threads – should I click the magic button and add another social media platform to my growing portfolio – it’s all in aid of promoting my book which is in the stages of being published, so I need a space to shout into cyberspace – buy my book!!!!!! Is anybody listening?????

To be honest I’m getting a bit tired of it all, should I give it all up or just take a break for a month or two.

A nagging voice tells me I would lose traction, lose followers, fall foul of the algorithms, and disappear into my own black hole.

Then again it might be nice and quiet there, I might get the chance to think, to actually write something!

What really excites me about releasing my book into the wild is meeting real people. I dream of talking to church groups, WI’s or anyone that would like me to speak – if I sell a book or two what a bonus. It’s all a bit of a daydream but I’m going to try and make it happen.

I don’t need to make this work for financial gains, in many ways I am lucky I lost my husband and I can live off his pension. It also gave me something to write about – oh the irony. Black humour has seen me through a lot of dark days.

But, back to the subject of social media, do I join Threads to be sociable, or just wait and see?????

I’m sure it will be filled with the same people I already follow and the same photos they have shared elsewhere will pop up again – same old same old – In the good old days’ procrastination used to be much more fun without the FOMO.

Meanwhile, I’ve caught up with most of my old school friends now, marriages, divorces, children and careers, most of my friends don’t share as much as they used to. There are only a few of us on Facebook still over sharing - Wordle scores, sunrises, vicariously sharing our children’s successes, because our children have long since abandoned Facebook. I have one son who only uses Twitter for work and one who doesn’t see the point of any of it.

Perhaps it’s not just Twitter that’s dying maybe we are waking up to the fact that “social media” is not terribly sociable after all.

Although I am a hypocrite because I shall still be sharing a link to this blog on Facebook and Twitter 

because how else will you find me!!!!

Coach Trip Etiquette – a cautionary tale

 

an image of Ireland

I’ve just been on holiday with one of my oldest friends and last time we spent so much time together we were hormonal teenagers on a school trip. We probably fell out with each other at least once a day.

There were no such worries this time, we are grown-ups now and therefore much more sensible and tolerant, but, with 46 other strangers on the coach, including a Welsh driver and an Irish guide there is always the possibility that there may be a few fireworks.

Now I wouldn’t want to call anyone a female dog without good reason and one particularly diminutive and smartly dressed fellow traveller certainly doesn’t deserve to be called a rude name, but from the start there was something about her blonde fluffy bob and large innocent eyes that made me think of her as a dog. Not a common or garden variety, but one of those fancy dog breeds that sounds like it’s been named by a ten-year-old boy - a ShitzBum or a LassiePoo.

These breeds are always overly pampered, often miniature in stature and quite unforgiving in nature. We certainly got on her yappy side that evening as she bared her teeth menacingly, taking no prisoners.

It was never our intention to cause such upset. Our faux pas? Sitting on her table for the evening meal.

While seats were allocated on the coach, we were under the impression that one was free to sit at any table for dinner. It’s always good to mix things up a bit, meet new people, make connections, seek common ground.

For the first two evenings we had done just that. Being polite and friendly, discussing such topics as how many sugars one should have in a cup of tea, apparently five is perfectly acceptable! We talked about medical issues, places we’d visited, gardening, and the lack of green leafy vegetables served with dinner.

It was the third evening when the problems started because we dared try out another new table.

We did ask if we could join them and maybe from the start we should have sensed the vibe that this particular round table had been set in stone since the days of King Arthur.

Actually, we did move to make amends and keep the peace but were convinced to come back by a couple who felt really bad for not being one hundred percent welcoming. We settled down and with the table full the waitress took our orders.

That’s when “Mrs Fluffy Face” arrived.

“Where’s my cushion?” She demanded, taking the tone of Queen Victoria, certainly not amused by the state of things.

Obviously, saving dining chairs with cushions is akin to the Germans saving recliners by the pool with their beach towels – if only we had known. Only being in our mid-fifties, we are relative novices when it comes to coach holiday etiquette.

And to be fair we’d not spotted the cushion.

The waitress explained they would have to move to another table this evening to avoid messing up the food orders already being prepared and she led the woman and her friend to another table where the blue tartan pillow awaited her fussy behind.

Unfortunately, she was placed in my direct eyeline and glared at me all throughout the meal. We tried to enjoy some different conversations with new “acquaintances”, one could hardly say” friends”, but vowed not to sit there again the following evening.

Now you might think this is the end of my tale, and we learnt a valuable lesson, but there is a twist.

When we retired that night, we happened upon a pair of blue tartan chairs in an alcove just outside our room. One chair was missing a cushion.

image found on pintrest

It doesn’t require the skills of Miss Marple to deduce that our nemesis was probably staying in a room nearby. Maybe even next door.

For the first two nights of our stay, we’d not even locked our door, but that night we did in fear of being suffocated by a tartan pillow in the early hours.

As you can see, I’m here tonight to tell the tale so we survived the night, resolving to keep out of her way and the rest of the trip went by without a hitch, with no stolen seats or pillow-fighting duels at dawn but we discovered there is a far greater crime to be committed on a coach trip, than pinching someone’s seat.

Never, ever, be late back for a pick-up because a coach load of disgruntled passengers can so easily turn into a vicious pack of baying dogs, not all with the impeccable pedigree of a Lapsong – poo-bum.