Middle Child Syndrome?

Hi Everyone, Time to continue the story.


I was laying in bed this morning, basking in God’s love when the thought came to me again, that I would just love to be whole. I would love to be completely beautiful, feel joy in who I am and who God made me to be. I would like to be pure of heart and mind and reflect God’s greatness in his creation of me.

I wandered if per chance people could see me as beautiful if I truly loved who God made me to be.

I thought of my cousin David. He is a photographer, and a very talented one, might I add. I have seen his works of photography and his skill in creating an atmosphere, a feeling, a sense of what that person is about or wants to be about. I have seen some gorgeous photos and some equally skilled photography but of a darker character. I lay in my bed and wondered, “If I were to ask Dave to take some photos of me, what would it be that I would want people to see and decide about me, my character?” Could he portray beauty even if outwardly I am not model material? Could my inner desire to be wholesome, pure, tender and gentle, loving and joyful in who I am be portrayed outwardly? I would love to have a photo of me like that so that I could look at it and remember, “This is how you are with God in you, just the way he made you!”

I think my family has probably often wondered why I have been the more emotional one in the family and sometimes angry. I want to assure you; I had a most wonderful upbringing with the greatest parents that did their very best. I on the other hand, had some hang ups and I internalized them. I think they always called it, “The middle child syndrome.”

I can remember growing up with certain habits and sins, things that I felt terribly ashamed about. But thankfully I had loving parents who also knew Jesus and His power to save. They did everything they could to raise me in a victorious life through Him. I can remember though, that often (every few months or so) my mother would find a quiet moment to talk to me about my besetting follies and would try to encourage me to victory. She was always loving, quiet, and patient about these little talks with me, but I hated having to admit failure again and again, I was so ashamed! so, I avoided quiet, intimate times. This led me to envie my brother and sister because I saw them enjoying talking quietly, intimately with my mother. I figured in my mind, that they must not have any issues, no problems; nothing to feel ashamed of.  They were what I SHOULD be like.

My sister was as opposite of me as you could get. She was ladylike for as long as I can remember. Her hair was always brushed. She always wore pretty dresses and kept them that way. She cooked, she cleaned, she was responsible, she was shy, and she was musical. She was quiet and always appropriate in her words.

My brother was always conscientious and seemed to think out his ideas and thoughts well. He was quiet but seemed to always have a direction in his life. He set goals and didn’t veer from them whether it was lifting weights, reading his Bible, waving to the train engineer every morning at 5:00, making money or hoeing tomatoes.

I, on the other hand, was a sanguine, bubbly personality. I was carefree and flamboyant for the most part. I was talkative and not shy around strangers. I was a tomboy through and through. I tended to be messy, playful, and a story teller. I could make an adventure story out of most anything. I loved riding my horse at full tilt. I loved my dogs from the very bottom of my toes and I played hard and usually looked like it.

Unfortunately, I didn’t think being this way was very ok. I believed in my heart that my parents would probably truly appreciate it if I would stop saying whatever came to my mind (sometimes, very embarrassing, only I never realized it until after it was said!). I was sure that they would have been relieved if I would act like a lady. I often got my clothes messed up or torn.

I remember wearing a beautiful long dress with a thin skirt and some liners underneath that made it all fluffy. It had pink and yellow flowers all over it. I loved the dress but when my favorite cousin rode by on his little bike one day and stopped to offer me a ride, I straddled the fender with my long flowing dress dragging behind. It got all wrapped up in the tire. It ripped from hem to waist. My mother didn’t say much, she just threw it away.

I had beautiful blondish brown, curly hair. I liked my hair because people told me it was beautiful. The problem is, I never brushed it more then once a day and I didn’t put it up in braids or ponytails unless my mother did it for me. Even then, I often had grass or hay from the barn or twigs from tree climbing stuck in my hair. I remember on many occasions my mother taking the scissors and cutting my hair off short. I knew she was wishing I was more ladylike and I wished that I would remember to be. It was soooo hard! I just couldn’t maintain that personality for more then an hour.

I tried hard to play the piano like my sister but I hated to sit there. My fingers were not talented like hers. Her one hand did something completely different from the other. Mine would simply not work like that. I gave up! My mother would set the timer for me to practice by and I spent most of my time checking the timer. I wanted to learn. I figured it would make mom proud like she was of my sister but after six years of lessons, I still could not play!

I tended to be a much disorganized person (And well, I still am!). I often had a messy room, much to my sister’s chagrin whom I usually roomed with.

Once we moved to BC, we live in an old dilapidated house. My mother fixed up the kitchen, the living room and made a functional bathroom. Then she fixed a private room for my sister. It was pink, with pink curtains, beautiful quilt that my sister made herself, and it was bright and always clean. It was a very grown up looking room. I wanted one too. I begged my mother to fix the attic for me. I had a dream room in mind. But it never happened, probably because she had too many other things on her plate or she didn’t think the attic was a very reasonable choice for a room. I figured, I had to room with my brother because I was too messy and still considered a little kid. I felt that maybe my mother thought that I didn’t deserve a beautiful room because I couldn’t possibly keep it anyway.

Another story about living at that house was that I was 13 years old but had a love for adventure. I raced through the forest, read books while laying on the back of my grazing horse, played for endless hours with my dog, Todd, and my brother. Then one day found me and my brother mucking around in the stinky bog. We were covered in mud from head to toe. My mother thought it was a Kodak moment. I cried when I couldn’t convince her to destroy the photos. I didn’t want anyone, ever, to see me at 13 years old mucking around like that. My sister would have never gone near that hole. Yet there I was covered in it. I just knew that these photos would pin me for sure for being the most immature, unladylike 13 year old ever. I vowed never to go anywhere near that hole again!

I also remember once in Africa while living at someone else’s home. I came home from class one day to find Mr. *Mason vacuuming my room. I was mortified! My clothes were all heaped up on the floor at the foot of the bed. He gave me a fatherly but condemning look. I was so ashamed! He said, “I find your room in a mess!” I answered, “Guilty as tried!” to which he laughed and laughed, but not me. Why could I not just be like my sister and not be so random. I even put the end of my finger in the peanut butter jar one time there, and I got caught. It seemed I lived from one embarrassing moment to another. I was not sure how they felt about having me around but I was convinced they loved my sister because she had her wits about her.

Oh how I wished I was good, and ladylike and talented.

If you would have asked me what my talents were, I would have had a hard time coming up with any idea at all.

I could draw but I didn’t think they were exceptional, so that wouldn’t count for much. Besides, making pretty pictures wasn’t very helpful to anyone in my opinion then.

I was a story teller but I thought that was embarrassing. I wished with all my heart that I could learn to “not talk” so much! I remember even in college, apologizing almost daily to my boyfriend for talking too much!

There was once however, that I was so surprised. My brother was telling a story about “I don’t know what” (he was 13) and my sister told him to please be quiet. He responded with, “Why? Julie tells stories all the time!” She responded with, “Well, at least she’s interesting!” lol. Note: Just so you know, My brother’s not boring! He writes a great blog called “Missionary Pilot” and he’s also not 13 anymore!

I could sing but I only sang with my sister and it wasn’t until her wedding day that I sang a solo for the first time. I knew I could sing but it was then that I discovered that other people didn’t know. I was told, “Wow, we didn’t know you could sing. We only knew Angie could!” I was disheartened actually. Where was I all my life singing away in church beside my sister? Did no one ever notice that I was singing too?

It was when we were invited to go to Africa for the first time that I truly believed I was pretty much a dunce. I was anxiously listening to a telephone call from Kim *Busl to my parents. My mom or dad (I can’t remember) were talking to him and were discussing how each family member could fit in the program in Africa. I heard my parents tell of my sister’s ability in typing and secretarial and that she would probably like to work in the office there. My brother was very good at and interested in agriculture and stuff like that. I listened. I wanted to know what they thought I was capable of. Where could I fit in? The conversation carried on to other things and not a word was said about what Julie could do or how she could fit in. I remember being broken hearted. I was convinced that my parents couldn’t think of anything that I was capable of doing. I was discouraged by that.

I wanted to be viewed as capable; I wanted someone to have confidence in my ability to do something useful. My mother asked me once, “Why does everything have to be a party?” It was exactly what I didn’t want either but I enjoyed having fun too. What was I suppose to do? I wanted to be responsible and hard working like my brother and ladylike, beautiful and quiet like my sister. Then my parents would be proud of me.

My struggle to accept my own personality did not end there. I was fragile but I was not broken. I was still happy, laughing, playing and talking to and telling stories to everyone who would listen. I was confident that I could at least make people laugh if that was of any use! But I was confident that it would please my parents greatly if I was much more like my siblings.

Now, as I have been thinking back, I just want to let all that go away in the past now. I just want to allow myself to be talkative and not feel bad afterwards. I want to be joyful, full of life and humor and love that I am. I can accept that I am not a totally organized person. My house and yard will never look like a park but while I don’t like a messy house, I’m not undone about it. I can accept that I’m not the most routine person on earth but that spontaneity is good too, sometimes (maybe often). Art projects may randomly pop into thoughts and I drop the schedule to accomplish them. I am responsible but in a less serious sort of way. I love and I laugh and I sing. God is truly helping me to find ME!

I’ve always hated my pictures taken. I thought it was near impossible to get a good one, but if I could have my picture taken now, I would want you to see a difference!

I would want you to see Joy, Purity of heart, laughter and sunshine, confidence, courage, gentleness, humbleness, and gratefulness to God for helping me be content to be me as he created me to be.