I started repeating “par for the course” as a sort of mantra in college. A paper came back marked in red—par for the course. Fined for an overdue library book—happens to most people. Par for the course. I said something foolish in class—par.
I took a lot of comfort from the reminder that a hole in one is not par. Perfection, or even excellence, is not par. Repeating the sports phrase helped unwind the twist in my insides whenever I felt I’d missed the mark.
Unless you are also a little neurotic or a fan of golf, this might seem terribly obvious. But golf is a weird choice of metaphor for me. I cannot overemphasize how unathletic I am.
I distinctly remember at the age of eleven or twelve dissolving into Oscar-winning tears in my living room as my parents sat, confused, on the worn tapestry sofa. They had just announced their intention to enroll my siblings and I in a recreational youth basketball program. It was supposed to be a good thing. And here I was sobbing like I’d received a life sentence.
My parents made great sacrifices to be able to give us kids opportunities. At eleven or twelve, I understood this, though we never really talked about it. I cherished my piano and ballet lessons. So my dramatic protest probably came as a surprise.
“I’m not good,” I appealed. “I’m not fast. My teammates will hate me.”
At eleven or twelve, on the cusp of middle school, I could imagine nothing more mortifying than displaying my lack of sports skill to my peers. I had already laid the foundation of a solid nerd identity and completely accepted non-popular status. I was on track to be a curve-breaker, not a star shooter. After a taste of cliques and bullying, I smothered the weak, traitorous part of my young heart that desired the general approval of my peers. It was a liability. I openly rejected “normality” in my hobbies, interests, and personal style. There was only room in my life and identity for the skills and activities in which I could reliably excel—like academics.
There’s a lot of security in being “weird” in ways adults celebrate. From my ivory tower, the meanest of my peers looked petty and ridiculous.
I must have seemed like such a stuck-up suck-up.
I don’t know if my parents really understood why I appealed the basketball ruling, but they conceded mercifully.
If they had forced me to do it, I might have grown up a more well-rounded person. Maybe if my perfectionism was nipped in the bud, I would have stressed less or breathed more. Of course, I had (and rejected) many other opportunities to stretch my comfort zone.
My mom advised me before my first semester at college, “Get a B and go to a basketball game.” I did get one or two B’s; I never went to a basketball game. Too busy studying to even be a sports fan.
I had never learned to offer less than maximum effort or to accept that maximum effort could achieve less than perfection. I had totally conflated “my best” and “the best.” I’d built my tower on shifting sands.
So, I stress out and burn out and constantly try to mitigate the erosion. I know I have an Achilles heel: I still base too much of my self-worth in being smart, creative, and good at my job. It’s a little bit funny that one of the reasons I am notoriously bad at sports, according to a physical therapist, is a defect in my Achilles tendons.
Just as I’ve been comforted by the truth that perfection is not par, I’ve been comforted by the notion that my lack of athleticism is not my fault, not for lack of trying.
But if I’m honest, I lean too much on nature. I was surprised last year when wheel-thrown pottery and glass blowing proved to be harder than they looked. Other art mediums came naturally. As my thumb punched through my clay again and molten glass wobbled out of shape, I felt my heart beat faster. “You are failing,” an interior voice nagged and then, to divert suspicion, it added, “everyone is watching…”
First of all, bull.
Second, I consider myself adventurous, yet I’m scared of being amateur. How silly.
Did you know that “par” in Latin means “average” or “ordinary” but in golf it means “the number of strokes expected of an expert playing in good weather”? Essentially, “par for the course” is the goal for a skilled person in favorable conditions.
So, in 2025, I’m not going for par. I’m not entirely sure what I will strive for. I don’t find clichés about eating elephants or journeys of 1,000 miles particularly compelling. Maybe I’ll stick with what I’ve been telling myself as I stumble in late to the gym and fall out of yoga poses: “This is what I can do today.”
This is what I can do today.
Maybe that’s a little bit what Jesus means when he tells us to pray for our “daily bread.” Not just a request for some erudite spiritual strength or basic physical need, but a partaking in a crude, humble grace—the ordinary reminder that our worth is not something we muster up. It’s something we receive, something already given and given again, and again. Sacrament can replace mantra.
Emily Stroble is a writer of bits and pieces and is distractedly pursuing lots of novel ideas and nonfiction projects as inspiration strikes. As an editorial assistant at Zondervan, she helps put the pieces of children’s books and Bibles together. A lover of the ridiculous, inexplicable, and wondrous as well as stories of all kinds, Emily enjoys getting lost in museums, movies old and new, making art, the mountains of Colorado, and the unsalted oceans near Grand Rapids. Her movie reviews also appear in the Mixed Media section of The Banner and her strange little stories of the fantastic are on the Calvin alumni fiction blog Presticogitation. Her big dream is to dig her hands deep into the soil of making children’s books as an editor…and to finally finish her children’s novel.
