Am I Enough?

"You gotta want it to win it, and we want it more!
 
 You gotta WANT it to WIN it, and we want it MORE!
 
 You gotta WANT it to WIN it, and WE WANT IT MORE!"
 
The cries of my nine-year-old teammates on my summer soccer league climbed higher and higher around me, called out through jack-o-lantern lips stained orange by the fruit slices served at half time. I played in that summer soccer league every year, hoping that in the nine months since the last season ended, some new and wonderful soccer agility had manifested itself.
 
It never did.
 
But the all-time worst quarter of my six-year-long summer soccer career came during that summer when I was assigned to play goalie. During the few other times I had played that position, my teammates had contained the ball on the other side of the field, allowing me to pass those fifteen minutes of pure torture alone in the goal box. But during this quarter, my team's defense was not terribly good. The other team's offense was quite good. And I could not block a single shot, as one of my teammates exasperatedly pointed out to me.
 
I look back on that now and ask myself why I was so afraid to play goalie. I've never been very competitive in the realm of sports; lost games deprived me of no sleep. As goalie, the risk of injury elevated, but still that was not my chief concern. As I look back seventeen years to my nine-year-old self in the goalie box, I realize that I wanted to be skilled. I wanted to be good at soccer, to heroically lead my team to victory. But deep down, I feared that I was not good enough. Though I wanted to be, I knew I was not enough.
 
How many times in the ensuing years have I asked that question: Am I enough? Trying to answer it has led me to push myself harder to achieve goals that, illuminated by the harsh light of reality, often prove inconsequential: Driving myself beyond my breaking point in my high school AP classes just to gain mere tenths of points on my grade point average; pushing for those extra thirty minutes on the elliptical at the gym; scrambling to fill the empty blocks on my calendar to capacity.
 
A good priest friend of mine has an image of the Blessed Mother in his office that I have come to adore. It's an image of Pentecost painted by Jean II Restout in which she stands in the center and the Holy Spirit descends, taking the form of tongues of fire flickering above the heads of the dozen people pictured. Nearly all cower as their fear melts to awe. I have an inkling of what question initially haunts them before the Spirit's power overcomes them: Am I enough? How can I do what is being asked of me? How can I possibly be enough to accomplish this task?
 
Nearly all cower, save one. The Blessed Mother stands tall and gazes heavenward, a quiet serenity coating her countenance. She does not ask the question, “Am I enough?”. She looks at the very Spirit of God flooding her soul and murmurs: You are enough.
 
You are enough. He is enough. I am not enough, but that is of no consequence. He is enough.
 
St. Catherine of Siena said, "Be brave! Don't be afraid of your weakness because in Christ crucified you can do everything." In that love, lavishly outpoured on the cross, my every inadequacy vanishes; every tear dries; every fear dissipates. He, Who is enough, loves me, who am not. And that's the only validation I ever need.
 
Pentecost approaches quickly. These next few days are a deep breath held, a promise awaiting fulfillment. I'm praying for the fire of Holy Spirit to consume me, incinerating any dependence on my own merit lingering in the inked caverns of my heart. And in that violent wind of Pentecost, in that sheer awe, in that blazing fire, I'll come face-to-face with the One Who is enough. In that moment, I will lose myself but gain everything. I gain Him.