The Year of Joy, in Review

"Here's to feeling good all the time."

~Kramer, "The Sniffing Accountant," Seinfeld 

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. ~Jesus, Matthew 5:4

In mid-December, on a day that fell in "that time of the month," I had breakfast with my friend Gina and I asked her an important question. 

"Gina, do I seem normal to you?"

Gina, God bless her, did not laugh at me, but, in her quiet way considered it, seeing in my eyes that I was serious. "Yes, you do," she answered.

"Do I seem like I'm doing okay? Like I love God and am happy about my life?"

"Yes, you do."  

"Okay, well let me ask you something else then. Do you feel happy for a couple of hours in the day and then for an hour feel bad? Like bored or discouraged or irritated?"

"Yes. That's life."

Oh. Yes. I believe I've heard that concept before. Why has it not sunk in? 

Well, part of why I didn't know this on that particular day was because of hormones, which make my brain whisper, "The reality is, you're nuts," about two days out of 30. (My cousin Kelley posted on facebook recently that she didn't know which was the real her: the PMS version or the non-PMS version. I wanted to send her a box of chocolates.) But really, deep down, even during hormonal stability, I would really rather not have emotional ups and downs and do my darnedest not to.When I experience "negative" emotions, I jump to bad conclusions about myself, the state of my life, and even the state of my standing with God.

In January of 2013 I heard God say: This will be your year of joy. I wrote a blog about it a year ago (http://www.scrapsofsoul.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-year-of-joy.html), and I wondered how that would shake out in reality. The Bible often says that joy will come through trials and suffering. I learned that lesson this year, but in a different way than I expected.

Here is the number one lesson I learned about myself in 2013: I want to feel happy all the time.

The number two thing I learned: I don't. And when I don't, I feel both guilty and afraid that I don't.

Number three: Being preoccupied with feeling good all the time makes the moments of good less satisfying and the moments of feeling bad much worse.Trying to feel good all the time also really hurts my relationship with my heavenly Father, who tells me that He wants me to be truthful, all the way down, even in my emotions: "Surely You desire integrity in the inner self, and You teach me wisdom deep within." Psalm 51:6.

I was raised by a dad who had great faith and always seemed to be happy. Having observed him and misinterpreted his example and teaching (as children of even the best parents are apt to do), I thought trusting God meant always feeling good and being grateful. Hence, the guilt when I don't feel good.

And having a history of anxiety and depression (which could be partially caused by the fact that I often felt guilty any time I felt bad growing up), I fear sadness. What I learned this year through study and experience is that sadness -- unlike clinical depression -- is productive. Sadness is an indicator that something is not right -- in a relationship for example -- and may lead to change and healing in the relationship.

Or sometimes, when sadness is caused by something unchangeable, like an incurable illness in a loved one, a loss, or a death, sadness is a necessary part of healing. Fearing that sadness in those instances is destructive. When I push sadness or mourning away from me, it crops up in other ways as anger or irritability or numbness. I can't feel compassion for others if I'm afraid to feel sad and so I cut myself off from others. But, when I allow myself to feel grief,  I've found it to be true what Jesus says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."

One of the funniest scenes ever in the Seinfeld series is when Kramer goes "undercover" to try to find out if his accountant (who always seems to be sniffing)) is doing cocaine and squandering his money. Kramer sits next to him at the bar and assumes what he assumes to be the attitude of a drug user. With a cigarette hanging from his mouth, he looks at the sniffing accountant, holds up a pint of beer and says, "Here's to feeling good all the time." Then he chugs it down in one take.

As much as this scene makes me laugh, it also makes me think of some sad realities. Trying to feel good all the time is what drives us to addictions: drugs, alcohol, business, eating, excessive exercise, work-a-holism. We end up in those places running from sadness and loss. God can't comfort us when we have numbed out our pain.

As far as boredom, frustration, anger, apathy, jealousy, anxiousness, fear, insecurity, and all the other less-than-blissful emotions that I experience on a weekly basis go, the more I'm willing to name and recognize them, the less scary they become and the faster I get over them. And here's the most radical concept I've discovered in the Year of Joy. Sometimes a little wallowing doesn't hurt. A little sitting around feeling kind of crappy doesn't hurt you once a month.

When I was depressed, I had all kinds of tools to make myself get out of bed and keep moving, be productive, active and social in order to keep from sinking. I would sing to myself Dory from Finding Nemo's refrain "just keep swimming, swimming, swimming." That was right and necessary at that time.

But now, five years later, in a much healthier place, if I wake up with the blues -- hormonally induced or otherwise -- sometimes I haul my sad butt off to the gym and salsa dance, and then shower and blow dry my hair. The fake-it-till-you-make-it approach.

But sometimes I put on my yoga pants, don't do yoga, and watch three hours of "Downton Abbey" while eating cereal with my greasy hair in a ponytail.

Whichever approach from above, I also include simply telling God how I feel. "Lord, I'm so anxious right now. I think [insert name of friend] might be mad at me." Or, "God, I am cranky and sick of housekeeping." Or, "Lord, I have very hurt feelings. I feel angry and misunderstood."

Never, never, never is God's response, "Come on, Amanda, suck it up." Never is it condemnation. Instead, always it is comfort. Sometimes in the form of a brotherly pat on the head. Sometimes, on the level of strong arms wrapped around me. Sometimes, a surge of courage or well-being. And always, always, a sense of restored joy.

Negative emotions do not disqualify us from a life of faith. Adverse experiences don't separate us from God's love. But honesty in the inmost parts: this is my path to joy. This is the wisdom and freedom God gave me in 2013. The year of joy indeed. 

For his anger is but for a moment, and his favor is for a lifetime. 

Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning. ~Psalm 30:5

What I Preach

I don't know if all teachers, speakers, and pastors have the same experience, but I am not allowed to say anything from the stage that I am not asked to live out within a week. 

In October I was hired to address a group of young mothers at a church in Oceanside, in which many of the women are military wives, and have husbands stationed at nearby Camp Pendelton, or currently deployed oversees. Their speaker coordinator asked for my talk "What Can Postpartum Depression Do for You?" my least popular topic. Really, who wants to get a morning off from their kids and listen to a talk on anxiety and depression? But I'll drive to any group that asks me to talk about this, because the statistics on women who suffer from depression in our country are staggering (about one in four with be diagnosed in their lifetime).

I try to approach the subject with order, humor and a light hand. I have well organized slides, funny stories about breastfeeding on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland, and practical tips. 

But it didn't work out that way, on that day. From the moment I began to speak, a woman in the back of the room burst into tears. About 15 minutes in, someone at every table was crying. As I spoke about risk factors and causes of anxiety, I realized that the military wives could probably put a check next to every one on the list. And somehow without making a conscious decision to do so, I set aside my clever outline and instead laid out my raw experience before them: my fear, my pain, my confusion, my brokenness. And eventually, my rescue.

I didn't get to be a wonderful, funny speaker that day; I didn't feel great about my entertainment value or my skills on stage.  But instead I saw that through me, God gave these women an opportunity to share their pain with each other, and shine light on what had been a source of shame for so many of them. In the group I sat with after my talk, the women on either side of me shared that they had both experienced severe PPD, and neither of them had told anyone before but their mothers and husbands. 

I don't know if I got through all my points on "paths to healing" that day, but I did get to the first: Come clean and tell someone what you are going through. And boy, did those brave women take that step. 

I got to my second major point too, and this one I was called on to practice: All of us mothers need to stop trying to do everything alone. We need to accept that each one of us has both physical and emotional limitations, which are unique to us. We are foolish if we aren't willing to ask for help when we have -- or, even better, before we have -- come to the end of our rope. 

I spoke in two different groups that week in October, each over 50 miles from home. I was sick with a nasty cold, but I pushed through with prayer, cold medicine and adrenaline. By the drive home through Camp Pendelton I was both sobbing with sympathy and snuffling with mucus. I had totally lost my voice by dinnertime. 

By the next morning, I had a migraine, so painful it was difficult to stand. Ignoring my own advice, I drove myself to Sophia's soccer game. On the way to the Olivia's game, I almost couldn't drive. I went home instead, crawled (literally) to my bed, and called my neighbor in tears, begging for Excedrin. She offered to go buy some for me (God bless her), but instead I called my mommy. And she came right over. She brought me food, drink, and medicine. She went to Target for me and bought Kleenex, bread, milk and toilet paper (all of which we were out of because I had been too sick and busy to go to the store). 

She patted my hand and sat with me until I went to sleep. I hardly ever let my mom take care of me like this, even though she wants to do it and is excellent at it. In fact, part of why I got PPD six years ago is that I didn't ask her to help me when I had acute bronchitis and a 10 day old child. She respected my boundaries, but at that moment my boundaries were bad. I needed help.

Meanwhile, my husband had the kids with him for Olivia's game, and another game he had to referee. He got them lunch at a drive through. They were tired and bored, but they made it. Mommy couldn't take care of them, but they survived anyway.

Here's what postpartum depression did for me. It stripped me of the illusion that I can make it through motherhood (or life in general) on my own. I can say that now with absolutely no shame. In return, it gave me the comforting knowledge that there are a lot of people in my life willing to stand by me when I can barely stand. I have a lot more of them now than I did five years ago, and most of them are willing to call me when they are sick, desperate, sad, or all three. I'm so grateful! All our children are also reaping the benefit of this village of imperfect moms, a small army of "aunties" and Mrs. So-and-sos that care for and love them. 

Most of all, I'm grateful to be able to share the most precious piece of my story: that when the only prayer I could pray was "Help me!" God did. He comforted me with scripture and His own gentle presence; through my husband and my friends; through medication and therapy. And ultimately, He called me to share the experience with other women. 

So that whether they ever suffer from a clinical mood disorder, or just experience the emotional ups and downs that are part of being human (especially female), they can experience freedom from perfectionism, come out of isolation, and know what it is to love and be loved just as they are. 

Ultimately, this is always the subject on which I "preach." It is for freedom that we have been set free. I'm beyond thankful that there are women willing to listen. God bless you all.

What I Failed to Accomplish This Year

Well, my children have four days left in the school year, and I'm sure they have learned a lot. But when it comes to their mother, I can't say that she is really better off as a mother of elementary school students than she was in September. You may consider this entry as the follow up to one I wrote in September which began...

I flunked Kindergarten the first time so they are making me repeat it. 

In it I detailed the ways in which I failed to be a responsible parent of a kindergartener the first time. I don't think I substantially improved. And yet I feel totally at peace with myself in this regard. 

From where I sit now in the drop down desk in my sunny yellow kitchen, I can see the okra yellow reading log, on which I am supposed to date and chronicle every 20-minute reading period I do daily with Olivia, my kindergartner. It is June 14th. And it is still blank. I came up with a good system of keeping it on the fridge, down low where Olivia could reach it, and I didn't lose one the whole year. However, neither did I ever have one completed until the night before it was due; in fact, I falsified a lot of them by looking at the books on Olivia's shelf for ideas of book titles. I did read to her, as much as she wanted. But not 20 minutes a day. (I have a theory that forcing kids to be read to when they do not want to be read to and are creatively playing in their rooms makes them less likely to love books, not more likely.) And though Liv can reach her log, she didn't write on it once. 

I never established a regular homework routine. And yet we did turn in her homework on time all but twice. 

I never did start the habit of making the kids lunches the night before school, nor did I learn to enjoy preparing them in the morning. But I did write a catchy little song that goes "I hatey the lunchy but I make it, I make it," which I sing several mornings a week. 

I didn't clean out the kids backpacks regularly. But I did train them (finally! in May!) to empty their lunch boxes and put them away every day. Almost. 

I didn't always remember to pack Olivia her water bottle. And yet she has not suffered from dehydration once. 

I sent Sophia to school a couple of times to buy her lunch and she didn't have money in her cafeteria account. But they let her eat anyway, and I paid it back fairly quickly.  

I volunteered the classroom once a week. Kind of. I missed a whole month due to illness. I had to cancel several to go to doctor's appointments or speak at MOPS groups, and a few times I forgot to call ahead. But the reading groups seemed to continue and the teachers still smile at me and apparently don't think I'm the worst parent in the world. 

All these things I have flubbed, failed at, and faked my way through and the glorious fact is that the world did not come to an end. My children are still alive and learning things. In fact, what both my girls' teachers tell me is that they are happy, confident, well-liked children; Olivia's teacher told me her love of learning has exploded this spring, despite not getting 20 minutes a day of reading (the teachers do not know this; again, I lied on the reading log). 

It's wonderfully freeing to know that all the things I wish I was doing better are not actually essential to being a pretty good mom. And I'm not sure, but I think this attitude is good for my kids to observe. 

Back when Sophia was in preschool, I forgot to show up to a kindergarten readiness assembly until it was almost over. I came flying through the door and the preschool director spotted me, sensed my distress and put her arm around me. "It's okay to make mistakes," she said. I was 30 years old and don't think anyone had ever said that to me; or perhaps I just never heard it. But I remember thinking "I'm glad my little girl goes to school here." And it was kind of a turning point for me. If I'm not trying to be the perfect mom, my kids are free from needing to be perfect too. 

Not that I'm perfect at not trying to be perfect. I'm my own harshest critic in other ways, as just about every mother in the world is, or in my world at least. 

But I've come a long way in my quest toward imperfectionism. I'm getting better at not always needing to get better.

Next year, I will have a first grader and a fourth grader. No more early childhood parenting for me. Homework is about to get crazy in fourth grade I hear. I may need to establish more routines. Perhaps next year I'll be more organized. 

Or perhaps I won't. I'm looking forward to seeing how I do.

 

All I Can Say Is, I Survived

I had a beautifully humbling experience yesterday. 

I was hired by a church in Tustin to speak on the subject of Safe, Sane Friends. (I call it "All My Friends Have Issues" after my blog of same name.) I thought I was speaking to their Mothers of Preschoolers group, which generally means an audience of mothers of infants and toddlers. Many are pregnant; most are sleep deprived. 

But instead, I found out when I arrived that I was actually speaking to their MOPS Next group, which meant mothers of elementary and junior-high-aged children.  (This was totally my error, by the way. They told me two months ago in an e-mail but I somehow missed the detail). So, instead of walking into a room where I feel "ahead" of the women, I am suddenly in a place to share my insights with people who ought to know more than me.

I came clean about this immediately as I opened my speech, and the women seemed appreciative of my candor, particularly when I told them that if they wanted to feel superior and more put together they should go downstairs with the baby moms. I know I was feeling more confident downstaris. I knew at the very least I had probably got more sleep than most of the women in the room and therefore had a mental edge. Plus, I didn't have any spit-up on my shirt. 

In reality, there is absolutely nothing superior about me in a room of MOPS moms. I only graduated out of the early childhood stage of mothering about a month ago. True, many of the women I'll be speaking to this fall have not hit the milestones of picking a preschool or navigating the world of drop-off play dates or getting a child to sleep in their underwear without accidents -- all of which I have done. Twice. But just because I have done those things doesn't mean I did them very well, or that I have any idea what the best way for them to do it is. 

All I can really say about early childhood mothering is that I survived. I am still married. I still love -- and even like -- my children. And I now find that I have come out the other side of the early childhood tunnel with a better sense of myself. 

It's possible that's what young mothers need most: to see someone that has come out of the whole process alive and smiling. The worst thing that ever happened when I was covered in spit-up with a screaming baby in the cart and a yelping  three year old under my arm at Target was to have an older woman say that I should savor every moment because this is the best time of my life. 

What a lot of hoo-ey that was. Parenting is steadily improving with age (check back with me when the girls turn 13). Crawling baby was more fun than sitting-there baby and walking baby was the best. Four years old was way better than three. Elementary school kids are awesome: more independent but still willing to wear t-shirts that say "My Mom is Totally Awesome."

In the strict parenting advice sense I only have two pearls of wisdom. 1) Hang in there. 2) This too shall pass (the good stages and the bad). 

On the other hand, I know God is calling me to speak to women, especially young mothers. So what do I have to share? First, that God loves them and cares deeply about their lives. But also, spiritual truths that I've learned from God's word, wise mentors, counselors, and my own experience (mistakes are great teachers). Here's my advice to moms, for what it's worth (and let's hope the first one was relevant to those beautiful elementary and junior high moms I met yesterday): 

1.Build a network of safe, sane friends by being learning how to be one, and keep those women close. Don't try to do life alone. 

2. Let go of perfectionism. No. Stronger than that! Wage war on perfectionist thinking styles. The "shoulds" and "all-or-nothing" thoughts of perfectionism  lie to you and make you feel that you are doing much worse than you are. Perfectionism keeps you from taking risks, stifles creativity, and robs you of joy. Daily! So embrace the beauty of Imperfectionsim: pursuing love and excellence without expecting perfection from yourself or others!


3. Give yourself permission to rest and refuel, preferably at your Father's feet. Ask God every day to help you choose "the one thing that is needed," as Jesus praised Mary for in the gospel of Luke. Stop working before you get bitter. 

4. Negative emotions like fear and frustration don't disqualify you from a life of faith with God, or make you a bad mother. But chronic fear, anger, anxiety and depression are indicators that something is off. Seek God. Seek counsel. Seek help. God wants you living in a land of joy and freedom, but sometimes we have to travel a desert to get to them, and in the desert, you need a guide.  

5. Don't worry if you aren't currently making a living. Concentrate on making a life. Our culture devalues women who don't earn money, but life is much more than making a paycheck. Even if you have "given up" your career to be with your babies (and you go, girl if you are able to do so),   you never know how the lessons you are learning from being a mom are going to be used in the greater world  around the next bend in the road. Stay-at-home mom status isn't necessarily a permanent state. 

And now, as I step off my soap box, I'd like to say thanks to the MOPS Next moms of Trinity Pres for your listening ears and your laughter. And thanks for showing me, as I follow in your footsteps, that you too are coming out the next stage of mothering alive!

Reality Check? Check.

"If you think of this world as a place intended simply for our happiness, you find it quite intolerable: think of it as a place of training and correction and it's not so bad."

C.S. Lewis, from God in the Dock

As it turns out, packing your favorite outfits, organizing your trunk, and stocking your car with healthy snacks does nothing to prevent forest fires and the stomach flu on vacation. 

In my last blog, before heading out on a road trip that would include about 26 hours of total driving in nine days to northern Utah and back, I wrote about my obviously mistaken belief that I could create the perfect vacation by packing the best version of myself. Even before we embarked, I knew that no amount of planning could create a pretty, problem free life. Deep down I knew it, at least, but on the surface I knew I was denying it. And so I prayed for a reality check. 

Don't pray those kinds of prays, friends, unless you would like our faithful God to answer in the affirmative. 

The state of Utah was aflame last week as we drove from Zion up to the northern mountains, where my sister in law lives in Park City. We passed through huge smoke clouds south of Provo and watched helicopters douse the acreages of brush fire. Even at over 6,000 feet in Park City, we could catch the scent of ash on the wind during the first two days we were there. And then on our third day, our wedding anniversary, the slope of Alpine, less than 50 miles from where we were staying, caught fire. While Hubby was four miles up a slope on a mountain bike (his first time ever) and I was in a pool with my daughters and nieces, we watched the sun turn red, the sky turn orange and the pool surface skim over with gray ash. Not dream vacation conditions.

Fortunately, by Fourth of July morning, that particular fire was contained and the wind had shifted. With optimism renewed we headed out to the downtown Fourth of July parade. With about 10 minutes of parade remaining, Sophia complained of stomach cramps, and I took her to the public restroom, where, sick and disoriented, she faced the wrong way in the stall and vomited the contents of her stomach onto the floor. I, who fear the stomach flu so much that I often faint when my kids throw up, was severely challenged by this experience. 

After I mopped up the tile floor with paper towels, we rushed home, amid our family’s assurances that Sophia had altitude sickness and it would pass. But by 9 that evening, Hubby and I were both curled up on the fold-out couch of his sister’s basement, sick as dogs ourselves. 

I call my philosophy on which this blog centers Imperfectionism, and I’ve never been able to satisfactorily articulate it in a concise and punchy way for the synopsis you see here on the side. But the way I feel about my vacation can illustrate it well. There was a moment during that week that my husband and I convened downstairs in what we came to refer to as the Barf Basement (it’s a lovely space actually, and I hope if you ever visit our sister you won’t hold this against it), that we seriously discussed just cutting bait and heading home early. Could this experience possibly be redeemed? 

To go home would have been an example of one type of Perfectionist thinking: All or Nothing. This trip is either all good, or all bad, and we were tempted to stamp it all bad. 

Imperfectionism however, allows it to be flawed but still worthwhile. It even embraces the nasty moments as fodder for a good story (or a good blog, perhaps). And so we stayed through to our last day. 

Our reward: a chairlift ride up to Deer Valley, where we hiked through wildflowers and aspens. We ate a wonderful lunch (carefully, our stomachs were still delicate). Our Livie overcame her fear of heights and wrote a song from a birdie’s perspective on the chair lift down. And it was an unforgettable experience. Even when Sophia barfed – AGAIN – that night, we were glad we had stayed. 

Looking back on this trip for years to come, we will undoubtedly remember our 36 hours or so in the barf basement, and the fact that the heat and fires made the mountain air less than ideal. 

But we will also remember, I hope, being waist deep in the Virgin River in the Narrows of Zion Canyon. We’ll remember eating banana pancakes with our nieces, and all their giggles and hugs and games with our girls. We’ll remember our drive through the Wasatch Mountains (where three out of seven of us were bit by some orange mutant horseflies, but still…). We’ll remember our anniversary dinner at High West Distillery (if you’re ever there, I recommend the trout with roasted grapes and caper berries). We’ll remember the Park City Marching Band in the patriotic parade and the lines of gorgeous horses walking past us deep in the aspen grove of the Deer Valley slopes. 

If you had told me all the realities of this vacation (I didn’t mention it all, good or bad), I probably would not have had the courage to go. I didn’t want a vacation that was a time of training and correction (among many things, I did at least learn not to black out when my kids puke); I wanted pure pleasure and rest, and so some moments were intolerable, as C.S. Lewis wrote, above. So I’m glad I was none the wiser. Because I’d say the same thing about the realities of marriage, or motherhood, or every job I’ve ever held. If I’d known the whole truth, I wouldn’t have taken the leap.

It makes me think of Jesus, as things often do. Specifically, when he told his disciples, “I have many more things to say to you, but you could not bear them now.” (John 16:12) He then promised the Holy Spirit to teach them what they would need to know one day at a time, one moment at a time -- at the right time. 

So as much as I think I would like to see the future so that I could plan for every eventuality and therefore head many problems off before they start, this is not the way of things. This may be one of God’s better ideas: I would miss out on so many precious things if I knew the difficult ones that would be served alongside of them. I wouldn’t be strong enough to make those Imperfectionist decisions ahead of time; I mightn’t have faith enough to choose the good and bad together. 

So thank God I get one moment at a time. I get the decision to hang on for that last day of the imperfect vacation, to jump on the chair lift and ride it up, up, up. It won’t be a perfect experience. But it will be redeemed. It will be enough.

The Woman My Pastor Thinks I Am

For the last five years, I've been a volunteer leader in the MOPS program at our church. MOPS stands for Mothers of Preschoolers, and it's basically a trifecta cross between a parenting class, a Bible study and a support group for moms of children age infant to kindergarten. For the last two years, I was the coordinator of our group, which had 130-something members, and last month committed to oversee the total MOPS program at our church, which involves something like 40 leaders and over 200  attendees. 

Whenever the pastor to Women's ministries at our church, Shelly, introduces me to someone, affirms me at a meeting, or writes me a "thank you" card (which is often -- she is very supportive), she always says that she loves how much I love being a mom, and how much I love ministering to moms. 

I am always surprised that this is what she highlights about me. You know those bumper stickers that say, "I wish I was the person my dog thinks I am"? Well, I need one that says "I wish I was the person my pastor thinks I am." Because in reality, I have very ambivalent feelings about being a mom.

And I don't think of myself as ministering to moms. I think of myself as a minister to women. Who happen to be moms. And I think this is what makes me good at it.

Let me unpack this a little. 

I LOVE being married. I LOVE my kids. But being a mom is very complicated. "Mom" is a label you get when you give birth, and it never leaves you. And for many women, at least for a time, it erases every other label they previously carried. I think of a spoof "Saturday Night Live" commercial for "Mom Jeans" I saw several years ago. The voice-over extols their comfort-fit 9-inch zipper and the fact that wearing them says to world, "I'm not a woman, I'm a mom!"

I have a personal business card that I hand out to people (moms in the park, women in my Bible study, my sewing clients, my editors), and on it is my name, and after it this: 

"Writer, Quilter, Baker, Scrapbooker, Mom"

One time I gave it to a couple of women who bought some antiques in my flea market booth, and they asked me, in all seriousness, "Why do you have Mom on there last? Shouldn't it be first?" The irony: I write about my kids, I quilt for my kids, I bake for my kids, I scrapbook pictures of my kids. But still: shouldn't the word Mom come first?

And that right there is the issue. Moms struggle so much with priorities.Who comes first: husband? Children? Work? Hobbies? My self? When am I being selfish? When am I being too selfless? Am I giving my children enough attention? Too much? Am I involved enough in their pursuits? Am I living too much through their pursuits? It's a constant balancing act. It could turn into a constant identity crisis. It's a crisis of culture. Everyone is in on the debate: what should life look like for a woman with children? A mom can be judged for "letting herself go" or for spending too much time and energy maintaining her appearance. Nothing we do is off limits for judgement.

Which is why an organization like MOPS is so important. Because though their slogan is "Better Moms Make a Better World" (it used to be "Mothering Matters," which is also true), MOPS embraces the conflicted heart of a woman who loves, loves, loves her kids. Enough to die for them. Enough to kill for them. But who also sometimes wants to strangle them. The heart that sometimes hates being a mom: the constant monotony and uncertainty of it. The immeasurability of it; how can I track progress? The sometimes thanklessness of it. The fact that it is stress and boredom punctuated by moments of extreme joy.  

I need much more than motherhood in my life. I'm ambitious. I'm trying to write a book, and get more published in magazines. I want a speaking career. I have 100 quilts in my head that I want to make. My friends are very important to me. I like taking trips by myself. I like being alone in my car!

The fact that I can say this on stage in front of 100 women or more is probably my greatest strength as a leader, though I do it with fear and trembling, knowing that someone out there might judge me for not always putting my kids first. So it's incredibly encouraging that Pastor Shelly hears me speak, and watches me work, and sees that I love motherhood and the ministry for mothers. 

This week, I was having a five minute conversation with Pastor Shelly on the phone, trying to iron out the agenda for an upcoming leadership meeting. Livie was in the back seat of my car, and I was standing outside at the tailgate in the parking lot of a grocery store. Livie was blowing on a whistle she's gotten from a pinata. She'd been using it to give me whistle commands, signals for things like "get out of the car," "get into the car" and "March!" Which is why she was sitting in the car, and I was on the phone outside of it. 

When five minutes were up, I released my four year old from the back seat, and set off across the parking lot, still on the phone. "I can hear the whistling," laughed Shelly. "I better let you go be mom!" And in this, Pastor Shelly showed me her heart. A woman who sits on the executive board of the 10th largest church in America, who trains hundreds of leaders, who is in the business of healing hearts and saving souls, and who is also an avid runner and gardener and has her contractor's licence, is letting me off the phone. But on that laundry list of things she is, Shelly is a mom, and she loves being a mom. She knows what I'm doing is important. And you know what, I love it! I'm the woman she thinks I am after all.

Love Can Be Annoying

My husband is trying very hard to give me a nice Mother's Day. He has formed "the Mother's Day Committee" and members include himself and our two daughters. This morning the committee's mission was to eat breakfast, get dressed, count their money, and go out shopping for a couple of hours so I could baste a quilt on the kitchen floor, a project I've been wanting to get to for six weeks or so.  I believe the committee has also been exhorted by the Chairman to avoid complaining, be obedient, and be kind. 

I decided to celebrate the start of Mother's Day weekend by picking up the upstairs of my house. I put away my own laundry and ironed two of my husband's shirts. I made the bed, put away all the hairbrushes in the bathroom , and cleared the hallway floor of clutter. Downstairs, Jeff made the girls their first bagel and turned to ESPN.com, and just as I was sitting down to eat mine, I had to get up to make them their second because they didn't like the first. 

All these necessary things having been done, I announced (first mistake) that I was going out to drink my coffee and read a devotional in peace. Livie immediately wanted to follow me, and when Daddy said she couldn't she began crying and pounding on the sliding door.

"Hey, the Mother's Day Committee doesn't throw temper tantrums," my husband says. That didn't work. So  he locked the sliding door (not sure what purpose that served, since our daughter knows how to unlock it), and took her upstairs. I read my devotional to the soothing sounds of birds chirping and my four year old yelling "I want Mommy" from her bedroom window. 

Scripture and coffee both having been consumed, I got up to go get my second cup of coffee. And found my family had locked me out of the house. 

Upstairs, Livie was no longer crying, but was now in the shower with Daddy. Well, I wanted to be alone in the backyard, and now I had no other choice. 

When they finally came down and let me back in, the girls emptied their piggy banks out on our echo-producing laminate flooring, and spent 15 minutes clanging quarters and having melt downs because they had lost count. I would gladly at this point have given them each a quiet $20 bill and sent them out the door, but they really wanted to buy my gift with their own money.

When finally they left the house, I wished them luck on their shopping trip and told them to take their time.

The quilt is now basted and they are still not back. So I'm taking a moment to reflect on the fact that my children love me more than anything else in the world. So much that they often can't seem to live without me for even the time it takes for me to take a shower, go to the bathroom, or read four lines about peace and joy from the Bible. So much that they want to buy me something with every last penny in their piggy bank.

And my husband, chairman of the Committee, loves us all so much that he is trying to make every one of us happy, even though he ends up doing things like locking me out of the house.

The Committee made a bit of a mess of things this morning, but they've been gone about 90 minutes and I miss them. I'm learning to accept their imperfect attempts to please me, for what other choice do I have? And I certainly pray that they accept my stunted, fractured haphazard attempts at loving them. 

There may be a perfect moment in the next 24 hours: when we are all clean and smiling, have full bellies and I have hot coffee in my hand. No one will be kicking anyone else, or talking too loud or chewing in anyone's ear or refusing to share or be locked in the back yard or shut up in their room. And it will last about three and a half minutes. But it will be enough. 

Imperfect love may be annoying, smothering sometimes, even. But until I get to heaven, it's the only love I get from my family, and certainly the only kind I have to give. But it is precious, and it is enough.

The Hummingbird and I

This morning, I caught a hummingbird trying to drink from the heavy white fringe of my 1960s-era yellow patio umbrella. She was very persistent in her fruitless efforts. She tried first one strand and then another, eventually setting about a dozen tassels swinging. I have seen hummingbirds try to drink from my Christmas lights before, but never from fringe.

She was moving so fast, as hummingbirds do, that she didn't pause to look elsewhere in my yard, where there are several nectar-rich succulent blossoms, and an actual hummingbird feeder. So she buzzed away, undernourished.

I immediately felt that this hummingbird and I had something in common.

I, too, move rather fast. Recently, a friend rather unflatteringly referred to me as a jet engine. I like the hummingbird analogy better. Moreover, it's accurate. In my constant search for personal fulfillment and productivity, I often look in the wrong place. And the faster I'm moving, the busier I get -- and therefore the more nourishment I need -- the less likely I am to go to the right source. Busyness creates fatigue, fatigue creates vulnerability, and emotional vulnerability leads to unwise decisions.

I look for emotional lift in a Diet Coke can.
I seek sustaining energy from a drive-through window.
I try to find levity and entertainment in TV shows that are either vapid or down-right dark.
I look for approval and encouragement from the people in my life least likely to give it.
I seek validation of my effectiveness in the moment-by-moment behaviors of my over-tired children.
I try to find connection and intimacy on facebook.
I attempt to find satisfaction in crossing yet another thing off my ever-lengthening list.

Many people believe that food cravings are clues to what our bodies actually need. This is far from true: people often crave things they are allergic to because eating these foods creates an endorphin high. The stressed and fatigued body cries out for fat and sugar, which will get you through an hour, but not even a whole afternoon. Emotionally, I find my cravings are equally off. When anxious, I gravitate toward more anxiety-provoking busyness, rather than the rest I need.

When I'm in balance and in my right mind, I might seek these sources instead:


Exercise as an emotional lift.
A protein smoothie or a sandwich for afternoon energy.
Levity in a tickle fight or a dance party with my daughters.
Encouragement from a safe friend who knows me and sees me for my whole self.
Validation in the long arc of my children's character development and the feedback from their teachers and peers.
Connection and intimacy with my husband, who's across the couch from me every single night.
Satisfaction in being God's loved child, and the knowledge that if I seek His kingdom and righteousness, all these other things will be added to me. ( Matthew 6:33).

The hummingbird by nature is not capable of moderation. She cannot walk or hop, but has only two speeds: perch, and full tilt. By nature I might be the same, swinging between breathless pace and breakdown. Thanks be to God that I have a higher calling than my broken nature. And thanks to the hummingbird for the reminder to seek the higher sources.

I'm Not Crazy

In January I posted a list of things that were going to change about myself this year. It was inspired by the discovery that buying a new coffee maker was not going to suddenly turn me into a person that cleaned out the coffee maker in a timely manner. I vowed to slow down enough to pay attention to details: details that, when neglected, resulted in a messy house and going to the store without my list or coupon.

Let's check in and see how I'm doing, shall we? Well, my bedroom floor is mostly clear of clothes, and my coffee pot is cleaned and set to automatic brew about five days out of seven. Not too shabby. The coupon and list thing is harder.

But last week something glorious happened. I spent 35 minutes ransacking my house, looking for a 25% off Old Navy coupon that I needed in order to get a price adjustment on a Hello Kitty bathing suit for Livie before the 10-day-after-purchase clock ran out. This search was accompanied by self loathing and mommy swear words ("Where the poop is that stinking coupon? I saw it right here on the friggin kitchen table!"). I never found it.

For years these searches have included at least one accusation of the other members of my household. "Who moved my list/mail/book/coffee cup? I set it right here!" Hubby is extremely annoyed by this. History has told him that this is all my fault.

But three days after the coupon search, I was helping Sophia find a word in the dictionary, and there, on my eight-year-old's desk was my Old Navy coupon! She had taken it from the kitchen table and been using it as a book mark.

Oh, the joy I felt. Not only was I still within the 10-day price adjustment period, but here was proof that not every lost item in the house was lost by me. I'm not crazy! Sometimes, something really was where I remember seeing it last, and someone else misplaced it! I even called Hubby at work to tell him. He did not take quite the same view of the situation, believing that this was the exception.

Well, of course it is. But even if my lost items are someone else's fault only 3% of the time, I still have hope in those minutes of self-loathing. I might have filed this item in just the right place as I intended, and one of my little munchkins may have moved it.

I'm clinging to that small victory, because this story doesn't have a happy ending, actually. Though I did get my coupon back, I still forgot to bring it the next time I was at the mall, having dinner with girlfriends and shopping kids' sale racks. Also, I bought two new shirts for Livie, thinking I could use a rewards certificate I did remember. Unfortunately, it was not valid for four more days.

"Don't worry, you can come back, return it, and use your reward bucks next week," the cashier, who at this point is the person in the world with the most faith in my abilities, said. Yes, I guess I could. Here's hoping.

I'm Almost an Old Lady

When Hubby and I vowed to love each other till death do us part about 12 years ago, I know we both hoped we would grow old together.

Only back then, growing old didn't seem like something that would actually happen to us. We were in our early twenties: young, healthy college sweethearts with sharp minds, line-less skin and full heads of hair.

Lately, however, I think my spouse has been starting to think more about what an old version of me will actually be like. It's not the stretch marks or the few silver hairs at my temple that's getting to him though (I don't think...). It's not even the fact that child rearing has addled my brain, making me likely to say "umbrella" when I mean "fork." It's a few of my behaviors that are beginning to make him squirm.

For example, as I blogged yesterday, he found me scattering bird seed on our front walk one evening, and thought it seemed a little Crazy-old-lady-in-the-park. Problem: I really would like to be one of those ladies who brings bird seed to the park. Not one of the people that feeds seagulls at beaches -- those people really are kooky, inviting the winged vermin to attack us all as we sunbathe and eat our picnics as we swim. But a cute little lady in a hat who has a happy flock of robins at her feet and talks to the neighborhood children? Yeah, why not? Bring it on.

Hubby is also concerned about what he calls my Cranky Old Lady behaviors. I have been known, for example, to leave notes on cars in the neighborhood that are parked illegally, or even annoyingly. I've also called the police several times when the whippersnappers in the rental across the cul-de-sac were waking me and my precious children at 1 a.m. Okay, to be honest, they were just waking me; my children sleep like rocks. But Jeff says I'm on a trajectory to become one of those crab apples that informs the H.O.A. that the neighbors' Christmas decorations have been left up two days too long, or the neighborhood kids are scared of if they hit a ball in their yard. He has a point on this one, and I'm trying to reform.

But Jeff's real cause for concern is not just what I will be like when I'm old, but that I'm already acting like I'm old now. Particularly in my hobbies. I am unquestionably dorky in my choice of pass times. I quilt. I make seasonal throw pillows and yo-yo garlands that we don't need. I use words like "fussy cut" and "smock." I have embroidered Bible verses and framed them for our kitchen.

When I first discovered that I was "crafty" early in our marriage, Jeff was on board. A creative person himself, he liked seeing me discover my inner fabric artist. Except on the days when I either a) cut myself with scissors, b) cut an expensive piece of fabric wrong, c) swore at my projects, or d) all of the above.

But now, even on non-injury days, his enthusiasm is waning. I'm forbidden from making any more pillows or place mats. And he makes fun of fabric passion quite frequently. When e-bay ran a TV ad campaign this Christmas about a girl who wanted hip gifts from e-bay rather than another needlepoint throw pillow from Aunt Carla, he was absolutely merciless, as I stitched away on hand embroidered tea towels for all the kids' teachers. Ha ha, he said, you're old Aunt Carla.

Okay, so I'm old Aunt Carla. I get excited about a new set of delectable pearl cotton thread and a card of vintage buttons from the flea market. And I feed birds. And I don't like loud music at 1 a.m. And you know what's cool about getting older -- though I'm still not old? It's being comfortable with my dorkiness, and I do what I like to do no matter how silly it seems to other people.

Because I am a quilter (and let's face it, generally the quilting demographic is a bit older than me, like, by 20 years), I have run across the poem "When I Am an Old Woman," by Jenny Joseph, about how she will wear purple and red hats and not care what anyone thinks of her. Of course, there is whole line of plaques and quilting fabric and red hats patterned after it now, and groups of old ladies go out to tea wearing their red and purple. I shan't do that. But I like the spirit of it. In 35 years, look for me at a park bench in my (not red) hat, feeding birds and doing needlepoint. Hubby may be a bit embarrassed of me, but I think he'll still be there at my side.

The Soup is Being Stirred

My mom has no good cooking tools. Open her utensil drawer and find nary a wooden spoon. No ladle. No big forked spoon for spaghetti. Just an old-school carrot peeler, a waiter's-style wine opener, a scorched spatula, and a couple of metal skewers. ( I may be exaggerating slightly).

The lack of sufficient stirring implements drives me batty, for a number of reasons that I shan't share on the Internet and would only make sense to me, but they are generally related to wishing she would take good care of herself. I have hounded her about it mercilessly for years.

Last year, I was helping with our traditional split pea soup dinner for Christmas Eve, and razzing her about the fact that I was scraping the bottom of her huge stockpot with a metal soup spoon (for eating with!) instead of a sturdy wooden spoon (for cooking with!), when my youngest brother observed, "It appears that the soup is being stirred."

Where does my baby brother get the nerve, being wiser and kinder and more grace-extending than me?

His comment was delivered without a trace of sarcasm or nastiness, and therefore, it penetrated to my soul. Was not the soup being stirred, though it was not being stirred my way?

We have all kinds of little things that irk us about our relatives, don't we, especially those they've done for years or even decades? The way Grandma always shows up 15 minutes early or Papa twiddles the fringe on the rug with his bare feet. Things that in a stranger, or even a good friend, wouldn't bother us in the least.

I think part of the reason these habits or mannerisms bother us so much is we think we see through all their habits down to their motives, and then all the way down to some kind of systemic dysfunction. A daughter looks in her mother's utensil drawer and reads it like tea leaves. But I'm willing to believe that I could even be reading it wrong, to say nothing of the fact that it isn't my job or right to be "reading" it in the first place.

In our ability to see through those close to us, there is a danger of looking right past them, to cease to see them as a whole, to overemphasize small foibles that don't matter and miss the big picture of the love and sense of belonging they extend to us. It's possible, then, for a friend or a stranger to see them even clearer than we do, with fresh eyes. That is unspeakably sad.

As I've been formulating this entry in my head over the past few days, it began as a piece on how I would be giving my relatives the gift of grace this Christmas, shutting my mouth about the silly little stuff I could nag them about. But friends, it's my soup that's been stirred. And what rose to the surface is a revelation of my own pride. Grace is something we extend to people who don't deserve it, and my family deserves a lot -- a lot more than I often give them.

The gift I'd rather give them is gratitude: for all the support, generosity, togetherness, laughter, and affirmation they've given me. For the great example set for me by my immediate family: not just my parents, but my brothers as well, especially my youngest who gave me some truth that took me a year to ponder.

My dear ones could look into some of my drawers (especially my vegetable crisper or makeup drawer) and draw all kinds of conclusions of the flawed way that I live. But I hope they won't. I hope this Christmas they'll look at me and see the best, the way God did at Christmas, as the angels declared to the shepherds, "Peace on earth and good will to men, in whom He is well pleased!" I'll take the gift of grace from them and count it among the best I've ever received.

Let Your Heart Be Light

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light
From now on our troubles will be out of sight...

In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.
-Jesus, John 16:33

As a perfectionist, I had issues with Christmas. Foundational to perfectionism is "all or nothing" thinking: a situation, person, day is either all good or all bad. For something to be mostly good, but flawed, is uncomfortable and therefore impossible to the perfectionist. So we don't deal well with reality. And the trouble with Christmas is that underneath all the twinkle lights reality is still lurking.

Even as an Imperfectionist, my recovered term for myself -- the self that celebrates flawed reality as a growth adventure -- I still have issues with Christmas.

In some ways, it's my favorite time: when beauty, family, cooking, crafting, friends, parties, music, new clothes, and Jesus -- all my favorite things -- combine.

In other ways, I hate it. I'm tired, overworked, underwhelmed, and emotionally incapable of the 24-7 joy that the Christmas movies and Christmas carols suggest I ought to feel. All or nothing, right? Wrong.

This year, I've had a beautiful, complex, Imperfectionist Christmas.

The second week of December, Jeff and I were waiting at the airport to fly to Las Vegas; a house he had helped design had just been finished, and we were going to the client's holiday housewarming. A weekend alone to celebrate with my husband! And then my mom called: her father had passed away in the night at the age of 96. Definitely not a moment for a light heart. But she told us to go, and we went, and it was the right thing to do. It was a time to rejoice as well as mourn, and I had to figure out how to do both.

This year, my pastor's wife just lost her mother, my mom just lost her father, a friend lost her grandmother, and another friend is living through her first Christmas without her husband, who passed away this year from cancer. I have friends without jobs and friends with cancer. Our hearts are not light.

But the attempt at happiness or light hearts at Christmas -- especially trying to achieve them with presents and lights and gingerbread (all good things) -- miss the point of Christmas. Christmas is largely not joy for present circumstances; it is joy that enduring through circumstance, with help from a God who draws close to us, will produce character, completeness and hope. So many of my most precious times with God have not been lighthearted, but heavy, weeping, on my knees, where He has met me in love and tenderness.

Christmas is also hope for the future. It is hope for eternity. But that''s scary because hope, by definition, is believing in something you don't yet have and cannot yet see.

And this has always been the way of God's people. Since ancient times we have forgotten to believe God for the future and instead looked for present rescue. Many people in Israel missed the first Christmas -- and consequently the first Easter too -- because they were watching for an earthly king to overthrow Rome and restore their kingdom.

But Christmas wasn't a happy ending. It was a happy beginning. The cross wasn't the end either, nor the resurrection. Jesus' followers hoped thought their troubles would be out of sight. Just after he rose again they asked him: "Lord, are you now going to restore the kingdom to Israel?"

The answer was no. God's people are still in exile, living in a messed up world that God has not yet fully repaired. This is why my favorite carol this year is this:

Oh come, oh come Emmanuel
and ransom captive Israel
that mourns in lonely exile here until the son of God appears.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee oh Israel.

Rejoice! He is Emmanuel, living with us among the detritus and pain, helping us to endure and experience peace that transcends our circumstances. We are not spiritual orphans. And rejoice! He's coming again, to make right all that is wrong, "to wipe every tear from their eyes."

In the meantime, I'm being called to live in this imperfect world, taking the joy with the sorrow and responding to them both, even if they are happening at the same time. This Christmas season I have:

...celebrated one child getting an award at her school for being respectful, and cried over my other child who refuses to respect her parents

...given gifts to foster children in our community and prayed for the oppressed and orphaned children of this world with tears. And then I've turned around and whooped with glee on a roller coaster with my own children who are deeply loved.

...danced with strangers on the stone floor of my husband's clients house, and knelt on the stone altar with a friend who was weeping over her broken marriage.

My perfectionist self could not have celebrated the lightness in this season with so much surrounding heaviness. I would have felt guilty. Or I would have rejected the light moments as too small to overcome the dark. Now I think failing to thank God and enjoy happy circumstances is morally wrong. Who am I to reject the gift of lightness because it comes to me in a dark world. I'll take both, whatever God sends me. Take heart, He has overcome the world.

The Good I Ought to Do, Part 2

The headline at the top of the page says: Good Things. And there beneath it, photographs of delectable holiday goodies and crafts. Paper snowflake garlands. Monogrammed woolen hats. Chocolate covered apricots dipped in dark chocolate and wrapped in gold paper. Lollipops made from gumdrops in the shape of snowmen and Christmas trees. Year after year, I survey these pages of the Martha Stewart Living December issue and find that they are, indeed, good.

For the woman (me) who wants to do all the good there is to do, rather than the good I ought to do (see part one from November 13), the holiday season is filled with one temptation after another. I'm not particularly prone to buying too much, but I'm very likely to try and make too much. I'm a pretty competent crafter. So if I can, I will, sometimes even when I know I shouldn't.

I'm especially am prone to making things in too great a volume. The set of four quilted coasters is a manageable 30 minute-project hostess gift. Until the year I decided every female related to me should get a set. The graham cracker gingerbread houses were lots of fun, until I decided to host a decorating party and made a dozen; I was up past midnight. Likewise the felt holly corsage ("They're easy enough for a child to make but sophisticated enough for her mom to wear."). They were indeed fun and easy. Until I made them for the entire MOPS leadership team (I think there were 28 of them).

It isn't just at Christmas though. This fall I threw a friend a baby shower, and the day before decided that her ocean-themed nursery really needed a chenille pillow in the shape of an angel fish. When hubby came home that night I told him, "I did something that was outside Jesus's will for me today."

"Uh-oh." Worried expression on Hubby's face. "What was it?"

"I made a chenille fish."

"What does that have to do with Jesus?"

Well, if I'm swearing while sewing it, and my body is aching and I'm super cranky when I pick the kids up from school because of it, then it's not God's will for me to be making it. At least not on such a tight deadline.

Is anyone with me here? You don't have to be a crafter to be tempted to do too much Christmas. The holiday season is filled with good things: parties, sing-alongs, Christmas plays, amusement parks visits, cookie exchanges, even church services. They are all good. Some of them are great. But they will not all fit comfortably into twenty-five days. In the same way that I have to resist committing to all the good ways I could serve my church, my community, my friends and my family, I also have to choose between all the wonderful fun things there are to do and see and make.

I'm not a perfectionist about Christmas; I truly have let the "perfect" picture go. But I still want to make as much magic for my family (and myself!) as I possibly can. But magic doesn't happen at one a.m. behind a sewing machine or swearing over paper cuts at midnight as I fold the 100th Christmas letter.

So here is my three-pronged approach to making Christmas good, in both Martha Stewart's and the spiritual sense.

1. Start pondering these issues in November (which I'm doing now), and start crafting early too. I have already selected my festive gift project for the year (I can't tell you what it is, because you might get one), bought the supplies for it, and started stitching.

2. Limit the volume. Both in projects (this year, half a dozen of my "good thing" of choice is the cut off), and in social commitments. I have already said no to one major Christmas event to make sure I've left a margin of "hanging out" time with my husband and kids.

3. Pray. Ask God's will for the season. Even as I plan all kinds of magical outings and events for my friends and family, I'm asking for His help to cling to these loosely, as any of them could be hindered by illness or other unforeseen circumstances. (My days are only a breath, I don't even know what will happen tomorrow. Again, see Part 1.) And finally, I'm asking Him to give me eyes for the miracles He has in store for me. I don't want all my "good things" to distract me from seeing His great things.

The Good I Ought to Do, Part I

When I was a kid, growing up in Sunday school, I thought that living a godly or righteous life was mainly about choosing between right and wrong. I found knowing the difference between right and wrong to be pretty easy (don't gossip about your friends behind their backs, obey your parents). The challenge was having the will power to abstain from the bad.

Then, as a teenager and young adult, I began to realize that living a godly life meant not only abtaining from "bad" things, but also actively doing good things: befriending the friendless, giving money to the poor, even choosing a meaningful career path as opposed to one that was simply about earning money. I got pretty hung up on this concept, maybe even paranoid, worrying an awful lot about doing enough good. (I wasn't concerned about whether or not God loved me; I knew His love to be unconditional, but I was concerned about what it would take to please Him.) At the root of this worry was a single line of Scripture, James 14:17: "Anyone who knows the good he ought to do and doesn't do it also sins."

Yikes. It seemed to me, in my young adulthood, that there was a lot of good out there to do, and I couldn't possibly do all of it, so I was therefor sinning all the time. A very crippling concept.

Like most times when scripture brings us worry rather than peace, I was reading this verse wrong. It doesn't say anyone who neglects the good there is to do sins, but the one who neglects the good he or she ought to do. It's an individualistic command. In context, I see that James was talking about making plans for our lives without regard to what God's plan is for it.

Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.” As it is, you boast in your arrogant schemes. All such boasting is evil. Anyone, then ,who knows the good he ought to do and doesn’t do it, sins.

James 4:13-17

Now in my thirties, I think less about leading a godly life and more about living a life alongside the God who loves me. It's relational rather than performance based focus. And yet, there are a lot of tasks that God would like to see me perform; I believe he has a calling for me, as it says in Ephesians, "For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." I have my family, my neighbors, my children's school, and a particular sphere in which I move; the good I ought to do is usually right in front of me.

The more I listen to God, the more clearly I can discern where my priorities ought to be. Sometimes it's a conviction to call a friend I know is hurting; sometimes its to put down the kitchen sponge and read my child a book. Sometimes it's to put money in the box for the homeless outside the grocery store, or to agree to sponsor a child in Africa. It's very freeing, because the more I listen, the more I hear him tell me that some of the good things I'm trying to do really aren't on his list for me.

Our pastor recently spoke about doing good for the poor and oppressed in our world, the number of which is staggering. He made us repeat this declaration over and over again until we memorized it (or at least I did): "I refuse to be overwhelmed, and I will do for one what I wish I could do for everyone!" It was during this sermon that I suddenly realized my specific error in reading James 4:17. Too many people, overwhelmed by the fact that they cannot do all the good there is to do, end up doing none at all. I thought of people I know like my cousin Anne, who works with at-risk youth in Seattle; what if because she couldn't help every kid she helped none at all? Yet that would be the ultimate result of a do-it-all-or-I’m-sinning attitude toward do-gooding.

So: The good I ought to do. What is it today in my family? What is it in my formal ministry, which right now supporting and encouraging Mothers of Preschoolers at my church? What is it in my neighborhood? I don't always know. But I do know that God is already working in all of those places, and I will do a lot better if I ask Him where I can join in, rather than forge ahead myself. And what a relief it is to know that in my desire to find what that good is, even if I don't do it perfectly, He is already pleased with me.