On Fear, Wishes, and {Gulp} Goal-Setting

I turn 39 this month. And if you’re good at math like I am, you’ve deduced that I have only one year until the big one.

My 40th has mocked me from the future since my 30th. I cried on my 30th birthday because the end of my 20s felt like the end of my youth. Clearly, I had no sense of perspective. I wouldn’t go back to my 20s for anything now. That girl was an anxious, people-pleasing, clueless baffoon. She had issues for sure.

{I write as if my soon-to-be-39-year-old self has reached some sort of Nirvana-like, self-actualized state of perfection. As if.}

But as my 30s is wrapping up, I feel an inspired urgency to set some goals. I have a love / hate relationship with the beast of goal-setting. For someone who has a strong perfectionist streak, unmet goals can feel like failure, even if the goals are completely unrealistic.

And we all know that a giant scoop of failure on top of the proverbial 40th birthday sundae could have disastrous {and gluttonous} results. I could end up eating 40 birthday sundaes in my despair.

So I’ve got these goals {only two} and no, I’m not brave enough to share them with you. Not yet anyway. But I’ve been thinking a lot about how I need goals yet also fear them. I read somewhere that a goal without a plan is just a wish. That truth hit me like a freight train and I haven’t forgotten it.

We all have wishes {I call them dreams} but we rarely put pen to paper to make the plan to reach the goal that fulfills the dream. Dreams aren’t inherently a virtue. Dreams can be narcissistic, indulgent, and skewed for sure. But they can also be inspiring, life-giving, and world-changing.

My pre-40 goals aren’t world-changing in the least. They are personal and symbolic, achievements that tug at my soul hard enough for me to pull out the pen and paper.

Though fear of failure often keeps me from setting goals in the first place and that’s probably normal, it’s also ridiculous. And cowardly.

If there’s anything I’d like to kick to the curb as I approach 40, it’s cowardice. Much of my inner life has been characterized by fear. Fear of others, fear of failure, fear of the future, fear that I’ll never measure up to my own standards.

And so this goal-setting / dream-wishing thing is forcing me to reckon with fear, to write it down, to pray for brave, and to bathe my loosely-held dreams in grace.

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Now what about you? Are you naturally a goal-setter or do you have a love / hate relationship with them like I do? Also, have you ever made a birthday “bucket-list?”

For the Love of Four

Four may just be the perfect age.

Part toddler, part almost big kid, four-year-olds can speak well enough to sound nearly grown and unaware enough to say exactly what they mean. They are perhaps the most articulate demographic on the planet.

Mommy, I just want to have love with you real quick. And I know precisely what he means. He wants to snuggle up close for a few moments, give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and then get back to business. Not too much love, just a little.

Recently, I overheard him talking earnestly to his big brother’s neighborhood pal, You’re my best friend because you never be’s mean to me. All it takes to be his BFF is to never be’s mean. Pretty simple. {And yes, be’s has now become a working part of the whole family’s vocabulary.}

His speech is still imperfect and I get teary as I imagine the day when he can properly say “S” at the beginning of a word. For now I relish ‘tinky ‘kunk {“stinky stunk”}, ‘lushies {“slushies”}, ‘poon {“spoon”}, and a whole host of words in which the beginning S is silent as he confidently commences with the next consonant.

Later this morning I’m going to a Mother’s Day tea at his preschool. He told me that he made a tea cup for me. And that it’s a surprise. Apparently in his four-year-old mind, surprise does not equal secret. I love that.

He whispers out loud. He hides something behind his back and thinks that it really is hidden. And he truly believes that being a superhero just means putting on the costume.

Every age is beautiful and each stage ushers in new gifts…

But there’s just something magical about four.

Everyday Grace: When Regret is a Bully

Sometimes I’m haunted and beaten up by everything I’ve gotten wrong. Regret is a bully that way.

A solitary remorse can serve as a spark that lights a flame that spreads like a forest fire through the mind. Lately I’ve watched with quiet longing as other moms tend to those littler than mine, wishing so badly that I could’ve known then what I know now. And then think of all the years I wasted on myself instead of living more sacrificially. Before you know it I’m cataloging every episode of ignorance and impulsiveness, cluelessness and selfishness. They’ve all had their way with me and sometimes it’s hard to forget.

Sometimes the past crescendoes like a tidal wave and you’re drowning in if-only’s. Instead of being grateful for today and hopeful for tomorrow, you’re stuck in a place of failure and unproductive wistfulness.

Too often it takes coming to the end of my rope and hitting the ground with a thud before I finally look up. But when I do, I see that God’s ways of dealing with the past and the future are so very different from mine.

I gaze upon the past and regret.
He calls me to look back and remember His faithfulness.

I stare into the future with fear and anxiety.
He invites me to trust and to take my cues from the lilies of the field and the birds of the air.

I ruminate on the misuses and mishaps of my yesterdays and want to crawl under the covers.
He tells me to forget what is behind and press forward.

And I can. I can do these things but only because of what He did first. The finished work of Christ covers the sin and shortcomings of my past and provides hope and security for my future. Nothing can erase what’s been done and I can look at that either as a lamentable reality or through the lens of the Gospel…

Nothing can erase what’s been done: Christ came!

And He came to forgive and to redeem and to give us power to take defeatist thoughts captive and to set our minds on things above.

Every day there is freedom through repentance, comfort through remembrance, rest through trust, and hope through Christ Himself.

If you feel stuck in the mire of could haves and should haves, lift up your gaze and look at the Rescuer, the author and perfecter of your faith, the forgiver of your past, the power for your today, and the provider for your tomorrows.

Related Verses

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“Everyday Grace” is a weekly post I’ve recently begun. It is sort of in the style of a devotional {which is ironic…because I don’t typically love devotionals} and a departure from the sort of posts I usually do. It began as a way to record the ways in which God is making the Gospel of Grace “real” to me in everyday ways. This is a way of recording it for myself and sharing with you.

When Your Craft Projects Become Subliminal Messages

I’ve had virtually no creative inspiration these last few months. Being tired will do that to you. But earlier this week I got together with a friend for the purpose of catching up and doing something crafty. She recently had a baby and we did a super cute modge-podge and cardboard letters project. It was so adorable and easy that I made a bee line to Hobby Lobby to make some creative letter art of my own.

I am lazy and wanted to do the least amount of letters possible. I chose EAT.

The area above my sink formerly displayed some plates but I grew tired of them. Then it displayed nail holes from the plates I’d grown tired of. Anything is a big improvement.

Here’s the quickie tutorial. My friend was inspired by her project on Pinterest but I don’t have the link. I usually do the slacker shortcut amateur version of a tutorial anyway.

First, go get your letters and scrapbook paper. Hobby Lobby has thick chunky cardboard ones that are about 8 inches high, thinner mdf letters that are probably 10-12 inches high {which is what I chose} or giant chunky cardboard ones. Those were my favorite but they were too big for my space. By the way, the letters are 30% off this week and the paper is 50% off.

Paint the sides of the letters. I used acrylic craft paint.

Trace your letters onto the back side of scrapbook paper.

Cut out the letters {I used scissors. No fancy cutters here.}

The next part was trial and error for me. I found that my paper tended to bubble and not stick, so I used a light coat of spray adhesive, stuck the paper on the letters, and then modge-podged over the top.

It’s not perfect and there’s still a bit of bubbling, but anyone who is fussy enough to pull up a ladder and criticize my bubbly letters is probably no friend of mine anyway.

There are probably better ways to hang one’s letters but I whipped out the top two favorite craft supplies in my limited arsenal: upholstery tacks and hot glue. It made the process of hanging them evenly super easy.

Here’s a close-up of the finished project.

And there you go.

My friend stopped in to admire the handiwork and told me that she can’t hang an EAT sign in her house. “Why?” I asked. “Because it’s like a subliminal message. I’ll just do what the sign says and eat.” Well I thought that was silly and odd and laughed it off.

The next night I made this for dinner. {Let’s all just pause for a moment and thank the Lord for Pinterest.}

{via Umami Girl}

Double pans of homemade enchiladas. Two different varieties! Chicken in one pan and black bean / zucchini in another. With a green chile cream sauce. All five of us stuffed ourselves on these enchiladas.

Coincidence? Perhaps not.

My next sign will read “RUN.”

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Linked up with Grace at Home, hosted by my friend, Richella.

Everyday Grace: The Bitter and The Sweet

God can you just give me one good and pure thing right now? Just one experience that’s not marred by sin and brokenness and the past? Will there ever be any sweet without the bitter?

That’s the request I submitted a few days ago. It wasn’t the first time.

It’s been a year of renewal and repair and sometimes I just want to put all the brokenness behind me. Though I’m grateful beyond words for the gifts I’ve been given and the redemption I continually taste, I’m selfish. And sometimes I long to have just one gift–an event, a milestone, something special–that feels untouched by the past.

Just one thing, God? You know my story.

Can’t I have celebration without complication?

Remembrance without regret?

Hopefulness that’s not tinged with fear?

I’m not asking for perfect and I’m not asking for you to undo what’s done. I’m just asking for one, unblemished gift.

Truth comes through the Spirit and in wise counsel and from that which is written in the Word.

And sometimes all of these things quietly and slowly weave themselves together. The subtlety should in no way diminish the miraculousness of it all. Grace flies in on the wings of divine whisper and nests softly in the soul…though I’m prone to making the landing difficult.

The everyday grace I cling to is this: Though tears will be plentiful in this life, we are promised that one day each and every one will be wiped away. Forever. Though we mourn many things–those we love, dashed dreams, failure in a million different forms–we do not grieve as those who have no hope.

And as for my deep desire for just one thing that’s untouched by the pain and loss and brokenness of this world? God answered that prayer before the foundations of the earth. I simply have to receive the gift I already have: Jesus.

Though I cling to other good and lovely things for hope and satisfaction, Christ alone is the one pure gift that will satisfy what this broken world cannot.

Perhaps your mundane is tainted by memories you’d rather forget.

Maybe you wonder if you’ll ever be able to celebrate anything with reckless abandon.

If you’re hoping for one person or place, one experience or event, one good and pure thing that doesn’t feel tinged or tainted, even just a little, by that which you’d rather forget or by even just a shadow of something you can’t quite put your finger on…you won’t find it in this world.

But it’s ever so freeing to give up and let go.

In each and every moment, the bitter and the sweet, I’m invited to gaze upon Christ, the One who overcame all that is broken, even death itself. He is the perfect we long for, our hope that will never disappoint, a gift we can celebrate with reckless abandon, the good and pure we can cling to today and forevermore.

Related Verses

Revelation 21:4

Romans 8:21-23

Ephesians 1:3-6

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Dish: “Hopelessly Devoted to You…”

Today’s Dish is inspired by a collection of random items strewn about the middle console of my van. A woman’s van {or her SUV, crossover, sedan-type vehicle that is obviously cooler than my minivan} is a lot like her purse. And you can certainly learn a lot about a gal from the contents of her handbag. Or in this case, her minivan.

So here’s a rundown of that which I am hopelessly devoted to {that was also sitting in my minivan when I decided to write this post.}

Via: I’ve written plenty about my abiding love of all things Starbucks. These little Via packs have changed my life.

I’m the only coffee drinker in my home so there is rarely a need to brew an entire pot. Though instant coffee has heretofore been a loathsome brew {Sanka anyone?}, leave it to Starbucks to redeem dissolving coffee granules. My favorite is Italian Roast.

The Gold Card: My running partner and I stop at our local Starbucks after every run for our post-workout reward. {I get the bold blend, tall in a grande cup….plenty of room for the add-in’s.} As I’ve said before, it’s cheaper than a gym membership and it feels like being rewarded for waking up and hitting the pavement before the sun comes up. Several years ago I registered my Starbucks card and once you hit 30 drinks, they send you one of these.

{Cue the angelic voices singing down from Heaven.}

It’s a Starbucks card. That is gold. And has my name on it. They send me free drink coupons on my birthday and after I’ve had 15 coffees. And sometimes they send me other delightful free coupons and I do so love getting mail from Starbucks. {You’re welcome, Starbucks, for 3 paragraphs of free advertising even though you are already rich enough to take over the world.}

Books on CD: Several years ago I started checking out books on CD from the library. Frequently I wouldn’t finish them because honestly, how often was I alone in my van or in my house? Not often enough. But since I sent my kids to school I have loads of time alone in my van and it is a beautiful thing. When I’m not sitting in the complete silence and enjoying the tranquility of the moment, I listen to books. You’ve heard the phrase, So many books, so little time. Well, books on CD help with that. Right now I’m “reading” Life of Pi.

The Running Skirt: I bought a super fun souvenir on our trip to Tennessee over Spring Break.

It’s a skirt.

That you can run in!

Yes, it’s a running skirt. And while I do realize I am not on the cutting edge of athletic fashion here {running skirts have been around for a while}, it’s my first one and I am in love. It’s hot pink, it’s stretchy, it has shorts underneath {also stretchy}, and when I put it on I don’t want to take it off. Ever. Last week I’d been in it all day and we had the middle school open house that evening. My daughter said to me, Mom, please tell me you’re not wearing the running skirt to the open house. You’ll be glad to know that I did not.

But truly, I am in love with the running skirt. I’m convinced that I run faster and I will probably buy one or six more. After all, why should the tennis players get all the cute athletic wear?

{Technically I do not keep the skirt in my van. But I am hopelessly devoted to it and that’s why it’s thrown in the mix.}

And last but not least, Adele.

Her CD is in my van at. all. times. I’ve been a fan of hers for a couple of years now and my love for her has only grown. She’s just amazing, a true talent in a sea of manufactured, ridiculous, lesser songstresses.

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And on a more sentimental note, thank you, all of you, for your unbelievably thoughtful words on my last post.

I’m reminded of a quote by Thomas Paine: These are the times that try men’s souls. In my own words: These are the decisions that try a mama’s soul.

I guess quite a few of you totally get that. Thanks for making this place feel like a sweet and kindred community.

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Okay, now it’s your turn. What are you hopelessly devoted to?

On Mothering and Decision-Making and Feeling Inside-Out

Yesterday was supposed to be a day of rest but my fretful mind would not have it. I think that if scientists could determine a way to harness the wheel-spinning ferocity of every mother’s over-thinking mind and turn it into an alternative fuel source, we could stop drilling for oil tomorrow.

Sometimes being a mother feels like walking around inside-out. I try to stuff my wildly-feeling heart and messy insides safely and politely back where they belong but instead I’m like the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz, anxious and undone, stuffing spilling out at the seams.

This season of rest and simplicity, this season that I named “The Year of Being Knit” has in many ways felt like the exact opposite. I’m wondering if I should rename it “The Year of Being Undone.” Sometimes we have to become completely unraveled before we can properly be reassembled.

Sending my kids to school has been the best thing for them and a much-needed sabbatical for me. But that’s not to say it’s been easy. While totally unrelated situations may have been the catalyst to send them to school, now I can’t help but wonder if these very unrelated things forced a decision that I wouldn’t have submitted to otherwise: school.

Though this school-year has yet to finish and the next one looms far off on the other side of summer, you know how these things go. It’s only spring but we have to make decisions and commitments for next fall. Technically we don’t have to decide until the day before school starts but a summer of limbo isn’t fair to my kids.

I’m simply not ready to commit. My dreamy ideals of living and learning at home, of classical education and a slower-paced life, of keeping them just a bit protected for just a bit longer from the harsh realities of this world…these ideals beat mightily inside this unraveling mama’s heart.

But then there is the real. And when I’m not knee-deep in it, I quickly forget the importance of knowing thyself. I am not laid back. I’m wired to need time alone or I fall to pieces. The day-in and day-out of my real looked nothing like my ideal. I get that it will never be perfect, that it’s okay to have messy days where every single one of us has cried for one reason or another. But I will be perfectly honest with you: the unhappy, let’s-just-survive days were far outnumbering the this-isn’t-so-bad days.

None of us were thriving at home. Especially me. And whether you’re southern or not, you’ve heard the old adage: If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

We’re four months in and I am still tired but less weary. I cry a lot but it feels good and necessary. I haven’t figured out how to manage my days well but through trial and error, I’m learning. I haven’t fully come to terms with anything but I’m progressing toward acceptance and that’s better than standing still.

As for the kids, they’re just fine. I’d venture to say they’re actually great. Sometimes my daughter has more homework than I deem necessary. She’s had stressful, unhappy moments…but fewer than she did at home. I’ve learned that my kids are more responsible, more independent, and far more adaptable and resilient than I gave them credit for. And I wouldn’t have known any of this had I not sent them to school. They love their friends and their teachers. They love daily learning in community and from instructors who are passionate about their subjects. I was completely unprepared for the ways in which they would embrace the culture of school.

And all of their “success” has made our decisions for next year so much more difficult. Well, it’s made my decision more difficult. That probably sounds crazy. Why fix what’s not broken?

Because all of this is not what I’d planned. It’s not what I’d envisioned for any of us. Truly, it feels like the death of a dream {dramatic though that may sound.} The final decisions haven’t been made and the pendulum may yet swing back the other direction. That’s one of the pitfalls of blogging. You sometimes have to eat your words. But I’d rather be authentic and honest in my wrestling and indecision. I’m not the first mama to be in this place and I certainly won’t be the last.

We all want what’s best for these little and not-so-little ones that look to us every single day for love and sustenance. Our children are living and breathing pieces of us who walk around in a world that will hurt them and disappoint them. And when that happens? We hurt so badly we feel we might break in two. We want them to be prepared and protected and it’s an overwhelming responsibility. For so many reasons, the ways and the places in which we educate them can determine the trajectory of their lives. This is what brings me to my knees. And to the box of Kleenex.

A week ago I was in a particularly weepy place over my daughter and what to do about next year. She’ll be in middle school and I’m simply not ready for any of this. I told my husband that he just needed to listen, that my heart was heavy and that I didn’t feel I could bear my own emotional state alone. He waited quietly as I poured out my fears and failure. And then I said, Now it’s your turn. I desperately need to know your thoughts and I need you to lead me through all of this.

He is a man that measures his words carefully and for this I am grateful.

She needs you to be her mother. For the rest of your life, that’s what she’ll need from you. Other people can teach her, but only you can be her mother. When you were her teacher, it was getting in the way of you being her mother. It just wasn’t working. She’s doing great in school. There are no red flags. This is the direction I’m leaning.

I wept with both relief and grief. Relief because I need to know that it really is this simple. She needs me to be her mother. That’s it. Grief because I wish I was cut out to be both. And maybe in time I will be…but not now. Accepting who I am versus who I want to be is one of the greatest battles I fight. It’s so easy to be persuaded by others who are doing their thing {that you wish was your thing} and doing it well. I’m fooled into thinking that if I can just muster up enough patience and discipline and know-how, I can do the “thing” too.

Accepting that we are all created and called differently sounds good and easy. But it doesn’t feel good or easy at the moment. Reckoning the real with the ideal is a slow, soulful, solitary surrender.

If it was up to my daughter, she would boldly begin middle school tomorrow, skipping excitedly down the hallway with her new, monogrammed, aqua-colored L.L. Bean backpack {not that she’s already picked it out or anything.} As for me, I wish I could turn back the clock and skip the other direction toward the simpler {though sleepless} days of diapers and breastfeeding.

Maybe that’s the bittersweet irony of motherhood. Our kids want to speed up the clock and we want to make it stand still. Right now it feels like the kids are winning.

I find myself leaning hard into my husband’s counsel. Sometimes it’s the simplest of truths that sustain us during seasons of surrender: Only you can be their mother.

And for now, this is enough.

Everyday Grace: Stop the World

It’s one of those days when the to-do list is wrecked up. One of those days when you just stop the world because someone you love needs you and that’s all there is to it. In this case, it’s my child. Being needed doesn’t look like cuddle time on the sofa or band-aids or even a listening ear. It looks like phone calls and e-mails and research.

It looks like stopping the world and diving head-first into whatever it takes to help make things right.

Often I’m so aware of my selfishness, the ways in which my own agenda and desires keep me from loving well. But today I was surprised by my sudden and uncharacteristic selflessness, the ways in which I didn’t even think a bit about my shower or my list or my lunch or that important thing I had scheduled.

It’s as if a voice whispered to my pensive and burdened soul, This is what a parent’s love does. It stops the world.

Though the selfishness will surely be back in the office momentarily, I was given a gift, a brief glimpse into the heart of my Abba Father, the one whose likeness I bear.

I stopped the world for you. I broke right through the universe and gave up my Son for you, that you could be his co-heir. All that is mine is yours, sweet child.

It’s true. Christ took on everything that was not right with this broken world in order that it may one day be right again. But until then? We can stand in perfect relationship with God and experience peace, grace, love and freedom so beautiful and abundant, our finite minds can barely begin to imagine such gifts.

Maybe your own world is swirling and askew today. Maybe you wish someone would break through the universe on your behalf and just make things right.

Someone did.

Live in the light of his great, world-stopping love for you.

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Related Verses:

Romans 8:17

Ephesians 1:17-19

Luke Chapter 23

When You’ve Little to Show for Your Days: A Treatise on Rest & Renewal

You may be tired of reading about this “season of rest” but I’m not tired of writing about it.

And when I’m not tired of writing about something it’s because I’m still knee-deep in the thinking and processing stage of the something.

Before I sent my kids to school I spent nearly 5 years homeschooling them. Sometimes I did some part-time work at the same time in order to earn a bit of extra money.

And before that I was a working mom for 5 1/2 years.

And before that I was graduate student and part-time teacher for 4 1/2 years.

And before that I worked full-time and then part-time for 2 1/2 years while trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I was married during this time.

And before that I was in college for 4 years. I was a year-round student-athlete and I also served in student government throughout my 4 years. And of course there were the degrees I earned along the way.

And before that I was a good student and a runner, a daughter and the oldest of 4 children, involved in church and at school and a whole host of endeavors. I didn’t know life without stress, deadlines, and high expectations, most of which I set for myself.

So I’ve been sort of busy my whole life. Until now.

I don’t work outside the home. And because I’m not homeschooling right now, I work less inside the home. And while raising three children is most definitely work, lots of people do it so it doesn’t feel all that noteworthy or exceptional. It’s taxing, sure, but I’ve been a mom now for 11 years and you sort of grow into the job and into the everyday nature of it. Collapsing into the bed at night is just normal when you’re a mom.

Bit by bit, I’ve taken off my various hats, put them away on the top shelf of the closet, and shut the door. I’m enjoying a respite from the busy-ness and expectation I’ve always known, at least for now, and do you know what?

I’m sort of tired. Once you strip away the tasking and performing and the expectation, you’re sometimes left to feel what’s really down deep in its rawest form.

Busyness can be a mask that keeps even the wearer fooled.

These days, I’ll get the kids into bed at night and then collapse into my own. I’ll consider what I’ve accomplished during the day and honestly,sometimes I can’t really think of anything “important.” {Besides the lunch-packing, pick-up-ing, grocery-getting, dinner-making, sometimes writing, and sometimes laundry-doing. Again, that’s just the normal basics right?}

This week I’ve been fighting off a bug and I’ve taken 2 naps and spent one entire afternoon sitting in my driveway in a lawn-chair with a book. I made my kids fix their own snacks because I was too tired from, you know, sitting in said chair and having to turn pages.

I’ve been staring for days at 5 stacks of folded laundry that will not put themselves away and I cannot walk into the boys’ room because there is literally no room to walk. None. It’s wall-to-wall, plastic-y, made-in-China-palooza in there and it’s been that way all week.

I could have cleaned it up…or at least overseen their efforts to clean it up but I just haven’t been up to the task. Why is this whole non-working thing wearing me out? I’ll wonder.

I was talking with my running partner this morning about my performance issues. How I’m struggling because I just don’t have a lot to show for myself by the end of the day and I don’t know what to do with that.

She said, Girl, you’ve prayed for a season of rest. You knew you needed this. Enjoy it. Savor it. Don’t feel guilty about it.

The truth is, I don’t really know what to do with rest. I don’t really know what to do with anything that doesn’t belong on a list, even if it’s just a mental list.

I love rest, to be sure. {I’ve always been a champion napper.} But I don’t love feeling guilty about rest. It requires a complete rewiring of my performance-driven, perfectionistic brain. I will preach rest to everyone else; I’m just slow to heed my own advice.

Case in point: A couple of weeks ago I was talking with my sister-in-law on the phone. She has three kids, the youngest of whom has special needs and doesn’t sleep as much as she should. The past year-and-a-half has been an emotional roller-coaster for her and she’s doing regular life on top of all of that! I’m amazed. I think she deserves a medal and a nap every day and a maid.

She said she was frustrated with herself for being a “bad manager of her time.” And by “bad manager” she meant that she read a book that day instead of cleaning the house while her precious baby decided to finally sleep.

Well. I commenced to preaching and told her that reading a book was a supremely wise use of her time and that she should have taken a nap to boot. Oh, I preached some rest to this poor, tired sister of mine and then wondered why in the world she was being so hard on herself.

Until I recognized that I’m no different.

I realize that some people are just wired to feel less guilty about rest. I try to make friends with these kinds of people. They are like fresh air and the ocean to me. I’m drawn to their freedom and realistic standards, probably because deep down, I know that theirs is a life that is centered on Truth.

Life in Christ should not be a life of striving, stress, and unrelenting guilt. Busy-ness is not inherently holy. You will not see “completed to-do list” and “productivity” on the fruit of the spirit tree right next to “patience,” “kindness,” and “self-control.”

This is what I tell myself.

And this is the hard-fought Truth that’s trying to work itself out in my life–in my mind, my deeds, and my rest:

Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will. ~Romans 12:2

These things take time, don’t they? And oh, it is hard to be patient with ourselves.

Transformation and renewal begin in the mind and bear fruit in real life. Often we behave as if this is backwards. We begin with deeds and productivity and then hope that the necessary changes will settle into our thought patterns after we’ve “gotten it right” often enough.

Renewal can take place through practices and in a variety of time frames but I’ve realized that, for me, rest precedes renewal and stillness precedes transformation. Sometimes it’s the hard stuff, seasons of trial, that force the issue. That’s my story at least. My current season of rest is probably not forever, but it is certainly for now.

I am prone to spoiling the gift with guilt. I write to remind myself that gifts are given in order to be received. And enjoyed.

As we rest, we are renewed. And as we are renewed, our Spirit-filled minds are better able to sense, with clarity and confidence, the work that He has designed just for us.

When I consider it this way?

Rest doesn’t feel wasteful.

It feels fruitful.

Stealth Perfectionism

I have perfectionist tendencies. This is not news.

I’ve written about perfectionism so much that I can’t even begin to find all the posts. {I tried. But it would require so many hyper-links that I just gave up and didn’t link a single one. Take that, perfectionism!}

Awareness is half the battle and a few weeks ago I would have told you that in recent years, bit by bit, I’ve kicked my perfectionist ways to the curb.

But lately I’ve become aware of the subtle sneakiness of perfectionism, how it rears its ugly head even in the mundane.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with striving for excellence. If you are my brain surgeon, I hope you’re a perfectionist.

But most of our ways and tasks are not life and death.

I’ll give you a few personal examples.

I like to eat healthy, not to be confused with actually eating healthy. I feel better and have more energy when I eat good food. My ideal healthy breakfast is a fruit smoothie with handfuls of spinach or kale thrown in. {For the record, my ideal unhealthy breakfast is Waffle House.} But sometimes the craziness of the morning does not offer ideal conditions to whip up my kale smoothie and I keep thinking I might be able to make one so I wait and get the kids off to school and fold up some laundry real quick and check my e-mail and think about the smoothie and how I really should have that for breakfast instead of a lesser choice and then it’s 10:30 and I am seeing stars and about to pass out.

All because I’m holding out for the perfect breakfast when an acceptable breakfast would have kept me vertical.

Here’s another example. I try to make our family’s budget stretch as far as I can. In the past I’ve used coupons for groceries and toiletries and sometimes I still do. I know when I’m getting something for a great price and when I’m overpaying and the latter just kills me, even when I know it’s out of necessity. Too often we’ll need something and I’ll see it at the store and know that I should pick it up but I can save $1 if I have that coupon from home and maybe I should just wait on these things that I know I could get cheaper and come back tomorrow armed with my money-saving skillz but by the next morning we are using napkins to wipe our hineys and I’m mixing half and half with water to pour over the kids’ cereal and everyone hates me.

All because I’m trying to save $3 on toilet paper and milk.

I’m not done yet. I procrastinate laundry because I want to get it all done at once which never happens and I wonder why 8 piles are staring me in the face on any given day.

I’d given up on buying plants and flowers because I kill them. {Until the Nester’s posts reminded me that every plant will eventually die and a year’s worth of beauty from blooms is well worth a few measly dollars.}

I rarely send cards and notes because I feel like I need to send everyone who needs a card the perfect handwritten note and then I don’t end up sending any and now? No one knows that I love them.

Do you see what I’m getting at?

It’s downright embarrassing how perfectionism lurks around in the recesses of my mind and taunts me with striving and guilt. It is ridiculous how much time and energy I waste trying to do something perfectly {by my standards} instead of adequately. And it is insane that I fail to acknowledge, time and again, that there is always opportunity cost. Always. Every yes is also a no and this is one of the most important lessons any of us can learn.

Rest and sanity? They’re worth something. Quite a lot actually.

Food on the table? That’s success, no matter what you paid for it.

Toilet paper in the holder? Pat yourself on the back.

A note to a friend even if there are eight thank-you notes you keep forgetting to write? Awesome. You have a friend who knows you love her.

Confronting my perfectionism forces me to prioritize, to examine what I really value. Priorities may shift from season to season but right now, for me, I have chosen rest and healing and just the bare necessities.

It means my grocery bill is a little higher.

It means my kids are in public school instead of being classically-educated at home.

It means my house is messier than I’d like. {Well, that’s not really a new theme.}

It means I spend some mornings writing in the quiet instead of matching up socks or scrubbing toilets or mopping my floor.

It means I choose fruitfulness over productivity.

Daily, I have to preach acceptance and remind my high-strung, high-standards self that it’s all okay. It really is okay.

And there is exhilarating freedom in making friends with okay and telling perfect to move out.

Unless you’re a brain surgeon.