Tag: failure

Why your children really need you to be imperfect

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Version 2

Ephesians 2: 8-9 For by grace you have been saved, through faith.  And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.

This day after Easter has me so deeply grateful for a Savior who reached out to save us, right smack in the middle of our mess… a Christ who went to the cross saying “Forgive them.”

I’m awestruck with the goodness and mercy of Jesus, who knew how we would think we know better.  He knew we would try to take matters into our own hands.  He knew our weakness, and He loved us first.  Jesus took on all of our brokenness and self-reliance and outright rebellion, just because he wanted to be with us forever.  Hallelujah!

But this day after Easter also has me thinking it tragic how many of us moms in Christ seem to leave all of this freedom at the door of our homes.

Maybe we walk in freedom at church, at work, in friendships, in ministry, but with our children, we writhe in guilt and carry all the weight of our own brokenness solidly on our own shoulders.

Can you relate?

The pressure to be a “good mom” is enough to squeeze all of the freedom right out of parenting.

Continue reading “Why your children really need you to be imperfect” →

How to see the radical love of God in absolutely everything

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Version 3

My firm expectation that life was generally supposed to be awesome, was only mildly muddied by the bumps I faced, in my younger years.  I predominantly maintained the philosophy that heartbreak, uncertainty, angst, and grief were the exception.  And that life was “supposed” to mostly feel good.

I thought the goal was to remove the obstacles, be always moving towards settling the disquietude, solving the problem, removing the pain, learning the lesson as quickly as possible, so I could do better.  Be better.  Fail less.  Hurt less.

And when I became a mom, I thought motherhood was “supposed” to feel amazing almost all of the time, too.  I was always thinking about how to remove or repair the things standing in the way of experiencing motherhood as mostly fun and wonderful.

The wheels of my mind spun with new answers and things I had read, formulas and systems and solutions to fix myself and my children and my home right up into the perfect versions I thought they should be.

Continue reading “How to see the radical love of God in absolutely everything” →

When you need to hurry up and be the unshakable mama you long to be

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Truly he is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.

Psalm 62: 6

Many Monday mornings over the last nine years, I opened my weary eyes and glanced at the clock, only to feel as though I was already behind in every way.  Not enough time, not enough sleep, not enough exercise, not enough quiet space before the Throne of Grace.

Many Monday mornings, I looked down at these feet and wondered how they would take each of the steps required of them.

Many Monday mornings, my first inclination was to billow with strategy, to rank my To Do’s in order of priority, and to hustle.  As I scurried around, I tried to breathe strength into my own heart and bones, simply by flexing my measly muscles beneath the weight of it all.

And I usually ran out of steam and patience about 8 minutes later.  Cheeks flushed, eyes of furry, an unruly snippiness in my tone, and a gut-deep unease that I’m not cut out for this job…all by 7:38am.

Oh mamas, how do we steady our hearts and minds so that we’re not getting buckled up in the minivan already heavy with defeat, when the sun has only been up for two hours?  Don’t we all ache to be steady, unflappable, not so easily thrown?

Continue reading “When you need to hurry up and be the unshakable mama you long to be” →

My kids saw me cry right there in the middle of the kitchen

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weakness and openness
Oh Lord, would you put fresh mercy in this hand today…

I felt the stick of dried milk on my elbow, and I had bite marks on my shoulder from my curious and teething toddler’s last embrace.

The words being thrown around my kitchen table bit down even deeper than those new little teeth.

My ears were stinging with it – not just with the noise, though it had gotten quite loud, but with the dissonance of sharp arguments and overly enthusiastic tattling and defiant disrespect.  My disgust with it all was apparent on my furrowed brow, and it only made my little ones agog to load me up to the brim and see what spilled out.

It was one of our last days of summer, right before starting back to school last week — I was eager to love it.  Anxious to soak it up.  Desperate for slow.  Staunchly committed to having fun together.

But my children have this innocently prodigious way of stripping me right down to the bare bones of myself, where I can only hope some grace and Jesus spills out of my weakness, instead of the repugnance I feel on my skin.

Perhaps you can relate, friend?

Someone was mad at me and wouldn’t tell me why.  Another one didn’t like any of the ideas, and didn’t want to go anywhere.  Another had packed the bags and lined the shoes and was waiting at the door for some grand adventure.  Oh, and everyone was hungry, of course, though breakfast had yet to be cleared.  And an overwhelmed and very upset child screamed at me one too many times about how I just don’t get it and I don’t even care, and finally all I could muster in response was a handful of tears.

These are the broken moments of which I am sometimes so very afraid.  It’s funny how I don’t want to show them my weakness – I hold it back like some secret Kryptonite, as if my children are the enemy, and to reveal it would surely be the death of me.

But there’s this beauty in the broken place.  I didn’t mean to go there, and I won’t hurry back, but when we break, there’s a beautiful thing that can happen…

 

When we break through to the raw place, instead of covering it up with anger or bitterness, we see the true longings of our heart.  When we break, there is a thing ready to be healed.  When we break, walls come down and we bust open to mercy.  When we break, we become soft.  And though a soft heart is more easily wounded, it is also more ready to love and receive love, forgive and receive forgiveness, delight and be delighted in.

 

And knowing our need allows us the receive the healing touch of Christ, who said ”It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick…”

 

This broken moment last week gave my children the opportunity to see that their words affect me and were fracturing our relationship — it invited them to look around and see who else was affected.  They wanted to stop and reevaluate how the words they were using with their most important people.  We had a chance to recognize that we need help to love one another better, and it left them looking for the Source of Love.

 

I stooped low.  We huddled up.  We prayed for a fresh start.  We gave and received grace.  God met us.  And it was sweet.

“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34: 18). None of us want heartbreak, disappointment, overwhelm.  None of us go looking for something to crush our spirit.  And yet, time and again these are the places where God meets me.

 

This crushing moment led us to the throne of grace.  

 

I’m not saying that you should cry in front of your children, as a method of showing them their need for Jesus.  No.  We have a responsibility to remain steady and consistent, and mostly predictable, to provide peace and stability for our children.

And yet, in our weakness, Christ is strong.  So let’s also not be afraid of being in over our heads.  Let’s not be afraid to admit to the Lord and to each other, mamas, when our day has nearly flattened us.

 

Let’s lean our pain, our struggle, our weariness into the chest of God, that He might wrap us in a healing embrace.  And when we fail… let’s trust God with the hearts of our children, too.  I was afraid that my accidental tears may have burdened them, but as we gave God our broken morning, He exchanged it for joy.

We don’t have to feign strength when we know the Source.  We are free to draw close and honest to the heart of God, with our children… to pray gently for them when they are struggling to use kind words, to shepherd them when they have failed to disobey, to apologize to them when we’ve been wrong, and we can usher in to watch God’s healing work.

When our heart fails within us, may we gather up the presence of God as our portion, our strength. (Psalm 73: 26)

When we are weary, may we climb into the lap of our Father God, trusting that he can give strength to our hearts, and renewal to our bodies. (Isaiah 40: 29, Matthew 11: 28)

When we are hopeless, and fear that nothing we are doing will amount to anything, may we place our hope in the Lord.  May we soar on wings like eagles, tireless and full of life. (Isaiah 40: 31)

When we long to just be better, stronger, more whole…may we hear God say to our hearts “My grace is sufficient.”  May we boast in our weakness, that Christ’s power may be great in us. (2 Corinthians 12: 9)

Sometimes I put too much weight on keeping it “together” with my kids.  Steadiness, consistency is a big deal in parenting.  I’m a believer in it, and I fight for it daily.  But it’s not THE thing.   I’m tempted to become robotic when I’m trying to muster up patience, and avoid yelling.

But today, I’m proclaiming out loud that the thing I want most is to be on my knees before Christ himself.  I’d rather be soft than cold.  I’d rather be accessible then impenetrable.  I’d rather exhibit heartbreak than calculated control.

Openness requires faith because it leaves us vulnerable.  It requires faith that God’s grace is enough when we let our hearts be hurt.

But openness can lead us to genuine need and true dependence on the Lord.  It can leads us to authentic heart connection with our God and with our children.  We have an opportunity to draw close.  We have an opportunity to pray.  And our children have an opportunity to feel our veracious and loving investment in their hearts and our relationship with them.

Today, I’m choosing to be unafraid of my weakness.  Today, I’m choosing to trust that God’s mercy can cover my failure, my disappointment, my inadequacy.

 

I’m choosing to believe that I can let my walls of fear and self-protection come down, and take up the shield of faith, as the only defense I need. (Ephesians 6: 16)

 

Psalm 73: 26  My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.  

Habbakuk 3: 19  The Sovereign Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to tread on the heights. 

2 Corinthians 12: 10  That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.  

 

When you feel like you’re in the desert…Why you might need to look for a burning bush

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Now Moses was tending the flock…There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in flames of fire from within a bush. Moses saw that though the bush was on fire it did not burn up. So Moses thought, “I will go over and see this strange sight—why the bush does not burn up.”  When the Lord saw that he had gone over to look, God called to him from within the bush, “Moses! Moses!” And Moses said, “Here I am.”  “Do not come any closer,” God said. “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.”  Then he said, “I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob.” At this, Moses hid his face, because he was afraid to look at God.  

The Lord said…”I am sending you…”  

But Moses said to God, “Who am I that I should go…?”  

And God said, “I will be with you…” 

Exodus 3: 1-12 (Paraphrase)

 

No matter how many words I spill about how we mamas don’t have to be the perfect heroes, because we have a perfect hero in Jesus…  No matter how I breathe in freedom that God chose me and delights in me and offers me his never-ending, ever-sufficient grace… I still rise in the morning and sit to this keyboard, feeling like I should offer strength, bring wisdom, do it better.  I wish I could tell you how to make it all easier.  I wish I could tell you that I figured it all out.

But truthfully, I grasp for my own encouragement as I sit with a heavy body, a burdened soul, a fickle heart, a cluttered mind.  Perhaps you feel the same as you grasp for a quick minute to read words that you hope can encourage you for your day.

I used to think being a mom was just about making good decisions, about doing it right, about meeting needs and saying “I love you” and guiding and disciplining with wisdom and patience and grace.  Yes!  To all of these things, yes….

But it felt so straightforward.

And then I stared back at these little eyes staring at me.  Eyes that didn’t look like mine and needed me to tell them who they are.  Eyes that longed, wondered, tested, and needed more than I could give.  I looked at a little body that was sick or hurt, and I couldn’t fix it.  I saw these eyes that stung when I was not patient.  I watched my unique children experience the same events, transitions, words completely differently — one laughs, and the other runs and hides.  One has days of tears and irritability after a change, and the other seems to have only relief.  I peered into little souls that were afraid of things that we could not control.  I have sent my heart out on legs into unknown places and watched them be scared, face hardship, get hurt, feel confused.  I faced eyes of tiny people who just wanted to know I was pleased, and I sometimes felt my face contorted into a scowl that I never wanted to have on my face.

At some point I was faced with the question that perhaps parenting was about something other than doing it all right?

In the midst of my soul searching God’s over the mystery of having children — a road of failure and uncertainty and giving beyond my limits and letting go beyond my comfort — I have become aware of a quiet invitation.  This invitation was set ablaze in me.  And in these wildly arduous and agonizingly beautiful days with little ones, I want no mom to miss this thing that now burns in my belly and drives me to keep spilling these words.

I hear a voice calling — in the middle of deserts of inadequacy and invisibility and uncertainty and mind-numbing repetitiveness – God’s voice is beckoning me to come closer…

When I feel weak, He says “Come, let my power be made perfect in your weakness.”  (2 Corinthians 12: 9)

When I feel invisible, He says “Come, let me tell you how I see you…” (Psalm 139)

When I feel tired, He says “Come, let me renew your strength…” (Isaiah 40: 31)

When I feel pressure, He says “Come, cast your burden on me, and I will lift your chin and lighten your step” (Matthew 11: 30)

When I feel ashamed of my failure and inadequacy, He says “Come, let me cleanse you in my grace, and you will give away what you receive.”  (1 John 1: 9(

When I feel worried and anxious, He says “Come, let me give you my peace that passes understanding.” (Philippians 4: 6-7)

When I feel worn by the dishes, laundry, diapers, arguments, words, He says “Come, whatever you do, do it all unto me.  The work of your hands is as a song of worship to my ears.”

The very things that make me feel like I have nothing to offer…these have been a door to find God’s heart for me in motherhood.  The very things that stretch us beyond our limits and make it feel just too dang hard…these seem to be a key to unlock the elusive joy and peace and freedom we all know we should have.  When I feel like I’m wandering the desert, the Lord says “Come.  Draw close.  Fear not.  I am calling you.  I will be with you.  Though you feel weak and unimpressive and never enough — I am sending you to be my ambassador to my people…these tiny, adorable, royal bearers of My image.  To these, you will be a vessel of MY love, a mouthpiece of MY truth, a fountain of MY grace.”

Take off your sandals, Mama.  You are on holy ground…

My friend, whether you have little ones or grown ones or simply dreams of a full home in the future, listen today for the voice that beckons you through the things that you might think are in your way.

 

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A sweet moment of invitation from the weekend… And the Lord says “Come.”

Mama, this is how you know God is after your heart… (And a GIFT!)

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This morning I woke swimming in the mystery of life and motherhood…so heavy with burden and responsibility, so light with games of peek-a-boo and spontaneous dancing.  So emptied out of energy and time and space and refreshment, so full of laughter and wonder and silly conversation.  Despite the palpable beauty and the irrefutable blessing, there is a darkness that can cast shadows on a mama’s joy, and that leads us to live a shadow of the blessing intended for us.

There is the feeling of invisibility and having no visible achievement to show for the mothering of the day. There are sleepless nights and impossible pressures.  There are fits and messes, and the hurry of the world clashing with the maddening sloooow of children who don’t see the big deal about putting on shoes. There is the crushing inadequacy, the fear of the dangers and hardships our children could face. There is the tension of being a mom, with enormous influence and utter lack of control over future and faith and safety.

There are the yoga pants and minivans, the feelings of smallness and un-chicness. There is the lack of understanding from the boss or the dinner party host. There is the impossible-to-explain importance of a naptime. There is the intense grind of chores and meals and sports schedules, and endless driving. There is the hopelessness of keeping up, the discouragement of failure, the laying down your life in the most imperceptible ways. There is the absence of instruction or feedback. There are the postpartum hormones and breastfeeding struggles that everyone has but no one likes to admit, and everyone seems to forget by the time their youngest is out of diapers.

Something in me cries out for someone to see, for someone to understand the chaotic mystery I’m trying to live, somehow with intention and purpose.  Maybe like me, you yearn for someone to understand the strangeness of stumbling for coffee and trying to piece together a seemingly sloppy mess of moments into a story leading little souls to the feet of Jesus…shaping the next generation with the same handful of moments that can so easily be shaped by prolonged fatigue, grumpiness, and the inexplicable experience of “mommy brain.” All we’ve learned about life and faith and work seems to short-circuit in days of pure survival with tiny people.

And yet, our lives will be made up of a series of these mostly ordinary moments.  What might it look like to live these moments fully alive?  What might it mean to find God in the mess, instead of waiting for the mountaintop?

 

The days of a mother are full of things to distract us or keep us from the gift… I have to think that the secret to joy is not in pretending they aren’t there.  I have to believe that a feeling of purpose and fulfillment is not in finding enough affirmation.   I think the joy and peace and purpose we long for are just on the other side of surrender.

The key to unlocking joy and abundance in the midst of this motherhood thing – it lies hidden within our deepest cries and our desperate longings.

 

I believe God whispers to our hearts in the places that cry out the loudest.

 

As I open my ears to hear, I begin to notice God’s gentle whisper beckoning me to his heart – into deeper intimacy with Him – through the very things I thought were there to steal my joy.  I invite you to tune in and listen to how God is calling to your heart right in the middle of your mess…

As your human limits slap you right across the face…when two eyes, two ears, two hands are never enough to meet all of the needs… When you crash into bed like a force of nature despite the mound of things you “should” be doing…  When fatigue, lack of control, the inability to “fix it” for your kids overwhelm you… May these things drive you to submit to God’s infinite wisdom and sovereignty.  Through our fleshy and finite humanness, God calls us to know his omnipotent kingship.  God beckons our hearts through our weakness.

As you feel claustrophobic with small people hanging on you or talking ceaselessly, may you feel wooed into the safety and quiet of God’s presence. There was a time it was sheer discipline to remember to seek quiet in my day… it now feels like survival. I think of Jesus with the sick and desperate crowding against him as I feel the constant needs of my children assailing me. I think of newlywed days in a crowd and wishing to be alone with my love. God calls to our hearts through the pressure of our days…may you feel the longing ache to draw away and be alone with Him, the Lover of your soul. God beckons our hearts through the relentless pressure. 

As your sense of identity seems to slip through your fingers…  When everyone talks to your baby as if you are merely a backdrop…  When no one notices that you never got to sit down for the meal… When so much of your life, worries and fears, longings and hopes, service and heartbreak – so much is unseen… may you hear God’s whisper that he sees.  We are drawn into a life of self-sacrifice, before one set of eyes, the eyes of Our Heavenly Father. We are invited into a secret romance with him, and it’s all a dance of worship. God beckons our hearts through invisibility.

For this generation, there is a relentless unspoken law of “good mom.”  When the expectations to do everything right are crushing you, and your constant failure bombarding you…  If you fail to be the mom you want to be, and you are haunted by the thought of sweet little eyes seeing you do it all wrong… may you be washed in the truth that our shepherding is about our imperfection pointing to the perfection of Jesus, our weakness pointing to Christ’s strength.  May you be beckoned by the whisper that says it’s all about grace.   God calls us to security and confidence based not in our performance, but in our identity as His daughter. We are transformed by a keen and constant understanding of our need, and an hourly dependence on our Rescuer Jesus.  God beckons our hearts through our failure.

When you are frustrated by your child’s agonizing slowness and distractibility… may you be beckoned by the invitation to wonder and delight.  When you struggle to get them to focus, may you melt into their intoxicating giggles.  Children are Jesus’ example of the liberation intended for our hearts.  We are invited back to the magic of a butterfly.  We are beckoned by an enthusiastic attitude of “Do it again!” We have a picture of the faith Jesus describes, in which our confidence comes from knowing we’re loved, not by our performance. Accepting grace comes easily, love is assumed.  They move slow, are open to interruptions, are infinitely forgiving.  This posture opens up endless possibilities for encountering the Spirit of God, living in gratitude.  Children delight in every little thing of God’s creation.  God beckons our hearts through our child’s eyes of unhurried wonder.

As parents, we have everything to lose.  Fear of real or imagined danger and loss can be debilitating.  Every time we must let our children go to some new adventure or unknown circumstance, it is as if our hearts are ripped right out and given legs.   We are all Abraham laying Isaac on the alter because we believe God keeps his promises, and have nowhere else to turn (Genesis 22).  We are all Jochabed putting Moses in a basket on the Nile because we have no other choice (Exodus 2).  We could let this feeling trap us and paralyze us from joy-filled living, or we can listen for the whisper that gently says “I set the stars in place (Job 9:9, Psalm 8:3).”  We could tune into the voice that says “I know every hair on their heads (Luke 12: 7).”  We could listen for the One who says “They can never leave my presence, and I am the only one able to hem them in (Psalm 139).”  Though we don’t have a promise for perpetual safety and ease, we have a promise that God is near, and God is good.  God beckons us through our desperation for His covering over our children.

Days and nights full of laundry and dishes and lunch boxes and diapers and driving…they have a mind-numbing repetitiveness.  We could spend them waiting bitterly for a better life to begin, but I’m beginning to see that the mindless tasks can become like repeating a worship refrain. As we build up our muscle memory for folding shirts and loading the dishwasher, we can build a spirit memory of openness and adoration.  We can fold a shirt giving thanks for the one who wears it.  We can pack the lunch or scrub the pot giving thanks for strong arms for our task.  God beckons us with the repetitive refrain of our day, inviting us to sing a song of worship with our hands.  

God is after your heart, Mama. I pray for eyes to see the wild pursuit.

 

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A gift for the mama feeling pressure to do and be everything

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Several days ago, when winter was still heavy on us, before the springtime air rushed in and refreshed every fiber…I had one of those days when everything felt like entirely too much.  I scurried in the door on that bitter February morning, and could still feel the wind cutting through me and stinging my nose. But something cut deeper still, swept right through and left a mess of me…

Too many of my things that morning came from a place of “should” or “have to.” Too many of my things came from wanting to be productive, a “good mom,” to have something to show for my day, or to win some imaginary battle for someone’s approval (that was likely never in danger).

 

There is something in the air that presses on a mother, making her feel that the weight of the world is on her shoulders and like she has to do it all right.

Pressure piles, and says “Do all the things.” Guilt sinks deep, and says “You are never enough.” Sometimes this thing turns my eyes inward and threatens my joy.
Do you feel it, sister?
And no matter what “they” say…the “shoulds” and “have tos” are shifting sand. I don’t know about you, but I need some more solid ground to stand on.

 

I have to think it’s getting harder to be free in this mom space.  Courageous women have fought long and hard to lay claim to the freedom and value and beauty and equality given us by God, from voting rights and sports and career and salary and leadership and in all the ways…

We are equal!  And all one in Christ.  (Gal 3: 28)

I love how Jesus so beautifully offered equal love and acceptance and value and appreciation and calling to the women he encountered, in a culture that said and did the opposite.  Jesus was the first on the battleground of women’s liberation…women’s freedom.

Heaven rejoices as women find their voice…the voice they were always meant to have.

But I’m afraid that somewhere along the way, motherhood shrunk into the shadows a bit. Now that women can do anything, we can too easily feel pressure to do everything.

 

The world is loud with all we can and should do.

 

If you listen to the noise, you might feel pressure to have the babies and the perfect body; to be strong but not prickly; to do the house, the laundry, the cooking, the teaching and shepherding; to do the sports, the girl scout troop, the volunteering, the picture-perfect Christmas cards, the leading, the hosting, the crafting, the blogging, the class cupcakes and Valentines; to have the dream career, earn the full-time income and do the full-time mom thing (or one or the other, depending on the day); to be a fun friend and an adoring wife, intelligent and professional, but not too uptight.  Also, be a laid-back mom, but not so laid back that your kids get rowdy, or hurt…

And, by the way, the noise says that most of this is just a side note to what you’re really doing with your life.

 

I’m exhausted just writing it. And, you and I both know that list could be so much longer.

 

It feels like expectations have been added, but none removed.  I’m not talking about working because you love it, or because you’re providing needed income for your family. I’m not talking about making time for the things you love, and how it leaves your schedule a little full. I’m not talking about Saturday mornings full of the joy of watching your little people run their hearts out on the soccer field.

I’m just trying to put a name to whatever it is for each of us that brings that gut-deep hollowness that says “You’re not doing enough.”

 

One of the things that inspired me to begin writing for mothers is this thing I see happening to our spirits…this pressure to do All The Things.

 

On days when it feels a small miracle to put on clothes, All The Things still press in on me.

 

At times in my mom journey, I have found myself in a perpetual cycle of self-criticism. I feel weak if I get help with cleaning, or less-than if I have to say “No” to the baseball league or piano lessons, as it feels that everyone else has their children in sports and lessons of every kind from about age 3.

You might feel inadequate because other moms seem more on top of life, or you think the other moms must never yell at their kids, or because the other moms went organic.  Or you haven’t greeted your husband well, or hosted the dinner, or showed up to the party, or returned the phone call…and it all weighs on you.

Maybe you feel guilty for not keeping up with doctor’s appointments or homework or the kids’ dental hygiene. Maybe you showed up at the doctor’s office and fumbled over birthdays, or found out your child had a fever you didn’t know about. Or, like me, you didn’t know the answers to half the questions about whether your child knows his last name or the parts of his body.

Since when is this a milestone? I missed the memo.

 

We might compare ourselves to the mom who has daily devotions with her children, or the one who wears real clothes and mascara every day. Or we envy the mom whose body snaps right back after having a baby.

 

Social media can be a flood of perfect pictures and extravagant birthday parties and family outings and magazine-ready living rooms and put-together mamas. As we take in pretty images of other’s lives, we have more material against which to judge ourselves and our families.

 

And the isolation that often comes with the little years can distance us from other mom’s hearts that say “me too.” When you’re alone, it’s easier to trust your snap judgments that have you convinced you’re the only one falling behind…the only one failing.

 

I have to believe that our days as mothers are not meant to be shadowed by guilt and regret and self-criticism, by comparison and pressure.

 

The pressure to be a certain kind of mom – or all the kinds of moms – leads me to do all kinds of things I don’t need to be doing. I can wander into the dangerous zone of boundary-less-ness, feeling like I should do everything and be everything…

 

There is this illogical drive to be all the most perfect versions of a mom – to somehow have the best parts of every mom I’ve ever met.  I want to be the crafty mom, and the organized mom, the creative mom, the let-your-kids-cook-with-you mom (AHH!), the PTA mom, the easygoing “they’ll be fine” mom, the mom with the color-coded calendar, and the spontaneous road-trip mom, the clean-house mom and the mom who is totally present for the puzzles and dance parties.  I want to be the mom who always responds quickly to her friend’s text messages and the mom who is not on her phone when her kids are around.

I want to be the right kind of hostess – the one with the idyllic calm, the homemade snacks and the fresh coffee.

And the right kind of wife – or every kind of wife – the perfect housewife and the wife with exciting dreams, the elegant and fun wife, and the wife unfazed by the undignified nature of days full of spit up and temper tantrums.   I want to be the wife who is not caught up in her appearance and also the wife who can walk confidently and feel sexy after five babies.

I can easily fall into a continuous state of failure.

 

The cards have been dealt on the handful of things I’m good at and all the ones I’m not.  I think freedom is just being the one kind of mom and human God made me.  The necessities of life go on, and I actually can’t be in all the places at once.  I think freedom looks like letting myself just be in the one place doing the one thing.

“Be everything to everyone” makes me bitter. It makes life feel arduous, and I begin to choke on every need or demand anyone has of me.

 

If I let myself live under this kind of pressure, it leaves me longing for easier days, for affirmation, and frankly, for everyone to leave me alone. This is the pressure that makes me want to run away. Those are the days when the constant comments at the grocery store about how my “hands are full” nearly crush me.  Do you have days like that, friend?

 

Mamas, we must make a strong choice to reject these lies of pressure to do and be All the Things, and we must be washed in a new truth:

We were never meant to be everything.

 

If the weight of being everything is on our shoulders… If we were meant to fix the world for our children and everyone else… If it was our job to save their hearts, and satisfy them in every way… then Jesus died for nothing.

 

We were made human and finite and dependent and weak, on purpose. Raising our children to believe that their mamas can do everything and fix everything and be everything is a surefire way to lead them into the heart of disappointment.

But teaching our children how to move slow, how to trust that we were only meant to be in one place at a time, how to be free to be weak and in desperate need of a Savior.

This is a lesson that lasts.

And their Savior Jesus will never disappoint.

 

We were never meant to be everything. And we cannot write the whole story of the lives of our children. Under the loving care of the Infinite God, we have a specific and limited role.

 

As mothers, we were given a measure of authority, but God holds their hearts and spirits. As humans, we have an opportunity to partner with God in beautiful works…

but we run ourselves ragged in vain.

 

God has the role of winning the hearts of our children. Jesus came to save their souls. Our Father in Heaven holds them. He knows where each precious child fits.

 

The Almighty God has the role of being everywhere at once. We can just be in one place.  If we choose the wrong one, He can handle keeping the world spinning another day.

Today, be free to be just the mama you are…good at the things you’re good at and not at the things you’re not.

Today, be free to be in one place at a time.

Today, let your Heavenly Father carry the weight of the safety and future and faith of your children. Let God hold all the people and places that seem to need you.

The pressure is off, sweet friend. Go, enjoy your freedom!

 

 

A simple mantra to make your failed attempts a victory and not a defeat

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This was one of those mornings when the beauty of the sunrise, the snowflakes decorating the bare branches in our front yard, and the excitement of a first school delay….none of it seemed quite enough to save us from a mess of ugly words and sharp tones and time outs. None of it seemed to save me from waves of that gut-deep ick of not feeling especially tender or affectionate towards my children. None of it saved me from the sinking shame of not being able to make myself like them as they screamed accusations at me about how I must have moved their boots or forgotten to wash the shirt they put back in the wrong drawer, or how I didn’t pour enough milk, or how it was All My Fault.

 

God must have sent his angels to my aide because my words caught on my tongue, and there was a spark of grace. In the midst of wanting to make sure everyone knew that I actually was not guilty of the things they accused, a greater truth set in that I am guilty of so much more than not keeping up with laundry. There’s this deeper and more beautiful truth that in our guilt, Jesus took on all of the accusation meant for us, and didn’t fight back. He gets it, and he took it all straight to the cross for us.  Jesus calls me his sister and co-heir, so I don’t have to fight back either.

The flash of grace almost kept me from saying anything snippy…but not quite. And the rest of the story is that Christ covers my present failures, too.

And then…the snow boots and gloves are all located and tightened to an acceptable fit, and these little ones swarm me with hugs and charge out the door to spin with arms spread wide, and tongues held out to catch snow flakes. They yell through the door how they love me and sorry for yelling. And it’s all worth it for ten minutes of magic before school. And I breathe and die to my convenience and comfort and dignity, and realize that this ten minutes is better than nothing.

 

And most likely all they will remember is the magic.

 

Is it not such grace that children never seem to remember all the other moments in between the magical ones? They don’t remember the snacks and diapers and potty trips and wrestling in between the magic of seeing animals at the zoo. They don’t remember the waiting and whining in between the moments of magic at Disney World. They don’t remember the bedtime arguments in between the magic of snuggling up to a good book. And they don’t remember the trauma of unmatched boots and gloves, and missing clothing items in between the magic of playing in the snow.

Those in-between moments fade away in light of the moments that are really something.  And this one was.

Would I have preferred to have our stuff together to get out 30 minutes earlier to make it feel more enjoyable and less rushed and more worth it? Absolutely. But their ten minutes of bliss was so much better than nothing.

 

Better Than Nothing.

 

So much in this life as a mom of tiny people feels like settling for the real-life, less-than version of what I thought the thing was supposed to look like. When I picture obedient happy children prancing through my tightly controlled plan, the real-life, less-than version always involves far more cost to me and far less ease of enjoyment.

But, I’m trying….Sisters, I am just trying to let “Better than nothing” be ok.

I’m trying to embrace freedom to just do what we can, and accept the limits that God knows about, and that I can’t do anything to change. And truly, every time I take the road of celebrating the moments we get instead of mourning the moments we don’t, this flood of grace follows…

 

I realize now that I’ve had this constant scale running in my head, weighing the cost and the gain of everything in my day. Is it really worth it to try to get up early to have a quiet time, if I know for almost certain that I will be interrupted? Is it really worth it to go through all the hassle of hats and gloves and coats and shoes and potty breaks and snacks and water bottles and ‘oh, I forgot to feed the baby’ for a little park time? Is the aftermath of never-the-same laundry really worth their joy for splashing in the mud puddles? Is a kitchen covered in flour worth their thrill of their “helping” me make cookies? Is it worth it for me to try to keep a commitment to daily-ish exercise when I’m so dang tired, and can’t seem to ever get more than 20 minutes?

Undoubtedly, yes – with heaps of grace when I can’t – it is worth it. It is worth it to lean in the direction of moments of life-giving joy. I heard this quote from G.K. Chesterton on God Centered Mom (one of my favorite podcasts!)…

“If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly.”

 

Funny as it sounds, I am finding it to be so true. Many of the things in our days that are worth doing, we will never be able to do perfectly, or even well. But our efforts towards life-giving joy are worth it for our sake and for the sake of our children.

 

So lately, “Better than nothing” has become a bit of a mantra for me.

I finish a 15-minute workout in our basement gym with the sound of baby cries through a monitor, and I say to myself “Well…that was better than nothing.”

I give the floor a quick once-over before running out the door for carpool, and I think “Better than nothing!”

Their daddy and I lead 47 seconds of an intentional conversation with our children at the breakfast table…Better than nothing!

A friend and I each squeeze in a few broken sentences at a park play date, and part ways with a hug and a look that says “Just being together in our mess… it’s so much better than nothing.”

My husband and I grab a quick chat in front of the fireplace between the last child getting to bed and our faces flopping into pillows…As far as a date is concerned, it’s better than nothing.

 

Some days “Better than nothing” seems to be my anthem. And you know what? On all accounts, it actually is Better. Than. Nothing. A ten-minute workout or an attempt to connect with my husband, or a moment to listen for the voice of God in the quiet of the morning…

these are a victory, not a defeat.

 

I believe God blesses and multiples these choices we make…not just our success to do them well every time.  I believe God sees the inclination of our heart, and the direction we are leaning, not just how effective we are at changing course.

 

There was a time, not so long ago, when I wasted sweet moments beating myself up over each and every one of these things. I wondered why I couldn’t get my children to sit still to finish a devotional. Or why I couldn’t get up early enough to have a good workout or quiet time. I was burdened by the steady decline of the cleanliness of my house. I would beat myself for not being a better friend, or wife, or church member. But I’m beginning to realize that the decreasing size of my offering due to the increasing amount of capacity taken by life’s necessities…it actually does not decrease the worth.

 

My Better Than Nothing is the two copper coins from the poor widow, worth far more than what I brought from my excess of time and energy when I was younger.

 

My Better Than Nothing is the five loaves and two fish from a little boy with faith to give it away and see what Jesus would do to feed the 5,000.

 

Without our measly offering, we don’t get to see the miracle.

 

So, sisters, when we’re tired, and it all seems like too much of a hassle, let’s bring our Better than Nothing to the feet of Jesus and watch him do the miracle of joy, the miracle of peace, the miracle of moments of magic multiplying in the lives of our children.

 

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How to love the Messy and Crazy that crushed your Christmas dreams

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This one comes with the sounds of tearing paper and children’s delighted squeals still ringing in my ears. This one comes with sweet flavors of Christmas treats still lingering on my tongue. This one comes with bits of paper and ribbon still on the floor.

This one comes with a heart full of family and laughter and the joy of giving and receiving. This one comes with Christmas carols still hummed under my breath. And children in new clothes. And new treasured toys resting in their new spaces in our home. This one comes with heart still pumping the magic of Christmas through my veins.

This one comes with Christmas lights still twinkling in the corner of my eye, and sparks of anxiety and too-much-ness of the season still trying to make a mess of me. We made it through Christmas day. We made sweet memories and everyone had something to open, and our bodies and home survived the chaos.

But the photos that tell a story of how we lived the idyllic front of a Christmas card – they don’t tell the whole story…

Because Christmas in real life means your Advent devotional comes with potty breaks and baby’s cries.

Christmas in real life means your two-year-old thinks that baby Jesus is just “really cute” and that must be why we can’t stop talking about him.

Christmas in real life means that you spend the morning preparing for the perfect Christmas-y outing only to realize that you drove away from the house with that perfectly packed bag sitting on the counter.

Christmas in real life means that any attempts to simplify or buy less leave us feeling like the salmon swimming upstream, getting bloodied with all the “What is Santa bringing YOU?” and “What’s on your Christmas list?” and “What do you WANT for Christmas?”

And Christmas in real life means wrestling with wanting all the magic for your children but wondering when Christmas became all about ME and all the stuff I want?  Wondering how to teach them to be grateful…to be givers.

Christmas in real life means that all the magic comes alongside head and heart swirling with friends grieving lost ones and a divided nation and Syrian mamas just like me, desperate to cover their precious ones under their wings.

Christmas in real life means that the good news of Christ’s coming hasn’t quite reached the spaces in your soul where there is pain and loss, loneliness, heartbreak, or broken dreams.

This one comes with a heaviness that even the magic of Christmas is hard to embrace as the world spins another day with all it’s heaviness and weariness.  And I sometimes find myself envying the innocence of my children, and the purity of their joy and delight.

This one comes with waves of sinking condemnation wondering if my children missed the point – if we did it all wrong. If we gave too many gifts, or the wrong ones. If we did enough to help the poor. If we spent too much money. If we did too much Santa. If they saw too much of my stress and not enough of my presence through the season of Advent. If they would have been happier just to have me, and not so much of the cookies and the crafts and the gifts and the decorations and the perfect photos.

Christmas in real life means you sometimes question the things you’re teaching your children, about how Jesus came to bring peace and freedom, light and love, grace and truth. And most of the gift of teaching them is in allowing them to teach it back to you.

And the lie of the camera and trying to live out the idyllic, tidied-up front of the Christmas card is not so much that it is too good, it’s that it’s not good enough. That picturesque scene doesn’t reach down to the broken parts of my soul – truthfully, it either makes me feel like a failure or makes me feel like a fraud. The perfect Christmas doesn’t capture the story of our real God who cares about our real lives and came down into the mess to shine light into our darkness and speak life into our dead places.

Jesus didn’t come to speak into the picturesque Christmas. The truth of the nativity is that it was dirty and smelly and uncomfortable. And I think the truth of God’s Christmas story is that that’s the point. He gets it. He sees us. He’s not fooled by our perfect Instagram post. He knows that our hearts need more answers than how many “likes” we get. He knows that being loved for our tidied up best doesn’t heal our wounds of rejection, and questions of our worth.

We need to be known in our mess and loved in our mess to know love at all.

And our God knows that our deepest desire is not for a perfect Christmas tree, but for a perfect Savior…who died messy on a tree so that we could live.  He knows that our heart’s cry is not for a perfect family photo, but for a perfect love that covers over all of our ugliness.

Jesus didn’t come to be born in a stable so that the nativity scene would make the perfect Christmas card, he came small and messy to be the answer to our real, messy, smelly and sometimes tragic lives.

On my real life Christmas morning, there were moments of pure joy and delight. And moments when someone peed on the floor.

On my real life Christmas morning, children squealed and ran to give hugs of gratitude upon opening a gift. And children fought and cried over liking each other’s gifts better than their own.

On my real life Christmas morning, we all got dressed in our best red and green. And the baby spit up all over my first two outfits.

On my real life Christmas morning, the big kids enjoyed a lip-smacking batch of French toast while the toddler got ahold of a pack of gum, from which she ate several pieces with the wrapper on, choked, and threw up all over my purse and a pile of clean laundry. You won’t see that one on a Christmas card…

I could so easily let the messy moments disappoint me or take away from what Christmas is “supposed to be.”  Or I can let the messy moments shift my focus to see that Christmas was never supposed to just be pretty.

Don’t get me wrong…I love the beauty of white lights lining a home, or the gold and red ornaments on a tree.  I love the elegance of a poinsettia, and the way a Christmas carol warms my soul.  These are sweet gifts of beauty that symbolize the true and deep beauty of the season.  But the truth is our lives don’t tidy up for a perfect Christmas Day.  We still get stomach aches, and we grieve lost loved ones, and we change diapers, and kids throw tantrums.  And the real beauty of Christmas is that is the world that Jesus chose to enter into with us.

The sweetness of the messy moments is that God spoke straight to them by leaving his throne to sleep in a manger surrounded by smelly animals.

The magic of Christmas is not that it’s pretty, but that it lets us be ugly. It’s not that it’s tidy, but that it lets us be messy. The magic is that God took on flesh and chose to live our real life alongside of us to become our perfect rescuer, who knows and understands our weakness and our struggle and our mess.  This is the true magic of Christmas.

“Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” (Hebrews 4: 16)  

When you feel like a hot mess and it’s hard to fight for friendship

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Dear friend,

I’m not a good friend. I’m not. Perhaps there was a time when I was. But the truth is that being my friend today requires a good portion of patience and heaps of grace. Being a mama to my little flock requires much of me. Sometimes, it feels like all of me. And, though I’m eager to connect, and I love you from my depths, friendship feels hard.

I desperately want to be there for you when you need me. I want to be dependable. Consistent. Punctual. I want to be truly present. I want to remember your birthday, and all the days that matter to you. I want to be distracted by nothing when your heart is hurting and you need my listening ears. That’s my heart, as it always has been.

I want to be the best of friends to you.

But these little people who need me, and this other side of my heart where the light began to shine eight years ago…it steals me away. And the scary truth of my beautiful, messy life now…is that I never, ever stop being mama.

I forget to call. I forget to respond to emails and texts. I sometimes forget to follow up after an important conversation.

My thoughts are muddled. I cannot remember how to speak in full sentences, because it has been eight years since I finished one.

When the school called while we’re out to coffee, I answered. When I heard a crash in the next room, I sprang to my feet in the middle of your sentence. When one of my people got hurt or sick, I canceled our time together. I backed out of commitments when I saw things get unbalanced in my home. I never wanted to do that to you.

I have packed up lunches and children and arrived at a playground picnic only to leave 45 seconds later with a handful of bee stings to tend to, and a van load of tantrums. I once left your tender moment when a child of mine mistook a playhouse chair for a potty. Yup, that happened.

I grow frustrated that even your tears or deep pain can’t find the shelter of my uninterrupted focus.

I have arrived without someone’s shoes. Without enough snacks or Band-Aids. We have been overtaken by whining, and potty breaks, and questions. We have been defeated by the shear noise.

I know you understand.

It’s not convenient to be friends. And it’s not safe. We could start to think that friendship needs to just be put on a shelf until our children are older. But some deep down place in us knows better.  Doing it alone is not the answer.

Despite the best of intentions and sometimes what feels like monumental efforts, I fail you. And I recognize that I really can’t make you any promises. The truth is my promises were always weak – my dependability was always reliant on the grace of God. But I really know it now. I know it in the flesh because I have failed you time and again.

It was not always a crisis that stood in our way, friend. It’s just that my little flock took all of me. My heart’s eye zoomed in a bit, and my other loves fell out of focus for a moment. But I need you to know that your friendship – right there in the mess – it keeps me going.

We must fight to believe that it is so very worth it. As we balance the needs of these precious little people, we must offer one another grace upon grace to believe that our love for one another remains.

I want to say “I’m sorry” for not being a good friend, but I can’t say it in good conscience. I see that God made you and me with one fleshy body and 24 hours in a day, and a mind and a heart that can’t keep all the things in focus, the way that He can. And I see that He gave us these little flocks and a job to do. So, I really can’t say “I’m sorry,” because I will fail you the same way again. And please don’t say “sorry” either, because I want the same for you.

I need you to know that I am trusting a gracious God who can keep your heart in focus all day and night – that He will tend to your heart when I can’t.

I need you to know that even though I fail to be there, that I am with you. I see you. And I believe in you.

I’ve never gone to war, but I imagine that the dearest soldier friends are comforted by one another’s presence on a battlefield. You and me are like that. The soldiers are unable to keep an eye on one another as they fight, but their hearts belong to one another. They are empowered by fighting as one. And, as soon as the dust begins to settle, their eyes dart around looking for one another. They are prepared to tend to one another’s wounds, and carry one another out of harm’s way, if they need to. I’m fighting alongside of you, friend. And I will always come looking for you.

I never stop being a mama…but I need you right next to me. Will you stay?

I know you will.

I want to ask you to trust that I treasure your presence in the middle of it all. You help keep the beat – the rhythm of my life. And your partnership makes me strong.

The inconvenience, the risk, the interruptions, the mess, the utter failure to connect when distractions mount – I wouldn’t trade it for doing this without you. To keep fighting for friendship feels dangerous, but doing it alone is far more so.

We must keep fighting.

Motherhood brings these unique challenges to walking in community. There is no water cooler or office party, where we share our successes and grievances. There is no performance review that helps us feel confident that we’re on the right track. Our “direct reports” are not likely to offer any helpful feedback or thanks for many, many years…if ever. And the only job description is an unwritten “Do All The Things.”

We are often hungry, worn down by sibling squabbles, messes, and discipline challenges. And we are oh, so very tired. In the long days full of little people who don’t speak in logical sentences, with carpool and nap schedules, with frequent interruptions, doing it alone can feel easier. But the more alone we are, the heavier this thing of motherhood feels.

Alone, we start to think we’re the only one. The only one struggling. The only one who yells at her kids. The only one who locks herself in the bathroom for a break. The only one who can’t stop nagging and criticizing.  The only one who finds it so difficult to try to switch from Spit-up Covered Mama to Sexy Wife.

Alone, we might believe that lie that every one else is doing it better.

Alone, our hopelessness might get the best of us.

Alone, our shame has no accountability. The darkness of isolation hides and feeds it. Shame can hold us down in those dark spots where we believe we’re the wrong one for the job, and our children are doomed.

Alone, we forget to pray.

Alone, we forget to laugh.

Let’s not do it alone.

This is why I’m so grateful for the understanding we have between us. When it comes to those social graces we learned in elementary school, about eye contact and not interrupting. We’ve let those go. We know a million times over that it’s not personal.

We both know the struggle of a heart that is always, always divided. That never stops being a mama. Our hearts are one, yours and mine. We’re fighting on the same battlefield, and we’ll come looking when the dust settles.

We know and believe that it’s worth the struggle. That we need each other.

This kind of friendship is something magical. Sister, our hands are full, but our spirits are walking hand-in-hand.

And I couldn’t do it without you.

With Love,

Your Not-So-Awesome Friend, Who Will Always Come Looking