for the days when you feel like a failure {thoughts from a recovering perfectionist}

Just now, I turned around and walked out of my kitchen, leaving behind a mountain of dirty dishes and my second enormous batch of apricot jam in two days.  I just can’t face the stickiness yet, which is why I’m sitting writing this post.

I’ll just be honest.  I don’t like talking about my bad days.  (Notice there aren't any pictures of my sticky kitchen in this post... I don't like showing you my messes, either!)  I guess I want you all to think I’m the one with the answers, the one you can come to when you need encouragement and wisdom… Being honest about my failures - here - feels like a big risk for me, because I’m one of those people who compulsively likes to look like I have my act together. 

But the truth is?  I don’t.  Have my act together.  At all.  

And today?  I’m feeling like a total [gulp] failure.  

photo credit: I. Winsley

I really don’t like that word, that f-word.  I hate thinking about it, I hate feeling it, I recoil and cringe whenever anyone else has to use it.  

But since I’m being honest, there’s a moment or two every day (ok, a lot of moments) when I’m flailing wildly, grasping at straws, yelling desperately at Jesus for an emergency injection of patience or wisdom or love for someone proving particularly un-lovable at that moment.

I’m slowly learning the art of giving grace to myself, of appropriating every day the incredible endless grace I’ve already received in Christ.  I want to let that river of grace flow freely in my life, drink from it all the time.  

photo credit: I. Winsley

But… I still define my own “failures”.  I set my bar high, jump with all my strength - and don’t always hit my own mark. 

The low point of today’s “failures”?  My sweet baby girl followed her brothers out our front gate, promptly tripped and fell and cut her cheek on a sharp stone.  Even though I know in my brain that accidents can and do happen to every kid at some point, I still feel in my heart like a woefully negligent mother.  Somehow the sight of blood seems so much worse when it’s a little girl after two rough-and-tumble boys. :(

A bandaid and some ice cubes and she was back to normal, running around unfazed, but I sat there trying to push away horrible visions of her wedding day in a lovely white veil, trying unsuccessfully to cover up a scar on her cheek with make-up… (Yes, my mind leaps frantically ahead like this!  Doesn’t yours?)

The bottom line is (in my own opinion) I “failed” to protect my child.  I know it’s impossible for a parent to protect their child all the time from everything, but I still require it of myself.  Hmm.  Does that strike you as odd?

photo credit: I. Winsley

There are other felt “failures” too, staring me in the face.  I feel like I’m failing to meet my second son’s emotional needs, and my first son’s creative ones.  Today we ate the same boring food for lunch and dinner because the jam took over the kitchen.  Even with a house helper (who cut up all the apricots for the jam this morning), I still can’t make everything happen on time, and excellently. 

Every day, I desperately try to cover up, push away, deny, rise above, overcome the dreadfully uncomfortable fact that I. am. not. perfect. 

But today, I couldn’t escape it.  

I know we all get made perfect in heaven, but today that perfection felt eighty years away, and meanwhile my floors are gritty and my toilet bowl desperately needs to be scrubbed.

I feel like Jesus is giving me a test, right now, as I sit here gasping in front of my computer screen, ignoring my sticky kitchen and my kids who need their teeth brushed:  

Will you finally depend on My strength, now that yours has run out?

“I’m trying!” I want to shout.  “I really am, but do please tell me how I am supposed to get all of this done!  My daughter just peed all over the floor and is currently running around the house with nothing on her bottom half!  The kitchen is covered in sticky!  I’m exhausted and cranky and sick of potty-training a stubborn 20-month-old!  I’m tired of gardening and canning and all the other work that goes along with this rural, primitive life!  I’m just tired!  Period!”

I can dimly see Jesus, vague in the distance beyond my screen.  He’s nodding slowly.  Smiling a little.  Patiently waiting for my diatribe to finish.  

I’m not done yet.  “I’ve had to cancel three Skype meetings in two days,” jabbing the words at Him with my finger, “which I was really looking forward to, but because of our incredibly unreliable Internet - fast, slow, up, down - those calls are on hold indefinitely, and I am so frustrated.  I could really have used the encouragement this week, too.”

He’s still nodding, looking at me.  Not turning away.  Holding me with His eyes.

“The parenting never ends, the housework never ends, the laundry never ends, the stress never ends, my own pressure to meet every need excellently all the time, to cook food my kids want to eat for every meal - it never ends!  When can I get off this ridiculous hamster wheel?” I splutter, stabbing my open palms in his direction.  (I don’t add the rest of the truth He already knows: that the hamster wheel is of my own making.)

Eventually, I run out of steam.  I stop for breath.  I let the pause lengthen, wait to see what He has to say.  

photo credit: I. Winsley

For a minute, He doesn’t say anything.  

I start thinking of my sink full of dirty dishes and the mountain of unfolded laundry sprawling all over the veranda table.

Finally, He says just one simple phrase, quietly.

“Come to me.”  Silence.  I don’t know what to say.

After a minute He repeats it again, hands held out.

“Come.  To me.”

I gaze at Him, almost with disbelief.  I know what He’s inviting me to do, but my gut just can’t believe it’s that easy.  What about all my housework?  What about my failures?  Am I supposed to just leave it all behind?  Ok then, tell me who will do all this stuff?  Because it has to get done sometime!

“Come to Me, and rest,” He’s beckoning.  Almost beseeching.  As if He’s longing to save me from myself.

I hesitate.

I close my eyes.  

I picture myself getting off the wheel, walking forward slowly, then more and more quickly towards His open arms.  I picture Jesus enfolding me; I breathe in His scent of cedar wood shavings and sweat and sunshine.  I take a deep breath in, and let it out.  In.  Out.  Deep, slow breaths.  

“I know I just need to come to you straightaway when I feel overwhelmed,” I admit, my head still burrowed into His chest, “but some days it’s just too overwhelming and I’m just too flipped out.”

“I know.”  Jesus is rubbing my back with a warm, comforting hand.  “Believe me, I’ve felt everything you’re feeling: overwhelmed, exhausted, pressed in upon.  Imagine crowds and crowds of needy people, and you have the power to heal and help them all, and the daylight hours only last so long, and you also have a responsibility to teach and train twelve hand-picked men in the ways and truths of God… Remember, I had all the same physical limits you have.  But - I had the same Holy Spirit, too.”  

I nod, still nestled against Him.  I could stay there forever.

“I know the work never ends,” He whispers in my ear.  “But - what about the joys?”

As I type the word “joys”, Ruby is sitting next to me on the couch, reaching her little fingers into the armhole of my sleeveless shirt to tickle me.  She grins, then chuckles, showing her dimple.  Her soft, round belly peeps out from under her nightshirt.  She smells of toothpaste.  She is utterly adorable.

photo credit: I. Winsley

Two minutes ago, my six-year-old came to find me, toothbrush in mouth - obviously my wonderful husband is picking up the bedtime slack tonight, while I write this - to sing me a random song he just made up: “Luggage in the morning / Luggage in the afternoon / Luggage in the evening, too…”  

When I asked quizzically, “Why luggage?” he replied, with typical logic, “Well, someone’s always got luggage somewhere… in the airport, in taxis…”  

photo credit: I. Winsley

Just now, as I was tucking my four-year-old into bed, he said to me, “Mom, I know why you call us ‘honey’…” he broke into a grin, around his thumb in his mouth, “because we’re soooo sweet!”  I laughed and tickled him and he chuckled and burrowed into his pillow with his blanket.  

I left their room with a lighter heart. 

Joys, indeed.  With joys like these coming my way daily, can’t I can weather a bit of “failure”?  Let’s re-define “failure” anyway.  Let’s quit setting these high bars for ourselves, since Jesus has already done all that is necessary.  My measuring stick is small, self-imposed and most of the time wrong.

Besides, it’s not about us anyway, or what we can do.  

It’s all about Him - and what He’s already done.

Come to Me, and rest.

Take My yoke upon you.  Be Martha, if you must, but be Martha with a Mary heart.  Never stop sitting at my feet.  Never stop depending on Me.  

Keep drawing out of my well, deeper, deeper, all the strength and patience and stamina you need.  I never run out of joy, or courage, or peace, or long-suffering.  

A good friend of mine (a fellow recovering perfectionist) gave me a mantra to remember, whenever I’m pushing myself too hard, not giving myself enough grace: 

I can’t do it.

He can.  

I think I’ll let Him.

When have you felt like a failure recently?  How did you deal with it?  What does it take to make you run to Jesus and give up striving on your own strength?

for when you're feeling homesick… {Pt. 1}

{Today I'm linking up with the community of sojourning ladies over at Velvet Ashes, posting on last week's prompt "Home"… I have so many thoughts on this subject, there might have to be a Pt.2 to this post!}

A black car pulled up in the driveway, and my husband got out of the driver’s seat.  Ben and Will ran to meet him across the yard of our rental house.  Daddy picked them up and swung them around.

“What do you think of our new car?” he asked energetically.

Three-year-old Ben’s face immediately fell.  “That’s not our car!” he protested.  “I want my blue car!  I want our car, from Central Asia!  I want to go home!”  He burst into angry tears, and James’ face registered consternation as he looked at me over Ben’s head.  

Of our two boys, Ben struggled the most last year with our transition back to New Zealand for the birth of our next baby.  He didn’t like our “new” house, he didn’t like living in Christchurch, he wanted his own bed, his own house, his own trike back in Central Asia.

In a word, he was homesick.  

We’d only been living in this Central Asian village four and a half years, but we moved here right before Ben was born, and since three months old he’s spent more time here than anywhere else in the world.  

From our first days here my own heart, too, has been knitted to this place: the people, the simple layout of the town, the routes to different friends’ houses, the mountains, the fields, the flocks of sheep and cows and horses, the quiet, slow, backwater feel of the place.  

All three of our children (now ages 6, 4 and 1) have spent their early childhood here, so this place is the most familiar to them.  When we’re visiting one of their two passport countries, it’s so ironic to me when they say “I want to go home” - and they mean this tiny corner of Central Asia.  

It’s been in this village that our family has transitioned from three members to four members, and now to five with the addition of our daughter last year.  Our rental house for the past two years is the place where I prepare our meals, where we sleep and play and wake up day after day.  It’s the first place in which I’ve hosted my own parents, proudly fed them pizza and breadsticks made from scratch in “my own” kitchen.  

At this moment, for this season, this is our home.

My dad, having breakfast with the boys in our rental-kitchen...

I remember my Mom stenciling our house when I was little,
so when she came she helped me stencil this rental house,
even though I know we won't be here forever…
Now, when I see my red cherries, I think of her.

This has not been tested yet, but I think even if we have to change houses again in this country, or even if we change countries (a very real and contemplated possibility), “home” for us and our children will travel with us to the new place.  We’ll have our dishes, our bedspreads, our pictures on the walls, our books, our carpets, our water-filter, the same clothes and shoes and toys… and we’ll be together.  Familiar things and familiar people will make both the external house-shell and the internal atmosphere of our next house feel like home to all of us.

The dictionary on my word processor defines “home” as “the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or a household.”  But don’t you think it would be more accurate to describe the essence of home as familiarity?  Beloved people with whom we can be ourselves, a place where we know every little nook and cranny, a certain possession treasured because it evokes special memories… 

Our hearts seem to be designed to knit to other hearts and tie to certain places.  

In Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince, the prince has a conversation with a fox in which the fox asks the prince to tame him.  The prince asks, “What does ‘tamed’ mean?” 

The fox replies, “It means, ‘to create ties’…” 

“‘To create ties’?”

“That’s right,” the fox said.  “...If you tame me, we’ll need each other.  You’ll be the only boy in the world for me.  I’ll be the only fox in the world for you…” 

We are made to ‘create ties’, to long for connections that make us unique to the other in all the world.  We are created to lavish love and care on a person or a place, until they become so familiar and precious that when we’re away from them we ache inside.

And yet, places aren’t permanent, however much we wish they were, and eventually we have to say goodbye to people we love.  On this planet, the only constant thing is change.   

The apostle Paul compares our earthly bodies with tents (he was a tentmaker, after all, so he knew his stuff), and says we have an actual “building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens…”  He encouraged the Corinthian church to look to the “unseen weight of glory beyond all comparison” to get them through “momentary, light affliction…”  (2 Cor 5:1-6)

How does knowing our true home, our “house not made with hands”, is in heaven - and that means we are actually sojourners, strangers and aliens on this earth - factor into our understanding of “home” and our heart-sense of where home is?

I find this difficult.  I’m a physical person with a physical body, and my heart naturally knits to beloved people and special things and physical bits of earth.  It is so hard for me to believe that intangible, difficult-to-imagine heaven will actually feel more like home than here…  

I do know God will be there, and I know the closer I draw to Him now in this life, the more familiar He will feel and the more my heart will be knitted to Him and I will long to be with Him in person all the time, face to face, without ceasing.  

While I was engaged to my husband, I went through this. When I was with him, I felt such a sense of belonging, of homecoming.  He made me feel so safe and loved and welcomed and cherished that I wanted to be with him all. the. time.  The more time we spent together (and even while we were apart), the closer our hearts drew together and the more familiar he felt to me.  The more familiar he felt, the more I loved being with him.  As we neared our wedding day, separating for sleep was torture.  (Having said that, after marriage, learning how to actually sleep and get good rest in the same bed with another person definitely took some getting used to!  But it was bliss not to have to say goodbye.)

A little-seen engagement photo from 9 years ago… :)

I wonder if that’s how we’re meant to feel now about heaven.  Like an engaged bride feels about her coming marriage.  What if we felt so comforted and accepted and safe and welcomed and cherished when we experience the presence of even Jesus’ non-physical Holy Spirit, that to be physically with Jesus Himself, our Bridegroom, face to face for all time and never have to say goodbye again… would be unimaginable bliss?

Maybe that’s why Paul (a person with arguably one of the closest ever relationships with the risen Jesus) wrote to the Galatians saying, “It is better for me by far to depart and be with Christ, but for your sake I’ll stay here on this messed-up, broken planet and keep shepherding you for your progress and joy in the faith…”  (Phil 1:21-25, my paraphrase, emphasis added)  

He was longing to be united with Christ.  

Paul goes on to describes death not as unclothing us from our earthly bodies, but as being further clothed - “swallowed up by life.”  After death, we’ll be more Alive, Paul says.  Our resurrection bodies will be even more gloriously Real than the ones we have now.  

What if it was the same for our sense of home, and all our knitted ties here on earth?  What if after death (or when Jesus comes back!) we experience an even deeper sense of familiarity and delicious Home-coming than we ever have before?  

In his book on heaven and hell, The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis imagines the grass of heaven to be so much more Real than earth-grass that its spikes hurt the feet of the spirit-people who travel there in a bus to take a look.  Might the sense of Home in heaven be like that too?  More Real, more strangely familiar, more deliciously comforting than anything we’ve known on earth? 

What if all our varied experiences of “home” on this earth - our house growing up, our parents’ home, our new homes we build as adults, our various patches of earth around the world to which we tie ourselves throughout the course of our lives - what if all these glimpses are merely meant to whet our appetites for the Real Thing?

What if we imagined each glimpse of beauty or delicious sense of homecoming or mouth-watering whiff of baking bread or sweet kiss from our child as a lovely shadow cast by an even lovelier Reality in Another Country?  Wouldn’t we long to get to that Country?

In his thought-provoking fairytale The Golden Key, George MacDonald describes the journey of two children, Tangle and Mossy.  During their travels they pass through a land of wonderful shadows, which MacDonald narrates in part like this:

“Now a wonderful form, half bird-like half human, would float across on outspread sailing pinions.  Anon an exquisite shadow group of gambolling children would be followed by the loveliest female form, and that again by the grand stride of a Titanic shape, each disappearing in the surrounding press of shadowy foliage.  Sometimes a profile of unspeakable beauty or grandeur would appear for a moment and vanish.  Sometimes they seemed lovers that passed linked arm in arm, sometimes father and son, sometimes brothers in loving contest, sometimes sisters… Sometime wild horses would tear across… But some of the things which pleased them most they never knew how to describe.   

“About the middle of the plain they sat down to to rest… After sitting for a while, each, looking up, saw the other in tears: they were each longing after the country whence the shadows fell.”

For the rest of their journey Mossy and Tangle are filled with this unspeakable longing to reach “the country whence the shadows fell”.  MacDonald ends his fairytale  like this:

“He took his key.  It turned in the lock to the sounds of Aeolian music.  A door opened upon slow hinges, and disclosed a winding stair within.  The key vanished from his fingers.  Tangle went up.  Mossy followed.  The door closed behind them.  They climbed out of the earth; and, still climbing, rose above it.  They were in the rainbow.  Far abroad, over ocean and land, they could see through its transparent walls the earth beneath their feet.  Stairs beside stairs wound up together, and beautiful beings of all ages climbed along with them. 

“They knew that they were going up to the country whence the shadows fall. 

“And by this time I think they must have got there.”

Surely our love of “home” and our ability to get “homesick” proves that every human being on this planet has a God-planted longing deep in our hearts, a longing to find our Way Home.  

Isn’t it wonderful that the One who said, 

“I have gone to prepare a place for you...” 

also said 

“I am the Way…” ?

And aren’t we here, sojourning on this planet, to introduce the hearts longing for home all around us to that One who is Himself the Way to our True Home? 

I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get to 

“the country from whence the shadows fall”.  

Because once there, with Him, we’ll never be homesick. ever. again.  

kids in motion [today in photos]

Jesus is better than a safari helmet

“Mom, Mom, look at dis!  See, dis is my shooting-gun, and you look through here, and the bullets come from out here and go eeeeurn, eeeeurn, straight, and you look through here and--” he presses the smooth end of the red plastic clamp for his HotWheels race track against my eye, “den you look out here and see the animals, and--- “  

“Bang, bang!” I offer obligingly with a giggle, poking him all over his chest… “I got the big scary tiger!”  He dramatically falls on the floor and clutches his three-year-old throat with his tongue out.  

“Oh no,” I gasp, “my Benjamin tiger is dead! What do I do?”

On the floor with eyes still closed, “Pray to Jesus!”

“Dear Jesus, please raise my Benjamin tiger from the dead!  Amen!”  

He waits, motionless except for his smile, savoring the suspense.  Then, slowly, he raises his head and flashes me a brilliant smile.  He comes over for a hug.  I put my book aside, pull him onto my lap, and we examine his shooting-gun together.

“Are you going to the jungle, Ben?” I ask.  “You better go get your safari helmet…” 

“No, I don’t need it.”

“But what if…” I pause for inspiration.  “What if a big snake falls on your head?”

He thinks briefly.  “Jesus!”

“Jesus will protect your head?”  

“Mmm-hmm!”  

“Jesus is better than a safari helmet, isn’t he, Ben?”  

As if that was understood without needing to be stated, he jumps up again, “Mom, look, dis is my ma-chine - see, here’s the forehead, and here’s the head, and here’s the rocket engine at the back… ”  He makes a very convincing rocket-engine sound in the back of his throat and soars off in a circle.  

A fraction of a second later, pointing to a picture of James and I on the fridge, just after we got engaged:

“Mom!  Dey's you and Daddy - and dey you have the nicest dress I evuh seen!””

Turning around, red plastic clamp still in hand, he discovers: “Mom, you can speak in deyr!”  He trumpets into one tiny hollow end of the clamp, and it makes a small echo around his voice.  “Doot-duh-DOO!  Doot-duh-DOOOO!  Mom, you try it!”  

I tootle obligingly, trying to keep from laughing.  

When I hand it back, he trots around to the other side of my desk.  “Mom, now I have needles in here for the animals, and dey’re very saahp.”  

It takes me a couple tries…. “Saahp?  Oh, sharp - your needles are very sharp?”

“Yes.  Dey can al-most get the bleed out.”

“Why do you want to get the bleed out of the animals?”

“Buh-cuz… buh-cuz dey’re a-sleep.  Pyoo, pyoo -- “ he shoots an imaginary needle, “Deyr.  I got the bleed out for all the animals, and now dey’re all asleep.”  

“Whew!”  I say, feigning relief.  I’m feeling a bit dizzy.  

In the space of five minutes, one piece of red plastic has been a shooting-gun, a rocket-machine, a trumpet, and a tranquilizer gun.  In between, I’ve received my nicest compliment all week and witnessed Jesus’ supernatural power displayed to resurrect a man-eating tiger.  

Who ever thought motherhood was boring?

for when you've just plain forgotten...

The best moment of today?

We're leaving to walk to the playground after lunch, and on the pond just outside our hotel room Will, Ben and I notice two beautiful white swans.

"Mommy, look!  Wow!"  We all stand transfixed on the bridge, staring at the graceful creatures - the first time the boys have seen swans in real life.

As we continue walking down the path to the playground, Will is quiet for a couple minutes, looking around at everything.

A minute later, he gives a little happy skip and says, without preamble, "Jesus, I love all the things that you have made!"

I nearly teared up.  I do actually do that a lot, talk to Jesus out loud in front of my boys, usually pleading for patience or wisdom or help, but sometimes commenting on nature or thanking Him for something... This was the first time I've ever heard Will do that himself, and hearing Him speak to Jesus   so naturally and exuberantly, as though He were right there with us, jolted me into the presence of Jesus right then like an electric shock.

You know, He actually is here with us.  This very moment.  

I'm so grateful for my five-year-old's eyes of faith.

summer photos...

{For some reason, we've found an incredibly fast internet pocket, if we hang our USB modem out the window of our porch!  So here are some photos before the wormhole closes...}

The boys at a birthday party this weekend

for a foreign friend who's leaving

Will with his only two English-speaking friends

Zucchini from our garden!

Six months and counting... 

Happy summer!!

Enjoying life in Central Asia

At 18 months, Will is doing really well settling in to life in Central Asia.  We are entering our 4th week of staying with our friends who have 3 kids (ages 7, 5, and 2 1/2), while we finalize our rental contract and get our house ready to move into.  We have so appreciated their wonderful hospitality and long-suffering; this is their 9th year in country, so they have lots of experience with how long everything takes.... good thing, too!

Will isn't always quite sure what he thinks of the program...

...but the kids are all enjoying playing together, although it does get a bit intense at times!

He's figured out how to ride their little scooter-- balancing with one foot and pushing himself along with the other-- which I think is pretty impressive and coordinated for an 18-month-old (I'm not biased or anything).

The kiddie pool made it's first appearance of the summer a few days ago, so I dug out Will's "swimming togs" (NZ) and slathered on the sunscreen.  It took him a full 10 minutes of standing next to the pool and sticking a hand in once in a while, before he would let me help him get in-- he's a "warm up slowly" sort of a kid.

   

But once in... it was splash city.  Think he's having fun?

And you should have seen the size of his diaper when he got out... I had already put my camera back in the house, or I would have captured the Good Year Blimp for posterity.  Who knew Huggies were that absorbent?

The current highlight is their 4 adorable Beagle/German Shepherd (they think) puppies, now just over a month old and getting cuter every day.  Will says "pup" and loves to sit down and drag one into his lap for a cuddle.  He also loves to give the mommy dog lots of hugs, too.  We're debating whether to take one with us to our new house (everyone has a dog here, mostly for security reasons), and I'm trying to decide how many new things I can actually cope with at once...

  

 

(this is the one I would choose if we take one-- she's adorable)

Will's other new words are "up" "down" "nack" (snack) "juice" and "muk" (milk).  He's also learned "no" and "top" (stop) from his new friend Jo-Jo, which he's started to use with alarming frequency and at alarming decibel levels.  He and Jo-Jo by tacit agreement have decided to use preemptive tactics: they both start yelling "STOP!" simultaneously at the top of their lungs as soon as they see each other.  We have definitely entered a new phase of self-assertion-- so much for our pliable little introvert!  

He's also started bowing his head and closing his eyes when we're praying-- I'm not sure he knows what we're doing, but he copies us, and then peeks his head up and looks around to see if we're done yet.  It's really cute.  Lord willing, one day soon he'll pray because he actually loves Jesus. 

Thank you for praying for Will!  He's loving life, and we're loving watching him love it.  Please continue to ask for friends for him in our new village, and thank you for being so interested in his little life!