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?

of Bill Murray and keeping Sabbath {an unsolicited book review}

I recently finished reading one of the most restful books I’ve ever read.  It is, coincidentally, a book on the spiritual discipline of Sabbath; but whereas many “Christian” books leave my recovering-perfectionist-self feeling guilty and depressed about all the spiritual disciplines I’m not practicing or the good, Biblical things I’m not doing, this book left me feeling refreshed.  Life-filled.  Invited.  Excited about unwrapping the gift of Sabbath in my own life.  

Mark Buchanan’s The Rest of God is a beautiful and, for me, timely invitation to explore the Biblical command to keep Sabbath rest.  His pithy, insightful writing opened my spiritual eyes to see how keeping Sabbath and developing a Sabbath heart enables us to discover not just actual rest, but the rest of God - the things of God’s nature and presence we miss in our busyness.

“In a culture where busyness is a fetish and stillness is laziness, rest is sloth,” Buchanan muses.  

“But without rest,” he continues, “we miss the rest of God: the rest he invites us to enter more fully so that we might know him more deeply.  ‘Be still and know that I am God.’  Some knowing is never pursued, only received.  And for that, you need to be still” (p3).

Being still has never been easy for me.  I like to be doing, getting things done.  I tend to measure the “success” of my day by how many items I’ve ticked off my to-do list.  I struggle to live in the moment and I often resent interruptions.  I find it difficult to lay down my task and look the person full in the face.  

So this book was a much-needed breath of fresh air (and a kick in the pants) to show me how crucial Sabbath is to healthy, Biblical living.  And how much more expansive our potential for true productivity becomes when we joyfully keep Sabbath.  

One of the things that struck me was Buchanan’s differentiation between drivenness and purposefulness.  

He noticed that “the truly purposeful have an ironic secret: they manage time less and pay attention more” (78).  

He follows this up with an invitation to live generously.  Buchanan says that you actually generate “more” time by extravagantly giving your whole self, and all of “your” time, first to God and then to others.  

I wonder... is this really true?

Can I really generate “more” time by extravagantly giving time away?

Giving my time away definitely doesn’t come naturally to me.  I like to hang on to my time, count the seconds, hoard the minutes, and frugally dole out my hours.  The trouble with that approach is (hoarse stage whisper) - “It’s not really mine!”

If my time is not really mine, why do I hang on to it so tightly?  

Sabbath is about trust, Buchanan points out.  “[It] is turning over to God all those things—our money, our work, our status, our reputations, our plans, our projects—that we’re otherwise tempted to hold tight in our own closed fists, hold on to for dear life.” 

Oh yes.  I like hanging on for dear life.  It feels comforting to me.  Secure.  The trouble is, it’s exhausting! 

Buchanan continues, “[Sabbath] is letting go, for one day out of seven, all those parts of our identities and abilities in which we are constantly tempted to find our security, and discovering afresh that we are his children and that he is our Father and shield and defender” (98).

Is any of this hitting home for you like it did for me?  Doesn’t the idea of Sabbath sound delightful?  Just imagine: we’re offered - by God - 24 hours out of each week to take a break from our worries, our insecurities, and our drivenness, and just bounce joyously on the trampoline of the Everlasting Arms for a while?

In one of my favorite movies, “What About Bob”, Bill Murray plays a neurotic hypochondriac who relies on his psychologist for sanity and reassurance.  After Bob compulsively follows his psychologist and his family on vacation, turning up unexpectedly at the door of their cabin getaway, the irritated psychologist finally comes up with a way to get Bob to leave him alone: he tells Bob to take a vacation from his problems.  

“A vacation?” Bob is incredulous.  “From my… problems?”  A look of sheer joy spreads over his face, as the suggestion sinks in.  “Hah!  A vacation!  From my - problems!!”  He backs away happily, hands in pockets, and strolls off whistling. 

Dr. Marvin is overjoyed that his brainstorm worked so well and settles in to enjoy his family vacation - until Bob shows up bright and early at his screen door the next morning wearing a local t-shirt, and announces, “Good morning, Doctor!”  The speechless psychologist quickly pulls him around the corner and demands in a frantic whisper, “What are you doing here?”

Bob happily replies, “I’m on vacation! I’m just dropping by!  How are you, Doctor?”  

Flabbergasted at how his plan has backfired, Dr. Marvin proceeds to concoct a series of elaborate plans for getting rid of Bob, while his family gradually falls in love with Bob - who, on vacation from his problems, turns out to be a normal, likable guy.  

That’s what I want to do, once a week.  (Or every day?)  Take a vacation from my problems, and live in the realization that I am free from the power of sin over my life, and I have been invited into the rest of God.  

What about you?  Do you need a vacation from your problems?  Aren't you curious about the rest of God?

Stay tuned for more thoughts on Sabbath rest, coming soon… 

a new kind of quietness {how to keep a quiet heart: Part 1}

I’ve latched onto Ann’s practice of naming years.  Two years ago was “The Year of Here.”  Last year, “The Year of Letting Go.” 

And then, towards the end of last year, the phrase “a handful of quietness” kept circling in my thoughts.  I liked the way it sounded, how it felt in my my mind.  With a newborn baby and two preschoolers, I was craving a handful of quietness!  

I can’t remember where I came across it, maybe in something I was reading while trying to get my head around moving back to Central Asia with three kids.  It took me a while to find the verse it came from (who reads Ecclesiastes, anyway?)...  When I finally found it, the whole verse jumped off the page at me:

6 Better is a handful of quietness than two hands full of toil and a striving after wind.  

Ecclesiastes 4:6

That’s what I want for this year, I thought to myself.  I don’t want to be full of toil, striving after things that will only blow away in the wind.  I need some peace and quiet around here!

Now, more than a quarter of the way into the year, the kids are resting, and I’m sitting at my kitchen desk in a pool of afternoon quiet.  My hands cupped around a mug of hot tea, I’m reflecting on what the title “The Year of Quietness” might mean for my 2013.  My heart sinks slightly.  I’m not very good at being quiet.  I’ve always struggled to hold my tongue, always talked too much, too long, too loudly.  (I come from a whole line of talkers, actually.)  My husband says sometimes I “drown him with words.”  Poor guy.  Guess which one of us is the internal processor.  

So.  Me, be quiet for a whole year?  Whose idea was this? with a pointed mental glance in Jesus’ direction.  What were You thinking, anyway?  Does this mean I have to spend a whole year saying nothing, asking nothing, pursuing nothing?  Just obediently holding my tongue, while inside I’m about to explode?  

I cringe at the thought.  Maybe a month-long fast from talking would be good for me, but  - a whole year?

Or... is there maybe another, deeper, truer way to view Quietness?  What about quietness of heart, quietness of soul?  Would that help my mouth speak less,  more quietly?  I remember, “Out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks…” (Luke 6:45)

How do I keep a quiet heart, so I can keep a quiet mouth?

I’ll never forget Dr. K’s handwritten comment in the margin of one of the papers I turned in for her senior seminar class.  One of my all-time favorite professors, Dr. K didn’t just teach.  She mentored us, counseled us, and held us accountable.  She urged us to probe deeper, exploring our true motivations for life, learning, and making music.  

In red ink, she jotted in the margin of my paper: “You sound so driven. What are you striving for?”  

Until I read those words, I had never thought of myself as “driven”.  But her insight went home.  I was driven, I realized.  I practically ran everywhere on campus.  What was driving me?  I started wondering.  Was it something outside of me, or was I driving myself?  Who or what was I trying to measure up to?

Back then, in the Wheaton Conservatory of Music, I think I was trying to measure up to all my stellar peers around me who I always felt were more talented, more disciplined, more successful.  By the end of college I did realize that my goals in the world of music were fundamentally different than most of theirs, and I gave myself permission to do different things as a musician other than perform classically.  

But now, almost 10 years later, Dr. K’s comment comes back to haunt me.  In many ways, I’m still driven.  Driven to keep my house neat as a pin, driven to research every single curriculum option available for homeschooling, driven to criticize, pick apart, micromanage.  

The writer of Ecclesiastes contrasts “a handful of quietness” with “two hands full of toil and striving after wind.”  I’ve come to realize that my drivenness, my “striving after wind”, originates from within myself.  I need to learn how to set myself free.

The other day I came across an article written by one of our ministry leaders.  Among other things I identified with, she admits to being task-oriented, perfectionistic, and loving list-making - even making lists of the lists she needs to make!  (I thought I was the only crazy person who did that?!)  In her article, she enumerates various ways she’s found to combat her drivenness.  This one leapt out at me:

“Learn how to lay things down— This year I am reflecting once a month on the passage in Matthew 11:28-30 that says, “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and YOU WILL FIND REST FOR YOUR SOULS. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” 

“As a result of this reflection, I’ve learned to write a new kind of list: a list of the expectations I have for myself which have become burdens. I am learning how to lay them down at the invitation of God to lift my weariness. The practice has been freeing and life-giving for me.” 

- K.F., one of our ministry leaders

Lay things down at the invitation of God, to lift my weariness.  I need to learn how make a new kind of list.  A new kind of list, a new kind of quietness.  

I sip Earl Grey, journal open in front of me.  I jot down across the top of a new page: 

What expectations do I have for myself that have become burdens?

I cup my warm mug with both hands, think through my life, my habits.

All surfaces in my house cleaned off all the time.  {The lie: A tidy house is the source of my peace.}

Yummy meals every single night - no room for “duds”.  {The lie: I’m letting my family down if I cook something they’re not crazy about.}

Must reply to every email, and feel guilty if several days go by without checking.  {The lie: my friends will love me less if I don’t reply right away, AND my feelings of being loved are essential to my identity and self-worth.}

Must keep up with my Scripture memory program, must wash all the dishes before going to bed, must, must, must… 

I really do think I’ll feel better if I can check these things off, but they just come around again tomorrow, and I never actually feel ahead of the game.

The writer of Ecclesiastes calls these things what they really are: “wind”.  A gusty puff of air.  No substance, no lasting value.  Certainly not worth striving after.  Burdens, really.  Windy, airy burdens that will blow me off course, distract me from what really matters.

I have to lay these burdens down.  If I don’t, they’ll strangle me, and then I’ll strangle my family with unrealistic expectations (mostly for myself!) and the ugliness that leaps out of my mouth when my expectations aren’t met.  

But how do I lay these burdens down?  How do I open my hands, let go of my striving, and receive quietness and freedom?

A memory verse jumps to mind: 

There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. 

Romans 8:1

If you and I are in Christ Jesus, there is no. more. condemnation.

What holds us captive is our own condemnation of ourselves, our own false imagining of God and how He sees us, our own wrong assessment of what we have to do to measure up.  It’s all a lie!  Christ took all that condemnation upon His own self, so we don’t have to live under guilt anymore.    

So… I am free!  You are free.

In Christ, we are free to stop striving after vain goals and unrealistic expectations.  

Free to let go, free to focus on what really matters: being all here, in each moment.  Cultivating gratitude.  Stepping into grace.

We are free to lay down our self-imposed burdens, open our hands and receive…

...a new kind of quietness.

choosing joy...

In the midst of baby brain, changing 10 nappies a day (or more!), juggling FIVE people's schedules (the smallest family member being the most adamant!), dealing with sleep deprivation, thrush, extra yucky viruses and stress...

Can I find joy?

The answer is YES, but it's a choice.  One I haven't been making very well lately... but this post from Sally Clarkson at I Take Joy has encouraged me!  I hope regardless of where you are today, it encourages you too.

Remember - joy is a CHOICE!  (because all the riches in the heavenly places already belong to us, and Christ in us is the hope of GLORY!  what's not to be happy about?)

for all moms (present or future) out there... if you read one thing today:

...read this.

It's from Sally Clarkson at I Take Joy.  I nearly cried.  Partly from how true her words are, and partly from the keen stinging sense of conviction that flooded over me, since my attitudes and actions the past few days have been the exact opposite of what she writes...

Here's a taste:

“One day, during some heavy, depleting financial issues in our family’s life, I decided to get up before everyone else. I made homemade pecan-apple pancakes, lit candles, put on soothing instrumental music, and had a lovely table set when the kids and Clay arose. We all enjoyed the breakfast surprise together. After we finished, Sarah was sitting next to me on the couch. She kissed my cheek and said, ‘You know, Mom, when you act happy and bring joy to our life, I feel secure and that all is well. But when you are upset and down, I feel guilty, like we have done something wrong and it makes me feel like brooding. Thanks for making the effort. I feel happy this morning.’

Go read the rest of it.  You'll be glad you did.

stream of consciousness...

How do you get started writing again when everything that was the background for the last post has changed?  Well, everything except the people in my life - and the two little boys I love are still clattering cars and diggers around on the floor, even though it's now in New Zealand instead of Kazakhstan.

Coming up on two weeks back in New Zealand, all fighting nasty cough-cold viruses, me feeling like I'm about to pop with this baby and with the added stresses of a transition next week into our semi-permanent home for 3 months, as well as the anticipated start of creating this album of songs... the thought of which is making me feel crazier and crazier every time it flits uncomfortably through my mind...  It's difficult to know how to put all this into words, which is why I haven't made an appearance in this space for the last month or so.

And here's Will for help with his car, and here's my mother-in-law home from an afternoon outing with some relatives in tow, and my quiet window of time has melted away... so this is all for now... more on my internal state soon...

of trust and knotted shoulders

Proverbs 3

5  Trust in the Lord with all your heart,

and lean not on your own understanding

6  In all your ways, acknowledge Him,

and he will make straight your paths.

7  Be not wise in your own eyes;

fear the Lord, and turn away from evil.

8  It will be healing to your flesh,

and refreshment to your bones.

Morning and evening, all of January, I’m mulling over these words.  I’m practicing trust.  One day, my mind zeroes in on the last two phrases, as though I’ve never heard them before: 

It (trust) will be healing to your flesh,

and refreshment to your bones.

I’m a wound-up tight kinda girl.  I’ve had chronic tension in my shoulders and neck for years.  It’s hard to fall asleep at night because my mind churns over all the things I didn’t get done that day.  

Could trusting the Lord actually heal my tight shoulders?  And what would “refreshment to my bones” feel like?  

After an evening of ending up in a sobbing puddle over tangles of addresses and spreadsheets and imperfect systems, I call my Mom the next morning.  She can tell I’m wound up tighter than a steel drum.  I snap, “Be QUIET!  Mommy’s on the PHONE!” at the boys in the first five minutes of our conversation.  I can feel her taking deep breaths (for me) on the other end of the line.

Eventually, I’m calming down under her familiar, loving voice.  We wind around through the tangles until we get to the root: In this “Year of Letting Go” (newborn, less than one month old), I just can’t seem to figure out how to “let go” of things that are actually and rightfully my responsibility.

She reads me a quote from C.S. Lewis.  We’ve always loved reading aloud to each other.  

“Man’s love for God must always be very largely, and must often be entirely, a need-love.  This is obvious where we implore forgiveness for our sins or support in our tribulations.  But in the long run it is perhaps even more apparent in our growing - for it ought to be growing - awareness that our whole being by its very nature is one vast need; incomplete, preparatory, empty yet cluttered, crying out for him who can untie things that are now knotted together and tie up things that are still dangling loose. (emphasis added)”

~C.S.Lewis, The Four Loves

"Him who can untie things that are now knotted together." 

Proverbs 3:8. [Trust] will be healing to your flesh and refreshment to your bones.  Of course.  We are holistic beings, all connected within ourselves, and something knotting up my heart will of course knot up my body as well.  

My knotted stomach starts to uncurl. 

It’s okay to be needy.  It’s okay for me to need from God. 

It’s okay to not be perfect, because that is the reality of my real relationship with God: imperfection meets endless grace.  

I take slow, deep breaths.  I work this out.  

I am incomplete.  Preparatory.  Empty, yet cluttered.  

My neediness is where God can show His glory.  (Of course - it’s all over Scripture - but now it’s becoming Real in my daily-ness.) 

I hate being needy.  I reject it and fight it.  It bruises my pride.  It feels messy and incomplete.  I don’t like receiving, or needing to receive, or admitting I need to receive.  

But... God gets most glory by meeting my need.  I am one vast need, and my craving is Him, Himself.  And isn’t my greatest joy found in His glory?  Isn’t that why I exist, in the first place?  

Let’s get down to brass tacks, here: Isn’t this really all about Him anyway?  

In the moment of failure, I am utterly miserable, because I have become the center of my own universe, and I hate feeling like a failure - that is my idol.  As I read Lewis’ words, it hits me: that moment of my abject, miserable need is not only permitted and even validated, but planned, and should be given thanks for because it is a chance for God to show His glory through me!  

And in my snapping at the boys, in my puddles of tears and panicky flailings against things I can’t control, I have a choice: will I deny my need, clench my fists, and stay utterly miserable in my failure, or will I let go and be willingly needy and let God be big and glorious in me?

Each moment is another chance to choose trust.  

*****

Two Trust-Level Checks

(I’m so glad God is practical.)

Here are two helpful tests the Holy Spirit gave me for checking my trust-level (maybe they'll help you too?:

1) How stressed am I feeling right now, on a scale of 1 to 10?If I’m above a 3 or 4, I’m hanging on to something too tightly.  {Since I can only feel one feeling at a time, I cannot feel stress and trust at the same time.  Where trust is present, stress cannot survive.} 

2) Check my tone of voice:
If my tone of voice is causing someone (including me) to wince, I’m clinging to an idol (usually control, or an expectation) in my heart and loving it more than Jesus, and more than the person I’m speaking to.