Our Gifts Don't Have to Be Perfect

I've just spent a chunk of time reading some blog posts from 2011. 

My gosh, it makes me miss my own life!

 I've been walking down memory lane (as I lie in my bed) and realizing, again, how much I love what I do every day.

Today, though, my life feels 1000% times more busy than it did then.

I don't spend lazy mornings writing letters with the kids 

or admiring pirate ships in the neighborhood on morning walks in October. My boys aren't 5 anymore; they're turning 12 and will be ordained deacons next month. (Insert: What. Is. Happening?)

I'm sending my baby to kindergarten this year. She's ready and confident and happy.

I work now, for pay, something I didn't have on the plate years ago.

Life has gotten busier as the kids have gotten bigger, which seems ironic, right? I mean...they actually become more independent than they were in younger years. Shouldn't I have more time, not less?

I'm totally aware that these four hearts are growing up fast.

Just tonight, I was shutting down lights and checking locks and realizing that my boys probably have 7 more Christmases at home, including this year.

I've said it before, but I'll say it again:

I would do this thing again, in a heartbeat. Being a mother has been the greatest 

privilege of my life.

I was watching a friend's Instagram story yesterday afternoon and thinking what a beautiful childhood she and her husband are giving to their two small children (3 and 1). 

So I messaged her and told her.

I'm going to quote the conversation at this point, because I want to share something I've learned in my mothering journey. But it's actually really something I have learned over the last few years of my life--in the wake of losing my father to cancer, having my husband leave, going through a divorce, trying to pick up the pieces, accepting huge changes, beginning the journey of being a single mother, starting a job, and?

Just. trying. to. juggle. everything. 

These years have been exhausting--in basically every way. 

But honestly? 

They have also been the deepest and most beautiful years of my spiritual life to this point.

I have known intense sorrow and grief and self-criticism and pain, but I've also known shocking joy. I have felt incredible happiness and relief and hope and forgiveness and light and God's love in astounding measures. 

I love my life! And I wouldn't trade the experiences in to have my former self.

But, I digress.

So, I complimented my friend. 

And she responded: "Thank you so much for saying that, that's so kind. It's getting harder as they get older (in a different way)."

And I responded: "I think what matters is that they have your heart. And your attention. There was a time for me, a few years ago, when I had an important realization that brought a lot of peace, and it was this: My gifts were imperfect. I was imperfect. Mothering was staring me in the face and it was so much bigger than what I had anticipated. And I knew that what I had to give wouldn't always measure up. I knew I'd fall apart, become the worst version of myself sometimes, and that I wouldn't always be happy with my performance. Those days are hard. I still don't like those days. And honestly, as my kids have gotten bigger, so have the questions and challenges. But, here's the thing. I remember having this realization, though I don't remember how it happened. But one day I asked myself this question: "Do you love them with everything you have? Are they the most important thing? Do they have your whole heart?" And suddenly I felt such peace because there was no confusion there. It was an immediate, "YES! SO MUCH YES!" And it was like I realized that was enough. The spirit taught me something important

then. Despite the difficulty and challenges and questions and my obvious imperfections,

it was okay. They have my whole heart and they know that I love being their mother.

And you know what? I hope that, one day, they see Elizabeth, not just their mom. 

They see me as a person trying to figure it out, and maybe that will help them when 

they're trying to figure it out too. 

The other part is that I trust in the atonement so much more to make up the gaps where 

my trying falls short. So, I guess in the end, that's why I say I think it's all about love. 

Yours, and His. I truly trust that, and know that our gifts don't have to be perfect."

I'm sharing that because I hang my hat on those two thoughts. And because maybe it will help someone else who struggles when they feel they don't measure up, in any capacity; when they're staring down the barrel of their lives wishing they were better than they are, or that they'd done things differently, or made different choices, 

or been more (fill in the blank).

I think life becomes bigger than we anticipated, and the questions and challenges

and heartache do too. But, at least for me, that has been the price of learning and authenticity and growth and JOY.

Our lives are My life is messy and gloriously imperfect and I've come to love it that way.

I'm so glad I get to make mistakes and learn! 

And so thankful for beauty and grace and joy.

And I absolutely trust God's love for me and for you as we're figuring things out.

These Boys & Me

Some of the happiest (for me, anyway) photos in my phone 

from the past couple of weeks come from New Year's Eve.

We'd eaten burgers

(hello pepper jelly, BBQ sauce, ketchup, mayo, mustard, pickles, avocado, broiled meat with salt and pepper, cheese -- just give me alllllllll the condiments),

 and Isaiah and I were sitting at the kitchen table putting together a 3-D puzzle of a German castle.

Benji was hanging out with us too, 

snapping photos, 

and making smack comments that made us laugh.

I love Isaiah's amused expression above (I don't know what I'm saying to him) and these two photos where he's laughing really hard.

We were working independently and together, and sometimes I called upon his brain to figure something out because I was lost.

#smartypants

As I've looked at these photos since, I've laughed out loud and smiled.

I love moments like these where things get goofy with my boys.

And that's all.

My things

A couple of things.

I've decided I need to take sleep more seriously (meaning that I need more of it).  

So, I've been making a concerted effort the last couple of nights to go to bed earlier, and I've noticed a difference.

But. 

Let's see how I'm doing a month from now.

(I've made this resolution before.)

And, I like to have a plan.

Last night, after I got the kids in bed, I came upstairs.

The deck lights were on and the sprinkler was going out on the new sod.

As it got dark, I sat at the kitchen table looking at numbers, setting financial goals, planning out how things are going to work.  

Thinking about where I want to be come December, putting things on paper so I can visually see it. Planning ahead for things I'll need to cover.

About halfway through, I went outside to change the sprinkler and got thoroughly soaked, came back inside, and sat down with one whole leg completely wet.

Something about sitting there under the lights of the kitchen table, listening to a favorite new tune and putting things in order made me strangely happy.

Like putting my ducks in a row, and hoping for the best.

Before going downstairs to read for a few minutes and settle in, I ran to Sonic to get pebble ice.

It's one of my favorite things, and I pretty much crunch on some every night as I sip water.

I fell asleep thinking.

A little after 7:00 this morning, I woke up thinking about my people.

I'm pretty sure I dreamed something about my dad.

And I was having a conversation with my mom at one point about my grandfather's death date: January 12, 1995.

And I think I dreamed about a baby girl, too.

I couldn't really put a finger on the dream bits about my dad and the baby. 

It was just like I knew they'd been there.

I got out of bed and went for a run.

And, here's the thing.

Sometimes the pieces that make up your core resurface: the people that have been the crux of it all, the pieces of yourself that define you.

My people -- mother, father, grandparents, siblings, children.

Family.

And motherhood.

Those are my things.

They're ultimately my only things. 

Citrus Morning

This week some friends helped put up my Christmas lights outside on the house, garage and garden shed.

We talked and laughed and replaced bulbs and got everything all lit up.

It's pretty magical.

And even though the lights are up, my front lawn and backyard are covered with leaves, but I'm resisting cleaning them up until everything is down.

It's a veritable patchwork of browns and yellows and maroon rust out there.

It absolutely looks like Autumn, and absolutely just like Thanksgiving is around the corner.

But, earlier this week, it looked like this from the kitchen table.

One morning at breakfast, we sat there with hot cocoa and bagels with cream cheese, and clementines.

(The smell of citrus takes me right to Christmas, by the way.  I kept noticing it that morning and it was deliciously perfect.)

We were reading about Jesus' teaching about knowing people by their fruits, about judging something by what comes from it.

Sometimes I wonder about the fruit I offer, the big deals I make out of stuff that should be small deals -- you know, the stuff that doesn't really matter but drives you crazy, and so you scratch it, even when you know you shouldn't.  

(That's called stupidity.)

I wonder about my motives. 

About my interactions with others. 

About if I care enough or too little.

About all the things I wish I wasn't.

And I find myself really grateful for the way that life, over the last couple of years, has made me seriously evaluate a lot of things.

There's a lot of stuff I see in NEON YELLOW.

I worry a lot about whether I am learning the lessons, because it's really important to me that I do.

I'm reading Leif Enger's Peace Like A River right now, and I have loved it.  

It has made me crack right up in several parts (the humor! the vocabulary! the characters!), and also made me pause.  Several times.

Like last night, when I read this little passage:

"...all Waltzer's constellations told such turned legends.  There was the Bowsprit, about another rotten boy who slew his father while he slept and later became a fire-breathing pirate who devoured his victims' limbs and decorated the rail of his ship with their heads.  This fellow tramped up and down the high seas challenging men and gods until a brave captain met him in battle, the two of them going sword and sword across decks for days without rest.  At last the captain by superior craft cleft the other in two, at an angle, so that the pirate's head with one arm and shoulder thumped on the deck with a terminal snarl.  Job done, the captain returned to his ship to wash for dinner and looked in his polished brass mirror.  You see what's coming: The poor captain saw not his own face but the pirate's, and the nastiest grin all over it.  Following this all his noble impulses fell away like a mail shirt, and he developed a wild controlling lust for jeweled plunder and an appetite for boiled legs and arms.  'So you can win the battle, Reuben'---Walter shrugged---'but the war is lost long ago.'" 

Mmm hmm.  

That last line stirs me: "You can win...but the war is lost long ago."

I read it and stopped, and then started thinking.

How many times am I hell-bent for leather on something that ultimately doesn't matter?

How often do I sit and really listen?

Am I focused on the things that matter most?

What fruit am I offering my children?

My friends?

My family?

Strangers?

And then there's that whole bit about fruit, too.

The thing I love about Jesus' questions is that they always invite pondering.

They leave me looking inward, finding so very much that is lacking, 

even though I find myself encouraged by the beckoning.

Because it is love.

I love His questions and I love His insights.

And I love them even more, I suppose, because they were meant for my imperfections.

They were crafted to urge me forward.

They shed light on my darkness.

And so all I really have today is that I'm thinking about this:

Come. Back. In.

Listen with my heart.

Forgive.

Try harder.

Say "I'm sorry" more.

Focus on love.

Appreciate.

Put my phone down.

Be present.

Listen.

Listen.

And listen some more.

Feel the joy.

Like citrus mornings where you break bread with those you love.

You read good stuff.

You talk about things.

You sing together, doing actions around the kitchen table.

Your fingers looked cracked with yellow from peeling clementines and your nose is ripe with it.

All that extra noise goes away and it suddenly becomes hushed inside.

And you know that 

this is real.

This is true.

This is simple.

This is the very. best. thing.

Leading to Joy

Sometimes I wonder why I write about snippets of my life publicly.  

I've always been a writer---and have lots and lots of letters and journals and books full of notes and recipes and quotes and little things I've found meaningful to prove it.

I scribble things in margins.

I hear something that resonates and I have to write it down.

I compulsively listen to words in songs as opposed to absentminded background noise.

My feelings are constantly articulated into words and thoughts without me being able to help it.

I'm drawn to poetic wording, beauty and sadness and big questions.

And my life feels like one big blend of all of that, and I suppose I write because it helps me make sense of it.

In any case, I'm not sure of all the reasons why I choose to share these small pieces.

My life has places of both hope and pain, fear and doubt and discouragement.  But.  It is also filled with indescribable beauty and blessing---and the juxtaposition of those, side by side, or all mixed up?, continues to astound and educate me.  Educate me?  Humble me, for sure. Push me, absolutely.

I suppose writing here, not unlike other places I write, helps me sort it out.

And, because, let's be honest. 

I'm just as human as anyone else, with all my faults and things I'd like to change about myself.

I think, maybe because we live inside ourselves?, sometimes what we see is all the ways we are inadequate in bold relief, neon.  And, at least for me, it can be hard to quiet that voice.

And, when I look back on posts over the years and see what I've documented about my family, about my own journey of motherhood, about that one time when I was a wife, about food love and how deeply I feel about how food brings a lot more than just people together, about what it means to me to make connections with people and what home looks like in my heart (despite how messy it can be in real life), I see positive, bright spots.  Things that make me feel warm in my heart, because they live there.  And honestly, I suppose I write about these things because I'm passionate about them.

I can look back, in a series of clicks, and over an extended period of time, and remember lots of things that were beautiful.  Even if they were hard, or even if it was facing a truth about myself that I didn't like, it has become beautiful because of the journey.  And, in a small way, I get a wider view of the process, as opposed to that one time when I was a complete failure or that one time when my heart was so full of grief.  I can see that grief and weakness and heartache alongside growth and laughter and traditions and people and love and spirit and heart and joy.  Joy.  True joy.  I suppose that's the end all.  I see that the combined effort and experience of it all brings meaning and joy.  And, seeing this, even in my very human, very imperfect perspective, I find myself more amazed at the wisdom of God, more confident in His care.

At Day's Close

See those two squares of blanket out there in my darkening yard?

They were my patches of hope tonight.

Sometimes I'm amazed how, all in one day, I can feel deflated by discouragement and frustration, be crying and quiet and a poor excuse for company, and then come back again.

It happened today.

I was feeling down about my life.

Feeling like I'm failing at motherhood, and mothering, and nurturing, and the whole deal.

Full of doubt about the future.

(That one happens a lot, and I have to fight it off pretty vigorously.)  

I felt completely exhausted, on an absolute emotional empty.

We went out for an outing and I was upset and quiet and discouraged.

But then, miraculously, things flipped around.

When we got home, something switched.

My patience was recharged.

I gave my gal some doritos.  

I showered the pool off of me and set to making dinner.

I cut up cold melons that were sweet and juicy and mixed them with grapes.

I sliced and spiced chicken and started it cooking.

I picked warm tomatoes from the garden and chopped them up, mixing them with greens and cucs and purple onion and avocado and feta. 

My boys got themselves bathed and I went down the stairs to pick up my screaming, exhausted baby, wet from the bath.

I toweled her off, got her diaper and jams on, and brought her upstairs.

Served up dinner to everyone, and then loved watching Claire go at her food.

My favorite part?  

She told me, "Mom, I love salad."

And then I watched her sift through it, looking for all the bits of feta cheese.

I told her I love feta cheese.

Her response?

"I love it, too."

And just when it was one of those days when it felt like God is distant, I took that little babe downstairs to my bed.

I attempted not nursing her tonight because I'm finally coming around to the idea that it may be about that time.

(Makes me mama heart ache.  Like, super ache.)

I snuggled her in to my body, put her bink in her mouth, snuggled the fuzzy, soft part of her blanket all around her, and started to sing, rubbing her forehead with my fingers.

We made it through "Twinkle," and then "I Am A Child of God," and came around to "I Feel My Savior's Love."

My voice caught in my throat, and peace came in to my heart.

Not that things are fixed or the way ahead is suddenly clear and bright, but peace.  

I felt it again, and it soothed this weary heart.

(And, unrelated, but I just have to say it.  I know she's mine, but I look at this photo and wonder if God ever made a more beautiful baby.  For real.)

That was followed by an exchange with one of my sons that also followed the same pattern: frustration to peace, to communicating, to being able to tell him that I love him.

From a flustered, fast, quick exchange, to one with tears and closeness and actual talking.  It was a gift for me.  I sat there feeling like this is what it's about -- the struggle, up close flaws, acknowledgement, apologizing, trying to be there for each other in all the ways that we are so imperfect.

We ended up out on those blankets, that same son snuggled in next to me for the duration of our reading, an exciting bit where two kids are off on an Arctic adventure, lost in a blizzard while skating on a lake.

Hard to imagine when we are barefoot in the backyard, short sleeved, blankets and pillows, enjoying what couldn't be a more comfortable summer night.

The sky had soft, wispy clouds, and as I read, they changed from pale pink to something deep and vibrant before vanishing into the darkening sky.

We said prayer on those blankets and then I tucked them in.

So often I feel so out of steam by the end of the day that I don't feel I'm I'm not very meaningful in my goodnight, don't feel a lot of love in that process.  (It's more like---just please get in bed and be quiet and stay there. #truth)

But tonight?

I kissed their heads, and it wasn't rushed for me.  It was quiet and purposeful inside.

And I returned to my still-dirty kitchen and began cleaning while listening to some quiet Patty Griffin in the background.

These people and this life stretch me.  

I don't often know the way or the why or the how.

But loving and trying make sense.

I'm trying, and you, wherever and whoever you are, you're trying.

That's a beautiful thing, and sometimes the only honest thing we have to offer.

Emotional Work

(Disclaimer: This is a total processing post.  I came to the computer on emotional overload.)

I've had a day full of emotional negotiations with my children.

I'm exhausted and the day isn't close to being over yet.

I think?, maybe often, my mothering, as presented on the blog, could look like things are always rosy and figured out and neat and happy.

But they aren't.

There are days, like today, where I end up losing my cool as I'm trying to handle someone else's emotion.  

There are times when I raise my voice and I'm rude to my kids.

There are weeks where sometimes I feel like the offering that I have to give to them just isn't enough, that I'm failing them, that it's laughable that I'm supposed to be the adult here, or a role model for them, times where I just know I won't ever measure up or be what I need to be.

And it isn't just about seeing that as a mother (tho I see this all the time); it's about seeing what's lacking in my person, too, falling short in lots of other ways.

Over the last couple years of my life, I've been logging lots of things inside.  I've been processing and evaluating, pretty much on repeat, exhaustively, and I've learned a lot, but two things are coming to mind right now.

Forgiveness and acceptance.

Acceptance of what you can't change.

Acceptance that you are giving everything you've got, and if it isn't enough, it's still the best you have to offer.

And that, even when it isn't what it should be, it has to be okay.  You are doing the best that you can.  
And that isn't a cop out, by the way.  
I mean it---in the sense that acceptance means facing the realities, too.  Looking at a situation or a relationship or a problem and really seeing it for what it is -- that means acknowledging where it isn't enough, and accepting it.  Accepting it, even if it makes me uncomfortable, or even if everything inside of me wishes I could change it in a snap.  Wishes I could somehow be better or handle everything how I'd like to, or know the right thing to do.

I've realized, more than ever before, my humanity: my mistakes, my weaknesses, my failings.  I've looked, up close and personal, at my personality flaws, and that has led to some pretty eye-opening discoveries.  It has stretched me and forced me to be honest with myself.  And, in willing to be honest with myself, I have found huge relief.  In a very personal way, in a way I can't even articulate, I have felt deep down into my soul how profoundly personal the atonement is, how personally crafted it is, how it reaches out one-by-one.

Surrendering to the chaos and the process and allowing myself to accept it has helped me to forgive. And I'm not talking here about forgiving others, tho I think that's part of it, too.  I'm talking about forgiving myself, about acknowledging those parts of ourselves that are hard or that we wish were different, the stuff we're always working on, the ways we never feel we will be enough.

I've realized that I struggle to believe that I'm enough, and maybe all of us do.  Maybe this is part of it.  

Some days and weeks and months are hard, even tho they aren't without staggering joy, too.  The pain and hard is also entrenched with joy, with moments that make me stop and take in what an amazing, incredible gift life is.  Small, simple moments that I can put away and feel good about: small successes, small minutes of reassurance, small, meaningful conversations with people I love, a quiet listening ear, small moments where God lets you know of His love for you, or laughing, so hard, with a friend for a few quick minutes.

And maybe it's actually about realizing that we aren't enough, and that's the point.  

That we're fallible.

That we fall short.

That things aren't always how we like them, that life isn't like that.

And, ultimately, that that's okay.

Maybe it's really about learning to say "I'm sorry."

Maybe it's about being willing to try again.

Maybe it's about realizing that anything worth having involves emotional work, and lots of it.

Maybe it's about that beautiful process of being humbled---because ultimately, being willing to submit to that helps you to heal and to connect and to love others deeply.  

Seeing the humanity in you makes you less shocked when you find it in others.  

Acceptance.

Forgiveness.

Peace.

Moving forward.

Perfection (and Happy Halloween!)

This is my spirit shirt for the day.

I find the pun quite amusing.

I've been enjoying the BBC series of "Call the Midwife."

(I love it! It's reflective and beautiful.)

Last night, at the closing of an episode, I found myself pausing the movie long enough to type in a quote that was being said.  Listen, stop, write.  Listen, stop, write.  Repeat.  Play it again to make sure I got it right.

This was the quote.

"Perfection is not a polished thing.  

It is often simply something that is sincerely meant.  

Perfection is a job complete, 

praise given, 

prayer heard.  

It can be kindness shown, 

thanks offered up.  

Perfection is what we discover in each other, 

what we see reflected back.  

And if perfection eludes us, 

that doesn't matter, 

for what we have within the moment is enough."

("Call the Midwife," Season 3, Episode 5)

This morning we attended a play based on the children's book Miss Nelson is Missing.

When we came home, we did reading, writing, math.

Then, I got them lunch and made my green smoothie inside.

I joined them outside with the current book we're reading, which is Moccasin Trail.

As I sat down, I thought about how much I love the afternoon sunshine lately.

How those 20 or 30 minutes of the day are sometimes, literally, the golden minutes.

I love sinking into that chair, with my drink, and reading to the kids.  

Or sitting there (or lying there!) by myself.

And I thought about that quote again.

So often, particularly with my mothering, I dwell on what I feel I'm not doing right.

I think of the times in the day when I lost my patience (when I swore I wasn't going to again), the ways I'm not measuring up, the things I'm not doing, the ways I can't seem to get things together.

I think of things I'm perpetually behind on.

I look around me, seeing so many things that need my attention, and then feel overwhelmed because I just can't do it all.  

I think of the ways that I feel I am failing.

Does this sound familiar?

As I sat down in the sun, I thought of the quote again.

It inspires me.

Life isn't about having it all polished.

It's about the process of polishing.

It's about living sincerely, genuinely.

Acknowledging each simple, completed task.

Giving praise.

Prayer: asking, seeking, thanking, praising, reflecting, resting there.

Offering simple kindnesses.

Focusing on discovery.

Dialing in on relationships.

Finding the meaningful in each moment.

Yes, I fail each day.

But there are moments of this kind of "perfection" every day, too.

And I need to be reminded (maybe all of us?) that it is a process of polishing, not exact and precise and every single moment of each day.

That failing is part of it.

That struggle is part of it.

That trying again is part of it.

So, my goal?

When I'm starting to feel down for the failures of the day, I want to shift my focus and think about these "moments of perfection."

Yes.

One step.

And then another.

And then another.

There's holiness in the striving.

(And now, I'm off to prepare for family to arrive.  We've got games for the kids, dinner to be had, and then trick-or-treating.  Photos to be shared on Monday.  Hope you have a lovely Halloween night!)