A Prayer for Today

prayer for Grace

“Deliver me, Jesus,

From the desire of being loved;

From the desire of being honored;

From the desire of being preferred to others;

From the desire of being consulted;

From the desire of being approved;

From the fear of being humiliated;

From the fear of being despised;

From the fear of suffering rebuke;

From the fear of being forgotten;

From the fear of being wrong;

From the fear of being suspected;

And Jesus, grant me the grace to desire

That others might be loved more than I;

That others might be esteemed more than I;

That in the opinion of the world,

Others may increase and I decrease;

That others may be chosen and I set aside;

That others may be praised and I unnoticed;

That others may be preferred to me

In everything;

That others may become holier than I,

Provided that I become as holy as I should.”

Strangers and Sojourners

Michael O’Brien’s Strangers and Sojourners spans the lifetime of a lady named Anne Delaney during the twentieth century. As you might expect, it is a long book, a tome of 546 pages, but it was well worth the time to read, even though it took me a few months to finish.

The story is built around Anne’s emigration from a highly educated, refined life in England to live as a frontier schoolteacher in a bush town in Canada. She eventually marries a reclusive backwoodsman farmer, a man of deep faith, while Anne battles intensely with doubt and self-recrimination. She faces the narrowing of her abilities into one small sphere, keeping her home. She senses the death of her personal grandiose dreams as she cooks the porridge and weeds the kitchen garden. Her children grow strong and stand upright, mostly unaware of the lifeblood their mother is pouring out for them. Her husband remains a bit of an enigma to her, a man who has great respect for dung and dirt, “Out of it comes the garden and the pasture and our lives.” But Anne hates it and the fact that their life is far from clean and neat. She wishes only to be able to cleanse away every trace of repulsive stink, despite the gentle reminder that Jesus was born where the smells were not polite.

Eventually Anne does get to pursue some of her dreams, among them editing a provincial newspaper. She continues to be haunted with questions as to the meaning of life and all man’s striving. Toward the end of her own life, when cancer is eating away at her vitals, it all narrows down to what really mattered all along. At death’s door, Anne receives clarity and grace. The struggle and fear are replaced with triumphant courage. She sees that God was at work all along, making something out of her nothing. As her husband sits beside her bed, watching her life drain slowly away, he sees…

“…that she had already laid down a large portion of her life long ago. Piece by piece she had given it away as she wrestled with existence, as her self was absorbed as nourishment into his life and the life of the children and the community. And laid down most piercingly, as she abandoned, one by one, the shapes of the dreams she had planned. Only to take them up in other forms.”

(excerpt from page 546)

O’Brien wrote this book in the third person omniscient point of view, giving us details from the heart of each main character, their thoughts and intents. While this can be tedious, he does it well, illustrating how attitudes and actions can affect an entire life, an entire family, even an entire community. I was inspired by Anne’s life, encouraged that the things I do today are long term investments. Though they may be small things, such as deboning a chicken or folding some towels, the world is nurtured through the countless small kindnesses of those who are willing to lay down their lives for others.

Tale of a Homemaker, with a Nod to Dickens

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It is the best of times, with the chicks all scratching more or less independently, capable of scrounging out of the refrigerator when they are starving, picking out a brownie recipe, cooking their own eggs if they dislike the oatmeal. It is the worst of times for the pantry, the milk jug, the cookie jar and the grocery budget, not to mention the oven where the plastic container melted into an odorous blob of anonymity during the brownie preheat.

It is an age of incredulity as an avalanche of recipe cards sifts out of the baking cupboard and I wonder how… in this enlightened age of digital help… how do I still have all these clippings out of Real Simple from the first year of my housekeeping and when will I ever rein it in and what to do, What To Do? about all these stink bugs?

Yet I do know our favorite foods when it is time to cook, and even where they are supposed to be in the binder of despair that is full of clippings, although it may take a few minutes to find the recipe, and I never thought I would have one of those stuffed messes. The stink bugs remain, but there is light and sweetness in the lemon curd (recipe after breakfast foods, written on the bottom of a page on teas) spread on yogurt scones (recipe in the section with the muffins, but loose: not inside the sheet protector). All is only temporarily lost.

It is an age of wisdom, when even the smallest is able to read simple books and find her own audios in the library of iTunes, and I have time to pick up my own books. There are the days when the grown-up-ness of the child taller than me just takes my breath away, and the short one whispers, “What is a selection?” in church, then stoutly raises her hand and picks her favorite number, “Twenty,” even though she never heard the song.

It is an age of less-than-wisdom, where tensions erupt about NOT the Moffats AGAIN, and such short lives have not yet learned the discretions of choosing carefully what goes into the mind, and yet have learned quite well how to argue a point. There are days when my careful parental oversight is a hard discipline, because can it really matter that much? These are the days where I mercifully draw the veil and pray for new mercies the next and I know not whether to laugh or cry so I do a little of both.

This is the age where we have everything before us, and yet have not proven anything: the age of rubber band flexibility, where I try to be sensitive to the small girl who likes to keep a saltshaker in her bag just in case she finds something edible, (but of course not the withered blueberries under the Suburban seats) and the big boys who are thoroughly embarrassed by the sisters. It is the time where wristwatches are the most treasured of birthday gifts, yet are never on the wrists when they are needed, and the time where the shirts and shoes that fit just fine last week are way too small and they literally have nothing to wear. It is a time of inflexibly insisting on sheets on the beds downstairs and socks on the feet when we go away, and coats, yes coats! It’s winter. It is an era of admiring rooster feathers plucked and sewn into a headband by one child, a thinly disguised plagiarized story plot written by another, accepting gratefully all seven of the loving cards made for me in the same pattern of hearts and flowers, checking out the latest carved spoon with a short handle where it snapped in construction, and praising the efforts of the egg washer, all while keeping a fishing bobber safe in my purse when it accidentally goes to church in a pocket, and keeping track of the progress in the seventh grade unit on equations.

It is the winter of despair, days stacked on days, inside four walls, with tempers growing thin in the lack of oxygen and light, when the boots will not march in straight rows beside the register, but lie kicked about in melting pools of muddy forgottenness, the library books went overdue to the tune of $15, and the baby rabbits keep dying inexplicably. Yet it is the spring of hope, because we have boots and balmy days to squelch into the slanted rays of benevolent light that stays longer every day, and we pulled a tiny radish that survived the Arctic blast in our cold frame, where very soon we will sow lettuce seeds.

Catching Up

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If you were to sit at my house, in one of those dusty folds in the curtains the stink bugs like so much, you would see us pegging away at school day after day. Sometimes we are inspired and sometimes we just do it because it is the thing that must be done.

Gregory wallowed in adjective clauses for a while, but then he started to recognize the relatives in sentences, and he pulled ahead strong and steady again. I love language so much that it is just fun to refresh my own memory from grammar lessons of long ago. Olivia was very distressed to discover that she has to do a course in Pennsylvania history this winter, but now she has learned to search Google and how to print photos and even how to draw little illustrative maps of the state’s industries. It has turned out to be fun, the thing she does first in the day. I say this as a homily for myself: just getting started is kind of important. I also decided the time was right for my Addy to start 1st grade curriculum, and she has powered through 3 units in 2 weeks, sharpening her colored pencils obsessively so that she can use them for her lessons. None of the others had this need to achieve. It’s her drive to catch up, which isn’t going to happen for a while, but I don’t discourage her.

Gabe asked me why I didn’t post at all in January, now suddenly I am doing every day for a month, and I laughed, a little embarrassed to admit that it’s just how I work. I have actually written lots, and dredged up past writing too, in anticipation of this month. For the first time in my history, I have planned out my posts, so you may see a sort of outline as we go along.

Sunday and Thursday: preaching to myself posts/ inspirations
Monday: something bigger than my world
Tuesday and Friday: life around the house
Wednesday: miscellany/ reposts
Saturday: book reviews

I think you will see a theme, too, which seems to squeeze out in most of the stuff I write currently, even in the books I recommend.. I dislike hobby horses, as a general rule, but I have one. I will see who guesses it first.

I have not regretted taking a Facebook break this month. Occasionally I dip in for a minute or two to check on something, and I find myself fighting to pull back out. It’s not like my life is impoverished without all the extra knowledge of what the rest of the people are up to, but it is just so interesting and there went a half hour, zing! I have spent the extra time reading, crocheting hats, checking math lessons, making slightly lop sided pottery, etc. Nothing profound has happened, but I do feel lighter when I am not loaded down with all the noise. I haven’t been keeping up with the news either, except just the weather forecast, which is extremely head-in-the-sand. There is no lack of drama in my life, even so. I am learning to enjoy this centering process, back to b-a-s-i-c-s.

My husband has now studied hard, HARD, for a year. He has three months to go before his fast track BSN is completed. Both of us are feely antsy and just want the pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel to open up wide into fresh air and some leisure time. It’s only been a year, I know. Fast-tracking a degree means the pain is shorter, but more acute. That’s all I have to say about that.

I am on the fence about keeping my Wocketinmypocket page on Facebook. I know it is nice for those who depend on that platform to get notifications of posts. I vastly prefer the dialog to happen in comments on the blog instead of Facebook, where a quick “like”, although a friendly wave in passing, is an unsatisfactory form of feedback for me as a writer. I will not be posting this month’s stuff on Facebook, but there is a handy share button at the bottom of the webpage, where you can feel free to share all you want. You can also subscribe by email if you wish for updates in your inbox.

Here’s to February, friends!

A Wedged Bear

“Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?”

So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end…” A.A.Milne

When I read that recently, I thought, “That’s it! That’s the recap of life this year.” It’s not like it has been too much, but just more like it has been plenty and the wedging into tight places is a fairly regular challenge. Something usually gives eventually and, “POP! just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle…” Meanwhile there is always the washing to hang, and that is about as far as my little parallel will take us. It really has nothing to do with too much honey, or any of the other hilarities of the story. Unlike the Bible, we are free to take Pooh out of context.

With my husband busy studying, I have been trying to pare life down to what must happen, what must be bought, where we must go, how we can thrive in the tightness, and not a lot else. I didn’t mail out Christmas letters and photos this year, and that is why. I dislike narrow spaces and claustrophobia and panicky stuff, but one day at a time, one task at a time, we get to December and the hope that springs up in the darkness at the end of the year. It’s really amazing, how the celebration of Christ’s birth coincides with long stretches of twilight, cold, and tiredness.

In my very amateur efforts at making pottery, I have learned the great importance of the first step, called centering. It’s the process of the hunk of clay being aligned, perfectly balanced on the center of the wheel, and unless it is right, the finished product will be wobbly or might even fly off the wheel altogether. At this point I cannot center clay when someone is trying to hold a conversation with me. I have to be totally focused.

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This has become a loud sermon to me. There are wobbly places in my life that only dedicated focus will bring into alignment. I have decided to give the blog a rest for a few months until Gabe finishes his Bachelor’s in Nursing. I do plan to do a daily re-post in February, but I will not be putting them on my Facebook page, since that is one of the distractions that I will be giving a rest. I am going to miss the interaction, I know, but if you could pray for me? I could use some extra courage for the next year. I don’t mind being forty at all; in fact, I recommend it. It’s the season that comes with it, with so much responsibility and so little life-experience that’s wearing me down. It’s coming from all sides, and the only reasonable place to look is up.

The girls and I were listening to “Mary, Did You Know?” recently and were intrigued by the idea of “…when you kiss your little baby, you have kissed the face of God.” My personal opinion is that Mary had the angel’s promise and the rest she took on faith. It may even have been a fairly ordinary-seeming life she nurtured in her home, since the townspeople were so ignorant of Jesus’ significance as a person. By the standards of the day, he was middle-aged before his ministry began. It was 30 years for her to keep all these things and ponder them in her heart. That’s a rather long time!

I am so challenged because of my own impatience in waiting for miracles, answers to prayers, promises not yet fulfilled. But Hope rises in the darkness and we cling to that!

Have a blessed, awe-filled Christmas as you let it sink in that He is with us!

Thanksgiving in the Barn

It’s already a week late, but since Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, I want to share ours with you.

I impulsively suggested that we host Gabe’s family at our house this year, hoping the weather would permit us to use the top story of the barn for long tables. Every week I checked the 10 day forecast until I was reasonably sure that we could keep it warm up there, cracks and holes in the siding boards and all. I didn’t have a very good back-up plan, but as it turned out, I didn’t need one.

We haven’t done much up there except some woodworking projects. Gabe and the boys packed all their project stuff into one area that I curtained off with a big piece of muslin. Here is a pic of Wednesday night, as we tweaked this and that to try to cozy up such a huge space.

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My dad went out of his way to help us scrounge up propane and kerosene heaters, four of which we borrowed from him. The kids rollerbladed gleefully around and around the cleared areas. My mom went out of her way to give me pumpkin pie lessons. Everything looked great until the cracks appeared. This has never, ever happened for her, so I tell you, it’s me. (I opened the oven door to slide in some pie shells while the pumpkin pies were baking.) Now I know exactly what to do and what not to do. I was overthinking it, apparently.

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Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, dawned with brilliant sunshine. We were so grateful for a warm day that made it easy to stay comfortable with our limited heating options.

This photo of Rita, who is 8, and Chloe, who is almost 3, could be labelled “Kindred Spirits.” I never expected to meet another Rita, but there she is! When I listen to Chloe’s mother telling of her accomplishments and exploits, I simply have to grin at all the fun she has signed up for, mothering a child with such a rich inner life.

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Everybody chipped in with food prep, and it was fabulous! We had the traditional North American turkey and dressing meal at lunchtime. In the evening I tried to keep the menu more authentic to the first Thanksgiving. We had crab dip (not that the Pilgrims were likely to mix their shellfish with cream cheese and mayo…) with sourdough and cheese spread, pear butter, popcorn, venison jerky, veggies, Gabe’s mom’s apple snitz moon pies, and lots of hot drinks.

My sister-in-law Ruby was determined to master the art of sourdough bread. Master it she did! Look at those beautiful loaves!

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I love this photo because the evening was my favorite time, with close fellowship around the propane fireplace. Photo credits go to my husband. I was much too occupied to remember to take pictures. Top of my thankful list was the joy of having a space to entertain a lot of people! Next was having a husband who designed and built that space. And family… we are so rich with roots all the way to the twiggy newest branches, connections to the past and promise for the future!

And the evening and the morning were Thanksgiving Day, and it was a good one.

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Soul Care

Some of us have a trump card that we try not to play very often, but we would like to mention that Grandma didn’t homeschool. (Thank-you for the prompt, you commenters from the last post. ) We keep this close because when somebody whines about something that is an obvious choice they made, people think, “Duh, you didn’t have to sign up for that.” However if you homeschool, you have chosen a challenging path and set yourself up for a lot of work! All the noble reasons for doing what you are doing will not make it easy. The best thing about homeschooling is that our children are here all the time. The worst thing about it is that our children are here all. the. time. There is no substitute and very little wiggle-room, and it definitely has a way of turning your heart to your children! Unfortunately, it also tends to overload us with anxiety about our failures and their struggles. (You cannot outsource your relationships.) Sometimes you absolutely must get perspective, which means you have to step back, out, away, alone, and think, ponder, pray, cry, figure out how to make this work, how to get the white space you need to be healthy.

It’s not only mothers who have to do this. Nurses, teachers, nannies, cart-pushers, all of us, really… we all need to care for our souls. You know all those verses about fatness and leanness in the Bible? It may sound counter-intuitive, but you want a fat soul! A skinny one won’t be able to share anything nourishing with others.

Winter is coming. In this area that means staying inside most of the time. We end up with projects stacked on projects. As I write this in the living room, there is a Jenga blocks game on the floor, piles of books on the end tables, a Monopoly card game, assorted socks and shoes from church, and spilled popcorn on the floor. Someone was sculpting on the coffee table and there is a PBJ sandwich there as well. In the corner I just noticed a basket of clean blue jeans that got missed yesterday. I expect to feel rather famished by springtime when we can move outside again, but I also have some coping mechanisms that I sprinkle into my days.

Take walks alone, if at all possible. When the sun shines, I like to drop non-essentials and go out right then; I need the vitamin D. Sometimes I listen to an audiobook that is above the children’s heads. I pray about the things that trouble me, and once I astonished myself and managed to not think about anything at all for a bit. That is actually a thing- ask a guy! Even if I have to take everybody along, getting out of the house is therapy.
Learn to run to Jesus with everyday issues. If you need a little privacy, lock the bathroom door. Nothing is too small, nothing too complicated, nothing out of bounds to pray about. Sometimes I have no words other than a desperate, “Help me, Jesus.” He always hears.
Figure out your signature drink, the one that makes you feel like you are going to be all right. Craft it lovingly and drink it out of a great mug or one of those cute Pioneer Woman drinking jars.
Keep a secret stash. I don’t care if it’s chocolate covered almonds or tofu chips, it is vastly preferable to chew on something than to chew out somebody. Not like the two are mutually exclusive, but still… I might add that I have been known to hide my chocolate so well that I couldn’t remember where I put it.
Make time to read even if it is just a few paragraphs before falling asleep. I love to read the Bible in a different version and study the grand theme of Glory throughout the little lives of people. It helps me to step outside my world and think about other horizons, bigger pictures. (You think you have problems, lady?)
Take a touch time-out. We have a few members of the family who are sensitive to others in their space. In a family setting, this is inevitable. When things start going a little bonkers, I make them sit in separate places, no talking or touching each other while I read aloud. They may color or crochet or draw. Sometimes they listen to audiobooks or I read until I am hoarse. It has a way of putting us all on the same page and we forget about the way people were getting on our nerves.
Cultivate gratefulness. It will put pounds on your soul, and that is a good thing, remember? My personal challenge for this year is to be truly delighted with how cozy my house is. I will not dwell on the fact that we could easily use another 900 square feet. If you hear me grousing, call me out on it.
Teach the children to help with the housework. Few things trigger frustration faster than irresponsible people who will not own their messes or serve others. I am not supposed to do it all for everybody. That may seem spiritual, but in the end I am putting my children at a huge disadvantage by sending them into adulthood with that mentality.
Have a restful space that you can retreat to when you need a break. We do not allow our children to play in our bedroom. It’s simply off limits. Sometimes I go in there and lock the door and just breathe for a few minutes until I have lightened up and gotten over myself.
Learn to laugh; if you can’t see the humor in life, you might as well stuff yourself into a pickle jar. I have not quite learned to say, “That was a hilarious arc your milk made on its way to the floor,” but I look for belly laughs as often as possible. Recently I read a children’s story about a little African boy who wanted to make biogas from goat droppings. I pronounced it “by-OH-gus” and couldn’t figure out why I had never heard of this alternative fuel before. It has now become part of the hilarities in our family legend, I can assure you.
Try grocery shopping all by yourself. I have shopped at Walmart in the wee hours while the household slumbered. It is open 24 hours, after all. This can be very fun and relaxing.
Be as creative as you can. The act of making something with your hands is extremely REcreational. I have been having it out with pumpkin pie this fall. I grew up on my Mom’s version, where the pumpkin separates slightly from the milk/egg so that the layers are perfectly defined. I can use her recipe, but I can’t make her pie. It has become a duel: the perfect pumpkin pie against me… great recreational activity. My husband bought me a pottery wheel recently, so between that and the pie, I have plenty of scope for creativity.
Get help. I have a friend who is willing to come do large housecleaning projects with me. The last time she was here I worked in the kitchen, cooking, while she shampooed the carpets. I recommend getting help for the big stuff.
Schedule down-time. Sometimes my husband would notice a certain neediness and tell me to take a break, and sometimes he wouldn’t notice, so I have learned to ask. We try to schedule in a day every month where I can do whatever I need to catch up with schoolwork and shopping.
Plant flowers. The girls and I just dropped 150 tulips, 30 alliums, and 30 crocuses in the ground. It’s kind of long range planning, but the anticipation will give us happy thrills all winter. In the flowering season we take joy in regularly bringing in bouquets to lift our hearts.
Let go of perfection. It is an unattainable and fretful place to be.

There was once this lady named Martha who was doing all the stuff! She was really reaching around and serving, but she missed the most important thing that would have given her rest in her soul. Her sister just sat there and listened to Jesus. I have often puzzled over how to be both these gals, because the world needs to be fed, and some of that is my job. I feel a kinship with Martha, to be honest. My personal solution is to work hard and rest hard, if that makes sense. Someday you may drop in at my house and be a little shocked to see me messing with yarn and knitting needles while there is a general litter of life all around. It will just be me, tending to my soul.

Your turn. I would be so tickled if someone out there told me they go fishing or hunting. What refreshes you? How do you restore your soul when life gets too busy?

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Why Grandma Didn’t Need Me-Time

As one thoughtful commenter mentioned in the last post, “I wonder if the women back then would have appreciated some time off now and then or not?” As I thought about the advice from women in another season, I made a few tentative conclusions.

They have forgotten. Do you think there is a possibility that a woman who declares after her children are all grown, “I loved every minute of mothering!” might have a memory lapse? Maybe she is remembering the confiding cuddles, while forgetting how one child pulled the other’s hair when they couldn’t see the storybook and the dismayed clench of her heart when her sweet child told a deliberate lie. Maybe the goo and poo recede with the years and she sees better the things that really matter.

Mom tells the story of one friend of hers who had a really fussy baby, crying and crying at the school picnic. When they had an auction to benefit the school, the lady jokingly held up her cranky infant and called, “Baby for sale!” Obviously they were human as are we.

They had a strong a support culture, especially among the Amish, that was a tremendous blessing to newbie moms. It was normal to have a “maid” to come do the weekly cleaning or pick up the load when there was a new baby. Anyone in trying circumstances could depend on meals being brought in to feed the family. Many lived in very tight community where they babysat each other’s children when they needed to go to an appointment or grocery shopping. This sort of network can be the difference between sinking or keeping on swimming.
They were focused. Our mothers were raised with one dream, to get married and become mothers and homemakers. They didn’t really have the array of opportunities for developing their gifts that our generation does. While I have passionate views about people using their talents, I also know that honing in on one thing is what makes one a master at it, and this is why so many excellent homemakers result from the plain people’s tradition of training their daughters to pour themselves into this art. Imagine Grandma dashing around with a pricey camera, capturing her world while the children sniffled about being hungry. Nope. She fed her people first.
They had grit. Somehow they didn’t expect life to be easy, which was how a pregnant woman could get up at dawn to milk cows, then come back into the house to cook breakfast and care for toddlers, sewing all their clothes, and keeping house all day. After all, her life was a lot easier than it was for her pioneer ancestors.

Acceptance. Realistic expectations. Support. Centuries of women who picked up their load and carried it with grace and grit would likely look at us with our labor-saving devices and thoughtful husbands who occasionally take us out to eat and say, “Girl, get over yourself.” And that’s probably why Grandma never heard of me-time.

I remember a day when I confessed to my husband, “I just want to give them all away,” then I quickly added, “for a few hours anyway.” It is not helpful at such a time to feel that one is uniquely wicked among mothers, that good mothers never ever need a break. Hear me… WE DO! Even animal mothers pass off the babies to an aunt occasionally so they can stretch their limbs without a pup instantly attaching to the milk bar.

When nobody is having any fun anymore and I am not finding pleasure in my children, I need to take a step back and ask, “How can I break out of this destructive pattern?”

This is where it gets really sticky sometimes, because odds are 10 to 1 that God will start dealing with my own heart and attitudes. He will show me whether my exhaustion comes from being depleted in my soul or from rebelling against the life I have been given. Either way, something has to give.

Often the thing that wears me out is my fuss about how hard the job is rather than the job itself. There is a decay in me, a soft spot that protests every time things get hard. “Wah! somebody save me from this mess of jello on the floor. Wah! somebody take my children so I can go shop the clearance racks! Wah! somebody clean my house while I drink tea and contemplate the meaning of life!”

It is like the little girl who wailed and wept when her cheat sheet of math facts was removed from her desk, because “learning the multiplication tables is impossible!” Then, when confronted with the reality that there was no other way, she started reciting times tables and learned them at an astonishing rate. (It’s just jello, after all.)

Whether I am being entitled or whether I am depleted of resources from having given without refueling, the first step for me to become restored in my soul nearly always involves accepting the circumstances that I am struggling against.

Ideally, I stay hydrated and strong through daily nourishment, but face it, some days I don’t drink my water or feed myself adequately and the consequence is some shaky living that isn’t going to stand the tests of life very well. I prefer to call this need soul-care instead of me-time.

This post started as a list of ways to find white space, ways I can restore my soul in the middle of a busy life, but Grandma hijacked it, so I am compiling that for the next post. Give me some feedback, please; my research tends to be Dorcas-slanted. (I hope you don’t expect it to be all spiritual and meditative. My list is extremely everydayish. ) I know how to refresh myself, but I don’t know how you refresh yourself.

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Seasoned Advice

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… not my seasoned advice this time. I hoped the photo from Pexel might be a subtle hint about that, seeing as I have not quite amassed enough wrinkles to be called wise on this subject.

Having now reached the age in life where I am often reminded of how little I know, I made it a point this summer to listen carefully to some older women who have raised families and are watching their grandchildren grow up. While it sometimes seems to me that raising a family 40 years ago would be much simpler than in our current day, some things remain the same through the centuries, and these are the things I want to pass on to you from what they told me.

Let’s hear from two women who each raised 13 children. Not surprisingly, quite a bit of their advice overlapped.

Do what it takes to keep yourself productive. Drink coffee if you need it. Eat chocolate. Take walks.
Take care of your soul. You really have to do that. Pray while you work. Write verses on post-its and stick them where you often see them.
Keep a song in your home. Get everybody to sing together when things start feeling out of control or when the attitudes get stinky.
Read lots and lots of stories. ( ❤ ❤ )
Play with your children. Do things on their level, even if you aren’t really interested in what they want to do. Have fun together.
Don’t waste time feeling sorry for yourself. You really don’t have time for that.
Let things go. You will not be able to do everything that you think should be done. You will have to prioritize whether you value your children or your house more.

See why I listened to them? Their advice is so homely and real. They have made it through more spilled milk and sibling squabbles and teen issues than most people can imagine and they are beautiful women, strong in faith. They have things to say that I need to hear.

We recently had a panel of older women who answered questions and shared from their life experiences for the ladies at church. The questions ranged from home/family, to keeping an eternal perspective, to making friendships that are meaningful. The one that interested me the most was this, in my own words: What do you think is the reason for younger women getting “burned out” or “stressed” and needing “me-time”? How did you deal with overwhelming seasons in life?

So… what do you think they said?

Apparently me-time is a fairly modern invention. Going to the spa or to the coffee shop with friends, getting away from the kids, taking a vacation with just your husband… all these things were not commonplace for our mothers and grandmothers. It wasn’t that they didn’t have pressures and problems. Nobody can pretend that having lots of children in the home with hungry bodies and thirsty spirits is going to be a walk in the park. I am sure I was just as needy as a child as any of my children are. But when confronted with this question, the ladies on the panel said, “We didn’t have me-time. We did the next thing, and then the next. We learned to love having our children around us.” (Again, my own words, from my impressions of the conversation.)

I got the feeling that they leaned into the harness and learned to love the work. If you love what you are doing, you do not need to be rescued from it.

There is another thing they shared that I think honesty will compel us to cringingly nod our heads in agreement. They said they didn’t have the distractions of internet and the pressures of social media. In other words, they didn’t have all their friends and all the ideas trotting through their lives every day, distracting them from their main purpose. I am still mulling over this one, because I love people and the connections that are made possible by the web. Not going to lie, it would be hard for me to give up. This is a big one that everybody has to mull through on their own, but it isn’t one we should just shrug off.

Speaking for myself here: I live in this century. It’s a hyper-connected world, with so much potential to touch others’ lives and my obligations extend past my home. Learning how to live restfully is so important if I am going to have any influence for good in the world. Exhaustion is a thing, and needing me-time, as much as I cringe at that term, is a thing.

I hope to have a conversation here about things that breathe life into our weariness, so if you could please start thinking about that?

Glory in the Humble Arts

I made up that term for something that I find hard to describe. Let me just give you some definitions to clarify what a humble art is.

Humble, adj. : small in size, lowly, modest, not arrogant or loud

Art, n. : the production or expression of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance

Humble Art: an apparently small gesture, unpretentiously done to beautify a space or fill a need. People who practices humble arts becomes skilled at producing a sense of celebration and excellence around their craft.

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Glory, n. : eminence, luminosity, honor, distinction bestowed by common consent

To glory in the humble arts is to learn to love doing what you were created for. Do you feel that? Can you say, “This. This is what I am supposed to do right now.” If you can’t think what that might be, just be really quiet for a minute and then do what is right in front of you. If you cannot dredge up any feeling of worth for the job, pretend it is for the king.

Because it is. If you love Jesus, you know that the reason you exist is to bring Him glory, to enjoy Him forever, to serve Him willingly. It has very little to do with how gratified you feel about your calling. You want to be happy? Practice being happy. Stop whining. Just stop.

What I just wrote is the pep talk I have given myself many times. I learn slowly, but I am learning. Did your mom ever tell you, “You can learn to enjoy doing dishes,” like mine did? I used to sigh and roll my eyes, but now I am wiser and I know she was right.

I watched a lady pinch the edges of a pie crust once, and it came to me: This is art! She really enjoys this, and her pies are beautiful. Folks, she did it for a living. She had a bakery and she produced enough pies in a day to put me into a stupor. (I have never embraced the art of pie making to the point of excellence. I do get this concept though.)

The thing about learning to love what you do is that it gives your work luminescence. There is an unmistakable glow from a piece of work done by a humble artist. The lowly is elevated and there is glory attached to it somehow.

“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your father who is in heaven.” Mt. 5:16

Do you see how the glory of the ordinary, by the very nature of its ordinariness, brings glory to God? It’s not normal to sink your heart and soul into doing blah things joyfully and well, so that they are good works. It catches the attention and inspires those who get to bask in the glory. This in turn reflects glory to the Father in heaven who gives what it takes to embrace the everyday grinding, mixing, kneading, baking. So what if it’s only a crusty loaf of bread consumed in an hour?

It is not a wrong concept at all to slice that bread and whisper, “Jesus, this is my worship. Again.” Don’t worry. He will take care of the glory part.