He Upholds Us When We Fall

Listen. Savor. Respond to God.

“The Lord upholds all those who fall and lifts up all those who are bowed down.” Psalm 145:14

 

We were in a long season of exhaustion and I had lost hope we would ever make it out. Andrew and I were struggling to make it through each day. We had had three children within four years and a church plant. At bedtime I would make out a schedule of fifteen minute increments: playdoh – 15 minutes, sand play 15 minutes, snack time 15 minutes, just in order to wake up feeling armed. Every day I would crumple it up knowing it was meaningless. We were leaning too heavily on each other because there was nowhere else to lean. Until we couldn’t anymore. We were depleted. There was nothing extra. Love felt thin as one of Aunt Margie’s hand-me-down sheets, see-through, brittle.

 

And so I would lay down. On the bed. On the floor. It didn’t matter.

 

When tempers were strong and love was thin I would lay down. Knowing God was holding both of us up. He was the ground of our marriage.

 

“For in Him we live and move and have our being” from Acts 17 merged with Paul Tillichs’ “God is the ground of our being” and I would lay down feeling the ground hold us up. Because I couldn’t anymore. But I could lay down intentionally knowing God was “upholding those of us who were falling.”

 

And a strange comfort would come. Grace catches us when we fall backwards.

 

I didn’t have any answers and yet I could depend on He who was the Answer. I didn’t have the energy to stand and yet I could fall…into God’s strong arms. Because the ground always held and God always held even when I didn’t have the strength to carry us.

 

Where do you need to be held up today? Where do you feel as though you are falling?

 

 

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The Key to Real Refreshment & *SLOW Word*

Hello dear friends, I’ve packed up the SLOW Word lectio divinas in my suitcase and you’re coming on vacation with me! This scripture is the perfect place to start and happens to be Sunday’s lectionary. Bonus! Join me weekly for a feast of the word right here. Want more? Subscribe on the right to get them slipped right into your inbox and receive my intro to lectio divina welcome video.

 

Why is true refreshment so elusive?

 

As we point the minivan towards the Green Mountains of New Hampshire and our yearly family vacation, I’m reminded that on vacation we sometimes just relocate our frenetic pace. My sister coined this being stuck on high speed through life as doing “Cedar Point” after the amusement park perched on the shores of Lake Erie. These days we’re no longer an amusement park kind of family. We linger long at Italian restaurants with the antipasta and a glass of pinot. Now we use “Cedar Point” as a verb when we discuss being overwhelmed and cramming “just one more thing” into our schedule such as: “I’m going to have to say no. That sounds like Cedar Point” or “if we stop at one more store, it’ll be completely Cedar Point.” It’s our white flag that we need to listen to our need for rest and downsize into something small and quiet.

 

But how often do we listen? For years I lived full speed ahead. I’d only declare a sabbath after pushing towards an exhaustion which was more kin to illness. Sabbath had more to do with a crash than a rhythm. Later after a day of netflix bingeing, I’d be crawling from deep in overwhelm back up to Zero, but refreshment? I barely knew what that meant.

 

I’m learning to give myself time to push the pause button early, to allow myself to recognize my poverty before the Lord and ask: “Will You be my Teacher, to learn a rhythm of rest in a way that will truly refresh me?”

 

 

That’s the question I asked after a week of new faces and church services and the tightly cramped schedule of the Anglican Church of North America’s Provincial Assembly at Wheaton College. The answer came in the form of an unexpected detour and an errand, a task I took while grudgingly. Why would I want to leave? I was happily surrounded by family, three couples and seven kids at my in-law’s cottage in North Central Ohio. We were tucked deep in Amish country under a thick canopy of trees. I won’t even mention the full tins of homemade gingersnaps. Besides, I brought my watercolors.

 

When we’re at my in-laws, the rules for rest are graciously bent. We nap when we need to and curl up under one of mom’s handstitched quilts on a couch in the cool of the basement. We check into work occasionally but for the most part forget our computers and phones charging in a back bedroom. We spend the evenings in front of the campfire down the hill in surrounded by a crescent of tall pines. The fireflies blink their syncopated magic while we watch the children reach for the tiny hatches of light.

 

But in the midst of Grandparents’ Camp 2017 and an hour car ride to watch the July 4th fireworks, the check engine light began its long unwelcome glare. We were on a cross-country trip. We needed a mechanic sooner than later. This was only stop two of six. Mom and Dad’s personal garage mechanic came to the rescue which is to say that I would need to spend Monday in Mansfield stuck in never-ending-strip-mall-world (My Favorite.) just down the road from where my husband and I went to high school. The repair shop was smack dab between our favorite pizza shop and the paint store where I had my first job pretending I had expertise on paint colors and wallpaper patterns.

My sister-in-law came to the rescue and gave me a ride from the garage to the library in the adjacent town. I slid into a banquette beside a floor to ceiling window and sat in the slanted light. I spread out a new journal on the table and felt the promise of the empty pages. That morning, what had felt like a detour away from rest became permission for this mama to be alone and listen to the scrawl of pen on paper for a few solid hours.

 

The next day as I sat on the rough hewn picnic table next to the campfire ring and spent time with Matthew 11:28-30 in this lectio divina video, I heard Jesus’ invitation to rest from a slightly different angle.

 

I heard it with a new bent to trust.

 

That Monday I hadn’t needed to grasp at rest. It had been perfectly shaped for my refreshment. Those two long hours in Ashland Ohio’s library reminded me who holds those keys. As I read the end of Matthew 11 in our slow word and heard, “Come to Me,” I was being invited to stop pursuing own artificial version. No more self-provision. No more lurching speeds and then the steep crash of a Cedar Point.

 

Hi Friends, this summer I’m joining the Grace Table family and reading Shelly Miller‘s beautiful book, Rhythms of Rest: Finding the Spirit of Sabbath in a Busy World. This book is tall-glass-of-iced-tea good. It’s gentle and grace-filled for those of us just learning here and I think you’ll find that by sitting with Shelly’s words, you’ll begin saying yes to Sabbath in small ways. Join me?

 

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#MondaysAtJesusFeet

Here we are, friends. It’s Monday.

It’s Monday and it’s time to sit and to savor the Word at Jesus’ feet.

We’re doing Lectio Divina every Monday and Thursday right here and today we’re spending time with Matthew 5:21-24 because here in the Sermon on the Mount is where we learn to walk out our faith.

There are some words of Jesus that require us to sit with them in prayer.

Because otherwise we’d rush right on by. It’s easier that way. We’d rather the internal mess stayed covered. We’d rather stay ignorant of our shadow sides.

 

In today’s scripture, we’re asked to uncover the root of anger in our lives and reconcile with our brother but sometimes those roots are buried. Deep. Today we give God permission to uncover what needs to be exposed. As we listen, we’re offered the truth that reconciliation leads to real Life.

{Every Monday and Thursday we have a Lectio Divina right here. Subscribe on the right to get them slipped quietly into your inbox.}

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Isaiah 40: 1-5 SLOW Word Lectio Divina

Hello fellow listeners,

Every Monday and Thursday a new SLOW Word Lectio Divina appears right here. Today we’re spending time in Isaiah 40:1-5. Can you hear Handel’s Messiah? “Every valley shall be lifted up. Every mountain and hill made low and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed.”

Kris Camealy in her book, Come Lord Jesus, invites us to meditate on the question, “What are the valleys in my life that cause me to stumble repeatedly?”

If you’re interested in traveling with Kris and I to the manger, you can pick up her book right here on Amazon.

(For those repeating, the scripture begins at 1:35.)

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The Key to Savoring Your Life Today and SLOW Word

(SLOW Word attached to the bottom, dear friends. It’s such a privilege to listen to the Word with you right here every Monday and Thursday!)

We’re in the middle of a mini-series on SLOW living right here at AThirstforGod.com.

Find Part 1 and 2 here: Making a Plan for Rest and Your Brilliant Simple Plan to Create Calm in the Chaos.

Here is Part 3:

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I needed a day off. I could feel the rising crankiness, the need to gaze quiet. I had created Monday’s schedule to fill, refresh, to build something worth standing on for another week, a Sabbath.

There was just this one other thing to fit in: the oil change. No problem, I thought. But the voice on the other line said he only had one appointment left…smack dab in the middle of my well-planned day. With annoyance, he grumbled, “Ma’am, is that the time you want, or not?” I had been dreaming of a hike around Slippery Rock River, skipping stones into the current, a slow saunter around a bookstore, even a Target run. Noon? I could feel the whine rising. The car would take at least an hour and a half and the day’s schedule was now smeared.

We would have to be content on our own familiar streets.  No adventures today.

I pushed the button for the garage door to open. “Xavier, we’re going a walk. You lead.” Exercise always clears my head. He swung his thin four-year-old leg over his muddy BMX, still balanced with training wheels. I held onto his black leather bike seat and pushed him up the short hill toward town until he could pedal forward himself.

I had lost the heart to lead: “Left or Right, Xavi?””Left!” he steered down the curb between the two white lines. Again and again he pedaled north taking us beyond our normal boundaries, one block after another, straight down Beaver St. We landed at the bottom of the hill in Edgeworth in a triangle of a park, huge oaks, small brook, inviting child-size stone bridge. Sometimes you don’t need to leave town to see new kingdoms.

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We were in unfamiliar territory in our own town. We scrambled down stone walls and sat next to the creek. He combed through the pebbles with his fingers, then piled them together to build a dam. Running up and down the creek, He tried to stay on the dry sidelines. Every few minutes he looked back to see if I was watching, eyes shining. I watched the magic gather and spread. Under the bridge, he spread out his arms, a strong man holding it up. I sat down in the middle of the joy fully immersed in the present.

My own stuck stream of delight was undammed by entering into NOW, senses alive, scrambling on rocks, listening to water grate over pebbles, breathing in the freshly mown grass. Simple, I know. But I wondered, how often am I truly Here, Now?

Back at home, I took out the dollar-store bottle of bubbles and the “fancy” camera. Just last year he could barely blow a bubble, more soap would spill on the concrete than spin through the air.

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As he blew into the wand, I held my breath. How often do I live life shrouded in a tangle of emotions and lists written long, pounding hard after life, when Life can be blown up full right here in the present?

I’ve always wanted to be one of the fully present people. Available. Paying attention. Listening. An “icon” of Julian of Norwich hangs above my writing desk, she who was cloistered in Norwich’s cathedral, present to the Presence. Anchored.  So often I spin dizzy through life missing the present as I reach out anxiously toward the future.

The present is as temporary as a bubble floating upwards and all we have is the gift of now to enjoy, to taste and see that God is good.

And I know: He is almost five and I want to memorize the surprised giggles, the smell of his sweaty blond head after he plays, the shine of his eyes as he twists around and searches for mine. I want to live thankful in the Now.

In this ordinary, magical life I’ve been given, I want to be marked “present.”

Share with us one of your favorite ways to be fully present. On the back porch with your first cup of coffee? Rocking that little one to sleep? Deep in the arms of your Love?

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Your Brilliant Simple Plan to Create Calm in Chaos and SLOW Word

It’s no secret. I need quiet like I need water.  Perhaps we all do. Have you read this article yet? Our brains require ample amounts of silence in order to rebuild the brain cells stolen by noise and stress.

Because who can truly hear in the middle of all this crushing noise?

“In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength” (Isaiah 30:15). (By the way, this is the first verse of the SLOW Word lectio divina included below.)

 

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This afternoon I chatted with another homeschool mama in the corner of a kitchen as kids in costumes ran from one room to another playing hide and seek. We whispered about the need for quiet as if we were divulging a secret then we giggled at the extremes we go to guard our hours alone. But if this article or my (everyday!) experience are any indication, needing silence is just as essential to our mental and emotional health as our computer’s reboot button is to its continued functioning. And really, should we be surprised? My husband asks me the same question every time my computer seizes up: “When was the last time you rebooted?”

So, friends, it’s time to make a plan for rebooting our internal computer. It’s been necessary for women (and men!) throughout time. John Wesley’s mother, Susanna (1669-1742), used to take her long apron and place it over her head to signal the need for calm. Madeleine L’Engle’s children would recognize her irritability as a need for silence long before she ever did and beg her to take off to her writing tower at Crosswicks. Other women have written about their struggle to create spaces of silence. The introvert in me always smiles when I read Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem The Art of Disappearing.

In the early 1950’s Anne Morrow Lindbergh penned A Gift from the Sea about the wrestle between motherhood and the need for quiet: “I must find a balance somewhere, or an alternating rhythm between these two extremes; a swinging of the pendulum between solitude and communion, between retreat and return. In my periods of retreat perhaps I can learn something to carry back into my worldly life.” Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote these words before the hundreds of channels on the tv, the portable XBox, or the black hole of the interwebs.

 

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Into the age-old conversation I’m offering this simple little gem: #10MinutesofStillness. Sometimes simple can be embarrassing, but sometimes it can be brilliant. After years of practicing, this one, my friends, is brilliant simple. Of course, it’s not my brilliance. I’m just the beneficiary. I picked it up from my sister, who picked it up from a friend. You get the idea. Now here’s the prescription: Choose a quiet space, put the phone upside down and turn off any beeps and buzzes, and set an alarm for ten minutes. Full stop. It’s the mini-Sabbath in the middle of your busy Thursday.

(Secret: I’ve found #10MinutesofStillness are just as luxurious on family holidays as they are on a busy weekday. Here’s one of mine from family vacation last year.)

For just ten minutes you push away the incessant to-do list, and just settle into the gorgeous richness of the present moment. Listen for the birds. Scan your space for beauty. Be attentive to your breath. (Maybe you’re a shallow breather like I am?) Perhaps you can take a short phrase of scripture and do centering prayer. Most days I keep it simple. I make a cup of cinnamon tea, head out to the porch, shut the front door with all its crazy on the other side and sit in the swing. Ten minutes to hit the refresh button.

 

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Why #10MinutesofStillness? Here’s what I’ve found after a few years of the practice:

 

1. #10MinutesofStillness is the perfect transition.  Do you reach for a cereal bowl and a remote when the kids are finally in bed? Yup, some nights I do too.  Other nights I want to lean into something more creative. Scheduling a #10MinutesofStillness at the moment of transition helps me to be more mindful of my true desires and not just fall into an immediate Netflix hole. I did the same thing when the kids were young enough to nap.

 

2. #10MinutesofStillness gives us a moment of time to be attentive to emotions crowding under the surface. You know how it is. Your irritability is coming from somewhere. Nonjudgemental listening is the first step to untangling. Bring the emotion up into the air, look at it with compassionate curiosity and without trying to be a Fixer. Bring it up and out into the Presence of Christ.

 

3. #10MinutesofStillness is the creative’s best friend. When we’re mired in the tough of the making and the words refuse to flow, just ten minutes of no agenda silence will often unleash the dam and we’re on our way again.

 

4. #10MinutesofStillness is a gateway back to gratitude.  Practice opening up one sense at a time for sixty seconds each, without judging what you receive and without trying to create meaning. And then start thanking God for the simple gifts you are experiencing. Pretty soon the chaos is tinged with joy and you’re ready to love your people again.

 

5. #10MinutesofStillness can push the door open to God’s Presence. When our head is down and we’re leaning hard into hustle, we can forget to be aware of God-with-us.  Light a candle in your quiet space and sit without an agenda but with expectation, contemplatively present to He who is always present.

 

So, friend, I’m daring you: schedule a mini-Sabbath into your day. Cultivate a small corner of stillness then enter the conversation. What was it like for you? Was it a struggle? Was it a gift? We want to hear. And if you use the hashtag #10MinutesofStillness, let us know! I’d love to see the chorus of contemplatives rise!

 

Do you have another brilliant simple idea for creating calm in the chaos? Do share!

 

Today’s SLOW Word. (The scripture starts at 2:20):

Subscribe on the right for more aThirstforGod.com or the SLOW Word Lectio Divina videos.

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Making a Plan for Rest Today and Thursday’s SLOW WORD

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This July I was in Italy for three weeks with my people. I’m still living in the after-glow.  We spent one week on the Ligurian coast, a week in the Dolomites, a quick trip through Venice, and a week with friends in the hills of Tuscany on a vineyard.  A few days into mornings wandering markets and afternoons by the sea, my dad and I were chatting and this was the essence of our conversation: Italy is the anecdote to America.  It’s the anecdote to America’s speed, urgency, commercialism, and constant hustle.

We rented an Air B and B four flights above a gelato shop close enough to the Mediterranean to be lulled asleep by the waves. We feasted on simple foods, ripe white peaches, and bread slathered with pesto, prosciutto and fresh buffalo mozzarella. At night we watched the sun set over the water while eating thin crust pizza and then walked along the coast with a cone of raspberry gelato made in house just that day.  We were just steps from where I was born.

 

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But we weren’t the only ones living SLOWly and lavishly. The Italians spent hours around the table every evening and came out for gelato after the sun set. Whole families walked the town of Sori and Bogliasco and pushed the wheelchairs of the elderly so they could get fresh air.

In contrast, today I’m tempted to crack the whip.  We’ve just gotten back from fall break and my anxiety level is heightened. The oven top has four day old spaghetti sauce splatters (how did it get all the way up the side of the fridge?) and there’s a hurricane of boy’s clothing and soccer gear that hit the living room. I’m tempted to yell, to push, to demand. I’m tempted to make of our classroom an outer reflection of my inner life.  I need a Creator to make order out of chaos. I need Jesus to put his hand over my mind and calm the inner hurricane. I need to SLOW down.  I need to choose to get off the crazy train.

So today I choose SLOW. Today I choose to light a candle on the island whether it still has splashes of dried pumpkin bread on it or not.

I’m making a plan to:

say yes to Silence,

to Lower expectations,

to Open heart, Open hands,

and to stay aWake to God’s presence in the here and now.

I say yes to SLOW.

SLOW living is soul-full living.

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SLOW is going to be my new miniseries right here on the blog because I sense we’re hungry for stillness and for permission to live with margin. When we live SLOW, we live out of fullness, not depleted from hustle. We fill out our planners for every activity. It’s now time to make a plan for rest.

Today, this is my SLOWdown plan: #10MinutesofStillness sprinkled through the day.  I always set my alarm for ten minutes on my phone. It’s permission. I wave the children away and show them how much time I have left. Sometimes I just sit without any expectations, just enjoying the quiet and a cup of tea. Sometimes I listen to the emotions that are just on the surface and need my attention. Other times I follow this pattern from Dr. Daniel Siegel, a well-known neuroscientist who teaches us how to heal an anxious and battered brain: I open my senses one at a time without judging what they take in and then I invite Jesus into the present moment. You can read about these minirests here and here and here.  It’s baby steps for the busy. Perhaps you may want to use the hashtag yourself.  Show us what your experience is like on facebook or Instagram and then link right back here so we can find it.

 

Subscribe on the right to make sure you get all the SLOW goodness of the miniseries.

 

How do you plan for rest, dear friend? Perhaps this SLOW coming before the Word?

 

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Deep Breath: A Sabbath Practice

God is always trying to give good things to us, but our hands are too full

to receive them.    St. Augustine

 

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Our work this week has piled up heavy and we’re sure we won’t be able to climb out from under it all. I still have two loads of laundry glaring at me to be put away and a writing deadline looming. Sabbath rest feels awkward after a week like this. What if we were to sit still with all that’s weighing heavy, look at each piece clearly, and one by one place each concern in Jesus’ capable hands? He’s got big hands. He’s got this.

Sometimes we need Sabbath rituals to mark a new type of time: a fragrant cup of tea on the porch in the early morning, an afternoon nap on the couch, a slow walk by the creek hearing the trickle of water rush by. Maybe this simple prayer would open up a little breathing space until you can “Come to Him and rest.” Matthew 11:28a

 

May you find not just places of worship this Sabbath and and moments to realign your heart to His True North, but time to be refreshed in His Presence.

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When You’re Running on Empty

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The life you save may be your own. Flannery O’Connor

 

I was wedged into a Bed, Bath, and Beyond aisle late at night standing on a scale. I gasped. Audibly. Still in my pregnancy pants, I was every bit of 44 lbs over my normal weight two months after my second was born. I did the math. She had been eight lbs and the placenta probably weighed around four. And what about all that water? I stepped on a few more scales to make sure the first hadn’t been tampered with. Darn arrogant technology. That was a whole lot of truth staring back at me in big digital numbers. Ping and I was double espresso awake.

 

This little bit of loveliness propelled me into a season of 6 am trips to a small gym at a strip mall across the interstate. I got serious. 6 am serious. The endorphins helped heal the post-partum depression which always followed my births. But the biggest gift of all was discovering that morning exercise created a foundation for the day: more energy, less emotional roller coasters. All of us in the little yellow cottage could agree that was a good thing. 

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But here’s the thing. This felt bigger than just a New Year’s resolution. It felt like I was laying a foundation for a life. In the following weeks when I prayed about how I should be using my time and energy, I kept sensing the same thing. Hold steady. Keep laying this one foundation. The message didn’t move on until habits had been formed. In fact, the message didn’t change for six. whole. months. Six months later a foundation had been laid, something firm, something substantial, something that could be built on.

Apparently I wasn’t done. Not close. There were other layers added later, many layers like rest and sabbath, self-acceptance, and getting rooted and established in God’s love.

During most transitions we have to go back with our hard hats on and bang around a little, make sure each layer is solid, checking to see if there are any worrying cracks.

 

Early in my motherhood, my mom shared the oxygen mask metaphor with me and it fits right here smack dab in the middle of all this. It mixes metaphors but you get the point. Summer, she said, you can’t put anyone else’s mask on until you have slipped on yours. Check and check. If I forget to take care of my basics, my foundation, there are always consequences.

 

Last week was a week of crazy and I heard it again. Time to go back and shore up the foundation. I was throwing myself into a new schedule with homeschooling and ministry and by the end of the week the corners of my life were showing deep fissures. My patience was frayed. I was yelling faster, overworking. I was saying “yes” too often. Thursday night my husband called it out. I was cleaning after bedtime with a tape of resentfulness on replay before crawling into bed bone tired. Andrew hugged me, saw the tears, and then begged me to take the next day off. The next day during a personal sabbath I went back to the basics. Am I getting enough rest, enough exercise, enough healthy food, enough prayer, enough silence, enough time soaking in the love of God?

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This Pinterest meme brought big tears to the surface last Thursday night:  “You can’t pour from an empty cup. Take care of yourself first.” I pinned it to my BRAVE board. It felt brave to say yes to essential things when it would be easier to keep running full speed ahead. But I knew what empty felt like and it was time to go back to the basics and shore up the foundation.

 

What foundations do you shore up when you’re on empty?

If you’re reading Shauna Niequist’s beautiful brave book, Present Over Perfect, you’ll hear little bits of echoes here. Perhaps you want to read too? What’s been connecting with your heart?

 

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Perfect is no longer my friend

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I’m done with perfect. She’s been my friend for decades but lately the cost has been way too high.  When she’s around I forget to breathe deeply, joy is assigned a backseat and forgotten, and I drive around paralyzed by anxiety. I’ve even unfriended her on Facebook. I don’t want to see those sparkly images she’s always posting. I want to celebrate with the real, cheer on the unmasked beautiful, and have coffee with she who knows her stuff and is willing to be fully present to others who are just as messy and real.

 

The high cost of keeping Perfect my friend? Here’s the untidy mess:

Perfect’s exacted a complete loss of playfulness with my children.  I become a drill sergeant in our homeschool room when I’m trying to meet the expectations of Perfect. That first homeschool week? Heinous. I want a do-over. And note the word “expectations.” I’m realizing that Perfect’s expectations are always impossible. They are always out of reach.

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A loss of presence. I forget to connect to the immediate moment, to taste and see the present good gifts of God. I’ll forget to light the candle. I’ll forget to take off my shoes and feel the grass beneath my feet. I live with my head down, barreling through. As Shauna Niequist said in her new entirely fabulous book, Present Over Perfect: “I worship at the altar of my to do list.” Yup, I’ve set the table for that altar.

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Another cost? I stop offering hospitality. I become afraid of my messy house being judged when deep inside I know all people really want are a space to have a glass of iced tea and cozy up with an authentic conversation.

 

Writing has been the one who’s paid the highest cost. When I hear Perfect’s expectations, I become afraid of offering. I look down at my loaves and fish, that meager little lunch and hold back thinking: “This can’t be enough.” I’ve stopped writing here because I’d like a new snazzier look to my website and because I don’t have time to take as many photos, and I don’t have time to polish content etc. etc. etc. ad nauseum. Yup, I’m done with perfect. I’m going to choose to be real here…to have shorter posts…to use instagram photos when I need to and to say goodbye to perfect.

 

I am choosing to love with a messy kind of love because that’s all I’ve got anyway. And somehow, when we offer freely, God takes our small lunches and makes them enough. And yes, Enough is my new friend, and she fits my life perfectly.

 

What does perfect feel like in your life? What has been the cost of keeping her as a friend? How are you friending the messy real and unfriending Perfect? 

 

Friends, I adore Shauna’s new book Present Over Perfect so much I’d love to do a book club night at my house in the Atlanta area and/or a virtual book club week by week here. Yup, it’s that good, Sisters. Anybody in?

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