Enough is Enough

It is a strange upbringing to hear each week that you fall short and are not enough. But it is the upbringing that many experience.

The difficult part is that it’s what we hear as we sit in pews and sing songs about love and hear sermons about love and proclaim that Jesus loves me.

How can He when I am not enough? I am a sinner. I will always be a sinner. I will never be good enough.

Without necessarily meaning to, how many people have fallen victim to this truth? We humans are fragile beings. We desire to be better and do better. We work hard to be the best at what we decide to put our hand to. We add immeasurable pressure to ourselves to be enough. . .

Be enough for our spouses.

Be enough for our jobs.

Be enough for our kids.

Be enough for our extended family, our neighbors, ourselves.

And grapple with the idea that we’re not enough, ever, no matter how hard we try for salvation.

Understandably, this can be crippling in so many areas. Not just faith, but in our every day lives. Doubt and questions arise. What is it all for if I’m never going to be enough? I’m aware that this realization impacts individuals differently. There are those who will try harder. There are those who will quit trying at all. And there are those who will be brave enough to start peeling layers and truly struggling with what being enough means in all aspects of their lives.

And those brave souls deserve more than trite cliches and platitudes that are offered–read your Bible more, attend church, pray harder, do devotions. The complexities of faith cannot fit into these tiny plastic phrases, and it’s a disservice to offer them to people who have the tremendous courage to battle fears and questions.

I have battled the formidable foe of enough. I have faced the why bother mentality and the try harder mentality. Neither of them brought me peace and both of them meant poor decisions that could impact my health negatively and wreck my emotional stability.

But an amazing thing happened on this journey. I somehow managed to surround myself with people who think I am enough. Just as I am. With all my insecurities and flaws and fears and questions. They love me. They encourage me. They tell me I am enough with whatever I have to bring that day.

It is liberating. And it is an eye opening blessing.

I am coming to terms with God’s plan for me isn’t because I’m enough.

It’s because I’m loved.

And that is enough.

Value

My heart is heavy this morning.

I discovered that a dear friend died last week. It’s strange to say she was dear and to admit that she’s been gone a week before I knew about it.

But value isn’t determined by proximity.

The value of this piece is priceless

I met Rebecca when I was fifteen. She taught with my mother and had recently had a baby. She and Scott needed a babysitter, and my mother suggested me. So, one day my mom took me to their house to meet baby Nash. Nash and I hit it off, and I became the babysitter. Someone would take me to their house when needed and then Scott or Rebecca would bring me home after their evening out. Until I got my license. Ian arrived later, and I kept both boys.

Often, when Scott and Rebecca came home, we would visit for a while before I went home. They were confidants for me during a troubled time when my parents divorced. When I went off to college, Rebecca would call me to see if I could come home to keep the boys. I always did. And when I was home on breaks, I visited with them. I spent hours with them. I would go to the lake with them. They knew everything about my young adulthood. They were a second family to me.

When I bought my first house, Rebecca gave me a housewarming gift of pottery. I still have it.

Rebecca was kind and giving. Her compassion and listening to me was never taken for granted. I felt understood by her through those teenage angst years, and it was comforting to have an adult to turn to who wasn’t blood. I didn’t feel as if I was betraying anyone when I talked with Rebecca.

I was still keeping the boys when I started teaching.

Then, life. The boys didn’t need me anymore. I got busy with my career. We touched base every so often though. They even took me and Steven out to dinner early in our relationship. I think they approved of him.

Photo by Lucas Pezeta on Pexels.com Rebecca loved flamingos. I hope she’s surrounded by a flock.

Last year Steven and I decided we needed to have some legal work done. I reached out to Scott. It was then I learned that Rebecca had brain cancer. . .the same that took my grandma.

The news I found this morning wasn’t a surprise. I’ve been waiting for it. But it still was a gut punch.

For Christmas this past year, I wrote cards to many of the people who influenced or are currently influencing my life. I wanted them to know the impact they have on my life and to thank them. Scott and Rebecca were on that list and I’m so grateful I was given the opportunity to let her know how much she means to me.

Don’t waste your opportunities. Tomorrow isn’t promised.

Confessions of a {good} mom, pt. 2

Being a mom is the hardest and most exhausting thing I’ve ever done.

Being a mom is the most exciting and amazing thing I’ve ever done.

That is all.

I’m going to take a nap now.

Ignorance is bliss?

Sometime in the last months someone shared a statistic with me. I’m wary of statistics in general. I used to tell my students that 79% of them were made up. Or 82%. Or whatever number I felt like throwing out there. They never questioned me.

At any rate, back to the point, someone shared that 65% of the American population died during the Spanish Flu pandemic. I found this number rather startling. Over half of the population of our country DIED? How in the world did we manage to bounce back from that?

Turns out we didn’t. Because the statistic is wrong. Someone (not the person who told me the statistic) is bad with decimals.

I did my own research and the number I found was .65% of the population in a year and a half of Spanish Flu. Granted, numbers are not my forte, but that number seems a little more believable. And to put the number to people, it means that 675,000 people died in that year and a half. . . .mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, friends. It is still a staggering amount of loved ones to lose to a virus that is unemotional and unbiased.

You brought me to a museum? Seriously?

I was given the original stated statistic because someone was making the argument that Covid-19 was “not a big deal”. The numbers were “worse for Spanish Flu and the government didn’t panic and institute such restrictions on the citizenry.”

Recently, Steven and I took Peter to the High Point Museum. Something to do on a Saturday afternoon to get out of the house. Peter appropriately scowled at being dragged to a museum by his enthusiastic parents, at least until we got outside to the onsite blacksmith who was hammering at making some “sporks” for some local Boy Scouts.

Information about High Point’s response to smallpox and Spanish Flu.

However, inside the museum we read a lot about the establishment and growth of our little High Point. We were interested in discovering that in 1899 smallpox broke out. Under city ordinance, the sick were quarantined and every one else was inoculated. Visitors to the great city were required to show proof of vaccination or agree to be vaccinated or they were asked to leave. In 1918 when the Spanish Flu got here, the city council banned public assemblies impacting theaters, clubs, and churches. The disease spread through factories and businesses that were allowed to remain open.

But, you know, we live in unprecedented times, right?

Starbucks, London, and the Morrises

Have you ever had so much in your head that you want to get out and then you just don’t know how? That’s where I am right now. I have a lot I think I want to say, and I sat down to start saying some if it. Then I looked at my coffee cup.

Happy accident: my London minion in the background.

And now, that’s all I can think about.

I bought this cup at my first Starbucks behind St. Paul’s Cathedral in 2005 on my first trip to London (or Europe for that matter) with my friends Jack and Lina Morris.

I was a sixth year teacher helping lead a group of students on a trip to London and Paris, appropriately titled “Tale of Two Cities.” It was one of the years when our school year ended in May so we were able to get an outstanding price. We did Paris first, then traveled the Chunnel over to London. The day I went into my first Starbucks we had toured St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was an inspiring and thoughtful time. The church is still used as a house of worship (as are most churches in Europe that tourists wish to see) so at one point during the tour we were asked to stop for a moment and recite the Lord’s Prayer or honor the worshipers with a moment of silence. I was walking through the church with Jack and Lina. We all stopped and recited the prayer and, honestly, I got chills. I felt God move during that time of recitation; strangers pausing together for this sacred breath.

At any rate, we finished our tour before it was time to meet our tour manager, and it was cold. So, we found the Starbucks. I didn’t even get coffee because I didn’t think I liked coffee then. I got a hot chocolate and bought the mug as a memento of not only my first trip over the big pond but also my first Starbucks.

Jack delights Peter.

Lina holds her answered prayer.

Lina was my mentor when I began teaching. Not only for my profession but just for the kind of person I want to grow up and become. She has been an unwavering example of Romans 12:12–joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. You see, in 2017 she circled me in prayer and asked God to bless us with a child in our arms by the end of 2020. And, you see, Jack–sweet, sweet Jack–has Alzheimer’s.

Taking Peter to meet them in January was one of the greatest blessings of my life. And my child, my sweet and precious Peter, was delighted by them. He smiled so big at them both with no hesitation.

He knows good people.

Faith

Between finding out we were pregnant on January 27, 2020 and our first ultrasound on February 11, 2020, I bought this pattern.

We had never had a positive ultrasound experience.

February 18, 2021, one day shy of five months old.

Confessions of a {good} mom

I wanted to use a proof reading mark, the little carat symbol, to tell myself to insert the word good. I think it’s important to remind myself that I am doing a good job. My child is content and happy and thriving. He smiles and laughs and seems to like my company.

But the content of this post? Well, sometimes it makes me feel guilty or like I’m not normal.

Pajamas are my new best friend.

I’ve wanted to be a mom pretty much my entire life (minus a brief period in my thirties when I realized babies turn into the teenagers in my classes and I didn’t want to live with one of them). My baby cousin was born when I was ten, and I thought it was awesome to take care of him. Also, when I was ten, my aunt gave me one of the lifelike baby dolls. I loved that doll and made my mom take me to the drug store to buy a bottle for Adora Lynn (named for my love of She-ra and my fourth grade teacher).

I didn’t become a mom thinking it was going to be easy. I’m in my forties. . .I knew this would be one of, if not THE, hardest things I’ve ever done. There’s been a lot of chatter about cherishing the days, they go by so fast; you’re never going to feel rested again; comments about how precious these days are and how fun; he’s the most important thing now.

That stuff is in there. But no one told me I’d be bored. Or what to do with those feelings of boredom. Peter is amazing. And I love watching him do new things and figure out that his feet are part of him. But for a while there, I felt like I was twiddling my thumbs and watching paint dry, so to speak. Do all moms feel this way and we’re just afraid to say, hey, this is boring? Am I breaking some kind of mom code to admit it?

Well, if I am, I may as well keep going.

Nap? What?

I want to take a nap that I get to choose when to wake up.

I miss my routine and my habits. They were hard to establish, but so easily they have been broken.

I want to take a shower without having to repeat the mantra “he’s fed, he’s clean, he’s safe” the whole time I’m in there.

I want to wear nice clothes–or just feel like I have time to put something on instead of pajamas. Once you get to noon in your pajamas, what’s the point?

I want people to acknowledge that I’m still important outside of being Peter’s mom. Maybe that’s the biggest one. . .I didn’t cease to exist as an individual with importance and value. Peter is important, but so are me and Steven.

I want to not feel guilty about all of this.

Parenting certainly highlights my tendency to be selfish. I don’t like the selfish side of me.

Blowing Rock, NC

I also don’t think that having all these feelings makes me a bad mom. I don’t think if you’re having any of these feelings you’re a bad mom.

This gig is hard.

I don’t want it any other way.

Word Play

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I did it.

I did one of those things that goes around on social media (or used to be just in email. . .) where you make note of the first so many words you see and then those words have some specific meaning for some thing in your life.

I don’t even remember what the point of this one was, but the words stuck with me.

In the order I noticed them (we were instructed to note four): Lessons, Love, Strength, Purpose.

As a side note, I do often wonder how many words are in these little grids and what influences what words different people notice. . .like if you’re right handed does that mean you notice words on the left first? Or something like that.

Anyway. . .My words. I like them. I’ve actually decided to make them a focus of 2021. I’ve done words of the year before. . .hope, laugh. . .

These words spoke to me when I spotted them. I immediately thought about how Peter can be quite integral in the focus of these words. . .I’m sure he will teach me many lessons; he has already shown me things about love; strength is necessary when embarking on the journey of parenthood; and purpose, well, we do things with intention in mind.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Those were my first thoughts, but as the words have marinated over the last month, I find them being important to me in other ways. Not just what Peter will show me, but what I will show Peter. And the things that Steven and I encounter outside of Peter–in our marriage, in our other relationships.

I have plans for these words as the year continues. I would like to attach a verse to each of them. Something that God will show me in His time. Something He wants me to know about each word.

In the meantime, they play in my head every day. Rolling around in there and bumping into things I’m contemplating.

Embarrassing Reality

Years ago someone told me that he didn’t get embarrassed by or for another person. His logic was if the person doing or saying whatever he was doing or saying wasn’t embarrassed, then why should he be?

I often think about this philosophy. Sometimes I think it works. . .for example, when your mother has one too many at a wedding reception and grabs your best friend’s husband and proceeds to instruct him on taking care of her, complete with slurred speech. Really no reason to be embarrassed. Shake your head, roll your eyes, and move on.

But what about that uncomfortable feeling you get when your mother treats the waitstaff as inferior, demanding ridiculous service, and leaving a paltry tip. Does the philosophy work here? Or is embarrassment not the right word for this feeling?

I mean, who wouldn’t do whatever she could to get one of those in her direction?

The concept of embarrassment has been much on my mind lately. Perhaps, in part, because I do such silly things in the hopes of being gifted with one of the Peter’s amazing smiles. And one day, I know, I’ll do something and instead of the smile I’ll get “Mom, gah, stop; you’re embarrassing me.” And I wonder how he will learn that response.

But, also, I have been contemplating embarrassment because someone said recently that she was embarrassed by the “estrangement from her son.” And I wonder why embarrassment is her feeling. I’m not judging her emotions. If that’s how she feels, that’s valid. My wonderment is in how she got to that emotion.

I would say that social media highlight reels are to blame for arriving at embarrassment over the messiness of family. But, while it does indeed contribute, the phenomenon existed long before the internet. Consider Norman Rockwell prints with their ideal depictions, and mild humor, of family life. Or sitcoms of years gone by where all problems are resolved in a short time slot and the family unit is preserved. Even within the church the “perfect” family is practiced. We wear our Sunday best, we sit quietly in pews, our children are proper at all times despite having emotions bigger than they are and attention spans equal to their age. Crying babies? No, no. Our babies don’t cry in church. And even if we just had a fight equivalent to WWIII with a family member make no mention of it, give no indication. We’re in church; we are a perfect family.

Photo by fauxels on Pexels.com

But the reality is the perfect family is messy. There are different personalities, different beliefs, different emotions–despite living under the same roof for an extended time. I find this reality fascinating–how family members can be so alike yet so different. People clash with each other. And just like babies, adults have emotions that are bigger than they are.

And here’s the not-so-secret-secret. . .it’s in ALL families. What we see on social media, on TV, in church. . .it’s not the full picture. It’s not the reality.

In my experience, because I’ve done it, embarrassment leads to concealment. When we conceal we make it difficult not just for ourselves but for others. Concealment means we fail to seek guidance. We hide pain and hope others only see our highlights. We, perhaps inadvertently, promote the concept of being alone in this particularly situation . .because we don’t share it. Therefore, finally, we fail to be authentic with others and maybe even ourselves.

Maybe that guy was on to something all those years ago. But I’ll revise it a bit. If we spend less time worrying about being embarrassed by the hard work and messiness of being people, we can spend more time being real.

Steven and Trixie

My copy of Robert Frost’s poetry

My husband listens to me. I acknowledge that I am truly blessed with such a man. Our first Christmas together, (dating, not married), he gave me a book of the complete collection of Robert Frost because he remembered that in Sunday School years before we ever dated I said Frost was one poet that I actually liked.

One year, after marriage, in my stocking was a chocolate orange because he remembered that I said we often got oranges and chocolate in our stockings when we were growing up.

And this year, I got four more Trixie Belden books.

The goal is for me to have the whole series. I have through number 15 now (and an outlier, #29).

Trixie Belden books were my favorite as a young girl. When we went to the library I would get as many as I was allowed to check out. They weren’t kept on the main floor of the children’s room, but behind the door of the storage room. I can see it in my head. . .having to take a left after going in the children’s area. The children’s room librarian even came to the point of just waving me into the room instead of asking me which ones I needed. I see young me standing there behind the door picking the next three.

I wanted to be like Trixie and Honey and have my own club like the Bob-Whites with a club house. I wanted to solve mysteries and go on adventures. I wanted to like horses, but I just didn’t really. I hoped bicycles would be a good substitute.

My Trixie Belden collection, minus the four I received yesterday. . .they’re in the bedroom waiting to be read.

Steven knows all this. Cause he listens. He also knows that for my eleventh birthday I asked one of my uncles (who I shall not name to protect) for a Trixie Belden book. I received an autographed copy of Hiroshima Diary. A wonderful gift. . .but I was eleven. I’ve never quite gotten over it.

I find that even though I’m relatively sure that at least one of my gifts will be at least one more book for my collection, I’m super excited to get it. I’m also super excited to read it and remember the joy it brought me as a child. It brings me joy again, maybe in a bit of a different way. {I also find myself amused with some of the cultural things, namely gender roles, that have shifted over the years.} But I like reading them and remembering that little girl and her dreams. And seeing how she turned out and what kind of adventures she does get to have.

PS. Titling this post was super hard. . . .