How Does She (Not) Do It?

I'm not going to lie. Sometimes when I'm in self-pity mode, I wonder why more people don't ask me how I do it. 

I am a hundred things to many people, or at least six things to hundreds of people. My weeks are planned before I even get to them. I don't really do spontaneous anymore. Or I shouldn't.

Me and then some. [Photo cred: www.heddalettuce.com]

At home, I am mom and wife. Which means I cook, clean, encourage, teach, shout, whisper, laugh, snuggle, tickle, entertain, chase, battle and bathe. 

At work, I am a calming voice in crisis. I am the motivator, the creative brain, the journalist. I am the fixer, the one with ideas, the marketing girl and flyer designer, the sleep expert, the one of loves moms and babies.

At church, I recruit, schedule, prop up and cheer on our Children's Ministry and Women's Leadership Programs, which developed frantically and messily out of my brain from sheer necessity. And sometimes I get to preach too while I'm on my way to getting my pastoral license.

At night, I am a writer, a blogger, an aspiring author and big-thinker. I am only in the beginning of finding my voice and learning what I am all about, but I'm traipsing down the path, discovering things. Learning to like myself. 

Maybe I'm just like any working mom, but it feels like I'm doing a lot. Like there is always so much going on. 

But no one asks how I do it. No one wonders how I balance it all.

I wonder if it's because I'm kind of an obvious mess. When I talk to people after church, I'm in a hurry. And I'm chasing my son out of the corner of my eye. Maybe everyone can see that all the stuff that gets done is smashed together with as love and limited time. 

The anxiety of life has been getting to me lately. It's like I used to be able to outrun the "too much" factor, but I am definitely slowing down. Or it's speeding up. 

www.thenextwoman.com

I want to be better, grow, stretch, expand. I want my writing to improve. I want to know God more, read more, fit back into my size 4s, get more time alone, get more time with friends, figure out how to teach and nourish my child's mind and soul, have another child biologically and adopt, encourage my husband, write a book, be brave and pray for more sick people for healing, finally get to India and power up some rockstar kids and women's programs at church. 

But I only have 168 hours a week. 

I'm trying to do it all, and I'm not doing any of it that well. I have great intentions. I really do care about people. I crawl into their shoes fast. 

But sometimes I care too much. And my priorities tilt against my sanity. I forget how to take care of myself, to value the voice of God and quiet with my family, to stop the spinning and sit in the silence for a few minutes. I lose sight of what I want on my tombstone: "She loved well". 

I just want to put it out there that I'm doing a lot, but at the end of the day, what I really want is to love. To love God, my family and the people I'm with. So when I'm talking really fast and when I tell you have a new idea for a website or a new book idea, just know I'm on my way over here, learning to love. 

You can remind me of what really matters if you want, but I promise my soul will bring me back to it. Remember to love. Love is the point.

And this is how I'm doing it, in this messy, "me" way. 

If you're feeling sloppy and slow, like you know where you want to go but you're so far away, there's grace for you too. God's not in a hurry so let's not be either. 

Let's just keep looking at Jesus, talking to him, and getting his feedback on this life. He's so kind, encouraging and gentle. He's not going to rub your nose in your failure. And neither will I. 

Let's be nice to each other as we figure it out. 

Hospitality and the Ministry of Stuff

I grew up with a Mom who lived a humble hospitality. Holidays were acknowledged but without fanfare. Tasteful decorations indicated to visitors we knew which season it was, but no one thought we were trying to get into the home show. 

My folks were a conservative bunch. Generous with the least of these, our resources were not meant to stop with us. I experienced this philanthropic value throughout my childhood, although it was never clearly stated, and for many years resented how my parents chose to spend their money. It was not on extras for us. 

In college though, I took up the Poverty Equals Christianity banner and carried my family's history as a badge of pride. I took care to minimize my own possessions, secretly believing there was a special place in heaven for those who could cram all their belongings into only one vehicle. Annual trips to Salvation Army to purge the closet were my pilgrimage to the Mecca of Light Living.

Then I got married. My mother-in-law is a misplaced southern belle who likes pretty things. Her frequent visits to home decor sales were a pilgrimage of her own. 

The first three years we were married, she brought poinsettias, wreaths or other home furnishings to help me make our apartment a home. I did my best with what she offered, but I told her I just didn't do much decorating. I'm friendly; my hospitality is in my personality, I thought. 

That was, until a vase of flowers changed my mind.

This year we started Second Sunday Community Meals at church. Everyone brings something, and we all crunch together at sprawling round tables to eat. It's rowdy and delightful. 

One day my friend Emma skipped bringing food and brought flowers instead. She tucked tiny buds into vases and stowed them in the center of each table. The room transformed.

That was the day I realized that stuff isn't bad. Furnishings and decor in a room create the ambience: an environment of austerity and sucking in your gut, or a habitat of relaxed homecoming. 

The flowers were a welcome sign that day. A symbol to say, "We want you here so don't pack up and leave so quickly."

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This year, all the Christmas decorations made it out of the attic. The Nativity scene. The tasseled red table runner. The  centerpiece I meant to create last year but never got around to it. Even the silly stuffed Santa doing a handstand. And this year, it looked like Christmas at the Siders' House. 

But it's not just things for things' sake. It's the Ministry of Stuff, the environment I create to welcome others into my life. It says "We want you here, and we made this place nice because you matter to us." 

Emma didn't know she taught me this lesson. She didn't know because this is just a value she intuitively gets. She doesn't say it out loud, but it's in her life. And I want it in mine. 

But I bet if Jesus had a house down here, he'd hang a pictures on the walls and a wreath on the door. Maybe a star on the tree. Candles would warm the corners with flickering fragrance. Hot cocoa in hand, we would all feel snug and welcome, knowing we're right where we belong. 

The Essential Implications of Plant Survival

I know they meant well, but it was a sad day. It was the day my co-workers got me a plant for a wedding present. It was a lovely plant, which would make most normal people happy. But for a serial plant killer – not on purpose, okay – the more beautiful the plant, the more tragic its imminent death.

I’m sure it was not a cheap gift. The heavy, blue ceramic bowl was stuffed with crumbly earth, dark and moist, and from the center, the plant sprung up, green leafy vines draped gently over the planter bowl and hung like graceful, ballerina hands beneath it. This was going to be a real tragedy indeed.

The wedding plant, circa 2012

Sweet Southern belle that I am, I smiled politely. “Thank you so much. It’s really beautiful,” I twanged, muzzling the real thoughts, something about how disappointed I was that after two years they didn’t know me better. I mean, really, I’m getting married, and here are my friends, setting me up for failure. What does this plant supposed to represent anyway? Does it signify my marriage, its tiny, fragile roots our first years together? I hate these plant analogies. Make it stop. Please don’t let this peace lily ruin my marriage. [Hyperventilating.]

So instead of muttering something about the underlying implications of passing on such a wedding gift to a notorious plant neglecter, I thought to myself of ways Josh and I could save the plant, or mostly how he could save it, since he might have a green thumb, or at least the peace lily in his living room hadn’t committed suicide or withered of malnutrition.

Later that week, or something close to that, the plant moved in with Josh. I can’t really remember when, but I’m clear on the part where I was eager to abdicate responsibility. Especially if our marriage depended on it. Wait, that sounds bad.

The green lily in the blue ceramic bowl took root in Josh’s living room window until we got our own place downstairs in the same apartment building. And then the lily moved around until we could find just the right spot to catch the sun once or twice a day. We added three bamboo sticks and our foliage collection was complete: two peace lilies and three bamboo, pointing toward the ceiling out of an inch of water.

A plant killer only needs time to do her dirty work. And time we have. Four years later, we just said goodbye to the last yellowed and soggy bamboo shoot. The last of his siblings. It was a little sad, but we were prepared. We had four years to ready ourselves for that day. I don’t know what happened to Josh’s lily, but I couldn’t find it in this house if my life depended on it. But somehow, the peace lily the girls at the office gave me in May four years ago is still clipping along. It only gets a few days of sun a month, and mostly I forget it’s tucked in the guest room under the west window. Leaves yellow, crinkle and fall off, but that thing just hangs on. And sometimes I go and feel bad for it and impressed with its tenacity, and I give it a little water and congratulate it for its perseverance in the face of such persistent trial.

Now I know you’re trying to make an analogy to our marriage, that even though Josh and I have been through our share of harrowing experiences, and even sometimes forget to water our new relationship with nice notes and date nights, we still hang in there and there’s life and greenery to prove it. But I think that’s a stretch. And if I ever kill this plant, well that analogy stuff has got to stop right away. I think it’s best we start now.

But I think I am going to go water it, just in case.

Finally, a use for Patience

I’ve thoroughly disliked Patience for a long time. We've simply not had much in common. The main reason for this that I can tell is that I am not patient. And Patience is.

While Patience can sit nicely at the stoplight, I am quickly turning right to avoid it, zipping through a parking lot in hopes of conserving 10 seconds. And to avoid sitting still. It’s called efficiency. Trust me.

Photo credit: Wikipedia

While Patience can listen to the same story from the same person for the third time this month, I laugh and say, “Oh yea, you told me about that one.” Just helping them save face, you know.

I remember distinctly becoming infuriated at this so-called virtue, this slow, meandering lifestyle where one is never in a rush, never so passionate about something that one must completely by-pass all conversations and shout at slow, simple drivers in an effort to be somewhere, somewhere else. What use is there for Patience if I cannot get what I want, is more or less the thought that I thought that day. And that was pretty much my attitude about the whole thing.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am not Type A. I am not terribly goal-oriented, not in an aggressive sense anyway. I can actually sit on my couch doing absolutely nothing but thinking and looking around at nature from the living room window. And I feel great about it. I can do this for about 30 minutes or so until guilt sinks in or I begin to wonder about hits on my blog. But when I want something, when something just needs to happen, look out world.

This week I’ve decided to intentionally and aggressively target my worst enemy, the arch-nemesis of my entire existence: anxiety. Until my early twenties, I had no idea that I was walking around with the symptoms of a very nasty case of anxiety: the ever-present pit in the middle of my stomach, the surge of adrenaline in social situations, the feeling that there is something very invisible and very heavy laying on my chest when I wake up in the morning. All the signs, and yet all the signature oblivion of someone who is not ready to deal with her junk.

Over the years, with prayer and counseling and lots of other stuff that required tears and looking into the inner depths, I’ve gotten significant relief from this monster. And yet it looms, making decisions for me, motivating awkwardly rushed conversations as I panic about how I should be somewhere that I’m not. Being a people person does not help. I feel every conversation is important; learning to prioritize them has been a true miracle.

But one night recently, in the throes of developing my latest attack strategy on anxiety, something occurred to me. Anxiety is often motivated by impatience. And impatience is motivated by selfishness.

Stop everything.

It’s true. Impatience is often selfishness. It’s my own agenda that I’m putting before everyone else’s. It has put me in situations where, for example, I wait until the last minute to do something out of prioritizing a more desirable activity, and suddenly I am forced to rush. The hurrying brings inevitable fear, and a heightened irritability at anything or anyone that gets in my way. In anxiety, there is no room for error. No room for slow traffic or a person who needs to talk. Just get out of my way - I got somewhere to be. So selfishness equals impatience which somehow – I don’t understand emotion math – results in anxiety. 

So there you have it, my latest ah-ha moment. Patience and I are discussing the terms of our relatively new friendship. I am actively working to think and move more slowly, to give myself more time when taking on a task, to recognize when I am starting to feel anxious and adjust my breath and my approach to the situation. I may not be a master of my environment, but I can be a master of myself. Everyone knows this, but it takes so much discipline to live this way. It takes Patience.

The best part about this new friendship, though, is that I very much like my patient, slow self. I like the speed of my thoughts and the pace of my life. I like the fact that I can actually give people the invaluable experience of being heard. And after all, being heard is what we all want. So Patience and I, although I am quite clumsy, are now walking together. You should see the fruit of this when you talk to me and hopefully in other relevant situations. If you don't, please point it out. And if you do, I will try to slow down and, patiently, hear you. 

When it starts to feel real

There’s a funny feeling walking through a brand, new rite of passage. Even though high school, college and grad school, marriage and and parenting were all part of the expected, or at least the hoped-for, there was an odd sensation walking across the stage or back down that aisle.

In May 2000, I tossed my black, square cap and tassel as high as I could. I was done with high school forever. I would not miss it. Ever. On to more school, this time my choice. Sort of. In reality, I fought my way through college, never quite feeling secure in a major, wanting always to be somewhere else on the other side of the ocean. 

But in 2005, it happened again. Black stilettos peeked out beneath the black muumuu they call a graduation gown. Up and across a new stage, I was handed another diploma case; smiles and handshakes, and it was over. Five war-torn years of good and bad choices and boys I mostly regretted and living, laughing and battling with a close friend who got married and all the happiness and grief I felt losing her. But I was finished. It was finished.

Then marriage. I didn’t see this one coming, not then, not him. Not Joshua Siders. Not in Manhattan, Kansas. I didn’t know I’d met my match at that coffee shop round table in the fall of 2006. But a year and a half later, I in pink and he in black, danced down a bright, afternoon aisle to the hurrahs and cheers of everyone we loved.

On a day in May, four years ago. 

But every time I passed into the new season, I felt that strange feeling. There was accomplishment, a box checked, new windows and doors opening in front of me. Options, opportunities, a new resume. And the nagging, enormous feeling that it all wasn’t real. Not an out of body experience. Just something I could never quite grasp. Like the times I tried to think about eternity or when I looked up at the black, night sky with stars peering through and thought, “The God who made all that made me”. Cue the internal explosion. 

It just never quite made sense. Josh will tell you I spent at least the first year staring at him with squinted eyes. “We’re married,” I wondered aloud in awe. Like I was trying to hug a redwood of an idea with the arms of my mind. Every time the thought was huge, and I, so very small. “I’m done with high school.” “I’m done with college.” “We’re married.” Over and over, maybe not daily, but it struck me often. And whenever it did, I whispered to him in our hunched-over, Caribbean-hued apartment downtown, whispered we were married. As if not to shock him too much. And he was never quite as surprised as I was.

Then came a day when I didn’t need to tell myself any longer. When the truth of the reality of new beginning folded itself into the fabric of existence, and it’s okay now, okay to be graduated and married, okay to own a house, bear children.

Us last week, celebrating four years.

The other morning I woke up and looked at Josh, and I thought about the days and weeks where we did just this, woke up next to one another, and I squinted and quietly revealed to him we had, in fact, gotten hitched. Inevitably, I was shocked; he was not.

This morning, however, I did not say that. There’s no need to anymore. The stage of knowing what is and soaking up its goodness is upon me. This is the longed-for stage of comfort and beauty, two wines in the cellar, growing aged and fine together. Finally, I know where we are, I know who we are.

So I looked over at him with my chopped off mess of hair and my nose ring and all the changes we’ve made together, and I said, “I like that I can be myself around you. I appreciate that.”

Married to the job

I like my husband. He's attractive. Dresses great. He's hilarious, and he gets my jokes. He's incredibly smart, an unbelievably intuitive partner and parent. He's insightful, good with people, takes care of the money (thank God!), and he loves God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit (and knows the difference between them all. And that's not just a given, ok?)

I benefit so much from being around him, soaking up all that he is, from having him for a best friend.

But there's one tiny problem. We never have anything to talk about. Unless you count church. Church goers. Church not-yet-goers. Church used-to-goers. People who like us this week. People who don't like us this week. People who will probably not like us next week. We talk about the church plant. Church policies. Church finances and meetings and who-what-when-where churchy stuff. Yup, that's pretty much all we talk about. We also talk about our son because he's hilarious and parenting is extremely rewarding/challenging. Sure, I squeeze in convo about adoption and my work and what my friends are up to. But these two things take up our lives. I think they're supposed to, but I didn't know what I was getting myself into, okay?

See how happy we were. This may have been due to the fact that we had other things to talk about. We're this happy most of the time, but it's just a bit more complicated now. 

I really should've seen this coming. I was in full-time ministry for a year after college before I decided it was definitely not for me and went into the "secular" universe so I wouldn't have to be a "professional Christian", which is what ministry felt like to me. It was this all-encompassing life of a minister that did me in. I never knew when I was working. In ministry, you make friends with the people you are reaching. It's wonderful. And terrible. They're your friends and dinner party pals, but you are also correcting and guiding and encouraging and praying with and for them. So confusing for a girl with poor boundaries. [That was me, in case that wasn't clear.]
Going further back: I've been a ministry volunteer in some fashion since 1999. That June, Nate Severson and Hillcrest Covenant Church took a chance on me as a youth ministry leader. I was a flaky 17-year old, fresh out of the pages of Reviving Ophelia, determined to start a teenage revolution and prevent the young girls of America from getting their souls sucked out by Cosmo and false body image expectations and bad boyfriends. But I didn't even come every Sunday. My communication skills were terrible. Some of the parents thought me and my nose ring were a bad influence. Maybe they knew that sometimes I got drunk the night before church and had to come lead a small group the next day. 

I had so much left undone in my own soul. God bless Nate though. I think youth ministry and those sweet awkward tweens who adored me, I think they saved my life.


Fast forward 11 years and the man I married, this wonderful, bearded man with deep, squinty eyes and a sharp theologically-bent intellect, this man took a job as a pastor.

He still looks at me like this.

It started small. As in, our influence was small. Everyone looked at us sideways to see what we were up to. They were right. We were a bit aggressive at first, despite our best efforts at humility. But it wasn't long before our impact grew, before we became trusted, sought-out. But with growing influence comes more suspicion, more accusation. And before we knew it, the people who we loved so much were hanging out with people who don't love them as much, and these people made decisions which "will self-destruct in five seconds". Or five years. But either way, it's so painful to watch. Like letting your teenage daughter go out with that loser guy and you can't prevent it because she's doing it behind your back anyway, and you just have to let her fail, but you pray the fall will be light and the pain not-that-much, and that she'll be back soon.


This is what pastoring is like all the time. The love you feel for all these people who sit on our couch and cook lunch in our kitchen on Sunday afternoon and live in our basement and cry into the nook of our shoulders - it's crazy. It just takes over your life. Takes over our life. 

So you can imagine. I don't even do this for pay. I'm just married into it. But the pain hits me too. When people leave, when they misunderstand our intentions, when we mess up and overreact, and they stay mad and we can't convince them how sorry we are, that'll just mess wreck my body and sleep for days if I let it. If I let it. It's a choice, I know, but I'm such a rookie at this. 


Why do I do it then? I mean, other than the fact that it's my husband's job. It's such a good question. It's because we can't do anything else. It's a calling. A big, huge magnet in the sky with all the gravitational pull of heaven behind it. It's excruciating at times. But I know on the worst days when we've just lost someone else so dear to their own decision that takes them out of our lives for now, I know that Jesus knows exactly how we feel. He just sits there with us and says, "Yea, I know what you mean. It hurts so bad, doesn't it? But this isn't the end of the story. You still have me. And I love you." Being loved and understood is so nice. So necessary to keep going.

We still have each other, Babe.

And on those oh-so-sad, lonely days (that seem much more frequent now), Josh and I often say to each other , "Babe, at least I've got you. We've still got each other," just to remind ourselves that the being misunderstood part isn't the end of the story, that we have a few people who love us well, who we know won't bail. We have our adorable John and that jumpy puppy in the backyard. We have a house-full of people who will listen to our rants and pray for us. We have our families who have loved us for years and years, especially our parents who held strong when we were so unlovable and mean. Now we know what it's like. Yea, Mom and Dad - we get it now.


But just so you know, I'm not going to quit this thing. Certainly not my partnership with my husband, but not even this church gig, this nights and weekends, sidecar business I have going when I get done with my 40-hour a week paycheck. (And it's a calling too.) But I'm not going anywhere. I have a faithful God and a loyal, tenacious husband and with these two around, our roots are going down, down, down into love. Into Love. Into the place where I can move out of running on fumes and live and love with leftovers to spare, the good-tasting kind, with a smile that I mean. No matter what they say, no matter who stays or goes, no matter what the offering was that week, no matter how many seats are filled. That's the kind of love I'm burrowing into. It's all I got.

Yes, I met my match.

My favorite for life.

[Photo credit is the absolutely brilliant and gorgeous, Sarah Tafoya Howell. Check out her gallery of beautiful people at saratafoya.com.] 

Another angry sandwich maker

I'm a recovering workaholic, a Martha in remission. 

A month ago, the Martha symptoms were fully active. Rushing around from obligation to obligation, compulsively checking my phone, email, text, social networking. Saying "yes" when I should've say "no". Working at home, working at work. And quickly, I became resentful. Angry.

Then I rehearsed all the work I do. And I stacked it up next to everyone else's work. Some people beat me, but I usually won. I'm busy. I'm a mom and a social worker and a pastor's wife, a friend and roommate and some other stuff. So I can win. But win what? What a sorry victory.

That's when I am all out Martha from that story of Jesus' two friends. The story goes that one afternoon when Jesus was visiting Mary and Martha, the ladies went separate ways. Martha went to the kitchen to prepare food for the crew. Mary stayed with Jesus. She really liked Him. She wasn't really thinking about whether or not He needed something to eat. She just didn't want to miss anything He said. She plunked herself right down near his toes and didn't move. Martha muttered to herself as she slaps lunchmeat on sandwich bread, a bitter dinner from a grumbling heart.  Accusing her sister of laziness, she clanks around hoping to be noticed. And then she can't take it anymore. 

 

 "Jesus, when are you going to tell Mary to come help me?"

And do you know what Jesus says? It's not even fair. 

"“Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, 42but only one thing is needed.^f Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”

Worried about many things? Yea, Jesus. I am worried about many things. Do you want to know why? Because no one else will worry about them. Who is going to organize the children's ministry, start women's small groups, or cook the new mother's meals? Who is going to visit all the sick people in the hospital? Who is going to encourage my husband and raise my son? Who is going to do my laundry and clean my bathroom? You're right. I am worried about many things. But if I don't do this stuff, who will? It has to get done.

Hear the anger. It's a stacking game, a competition. I have to stay ahead of all the other busy people, prove my worth by eliminating white space in my schedule. Rest is not a legitimate way to spend time. People become a means to an end. No more motivated by love, rest and creativity, I struggle along in survival mode, sleep-deprived and wondering why I signed up for this life I've got.

Then comes the explosion. The anger that can't be contained because no one notices how dry and tired and angry I am, how taken for granted, how busy and important and overlooked I am. No one can see. No one respects me. And I hate them all for it.

Then comes the wrestling with God, the illness because it literally makes me sick (most of the time) out of sheer exhaustion. I dig out The Way of the Heart. I remember the value of prayer, silence and solitude. I confront the fact that my biggest enemy is me. That I am afraid to say "no" because I absolutely hate that look of disappointment in your eyes when I can't do something you think you need me to do. I hate the fact that I can still be manipulated and controlled by fear, and that I try to use shame to control others.

And I go back to Love. I remember Him, that He does not need all my work. He did not create me for labor but for friendship, for Love. Breathing resumes.

Then come apologies. The sincere "I'm sorrys" to God, to the people my anger stepped on. The journal-etched plans to never do this again. The confession to my women's group that I should have made two weeks ago when things really started to get bad.

And gentleness and slowness return for a while. Because at the end of the day, I'm just a girl. With relative comparison to eternity, 30 years makes me young, a novice at kindness and living patiently, in love, with grace and gentleness. The disparity between where I am and where I want to be is painful. But Jesus is gentle with me and He wants me to be gentle with myself too. And then I can be gentle with the other worn out souls around.

Some day soon I know I won't fight it. I'll accept that I'm just a baby at this life thing, a tiny helpless baby just riding along, secured on the broad shoulders of Papa God. Held far above chaos and pain, much safer than I realize, and so so so LOVED. And then I can just lean back and enjoy the ride. 

[Photo courtesy of Rose Wheat Photography]