My other mother

When I first got to know Todd back when we were 18 and freshmen in college, his youngest brother was 8.  I met his family while he was still on a mission in Norway and I was in college. We got married not long after he got back, and I was integrated into his large and loving family immediately.  Since most of his siblings were still at home, I felt a kinship, a sibling familiarity, and instinctively and naturally referred to my in-laws as mom and dad, just as all my new “brothers” and “sisters” did.

And that’s how it’s been for over 24 years.  She’s simply been my other mother.  I’m indebted to her for so much of my learning since, and I’m beyond grateful for her example and mentorship.  So many of her habits have become mine over the years; I just never recognized where they’d originated until I began to take stock a few years back.  I’m surprised that her ways now feel so embedded in me, so natural.  And yet I think they’ve come from years and years of watching her up close, from being in her company, from knowing her family.

I believe there’s an element of truth to the adage that we tend to marry those who resemble our opposite-sex parent.  Todd is a lot like my dad in that he likes to work with his hands and build, that he’s affectionate, is an excellent navigator, splurges on eating out and sodas, loves to fish, and just likes spending time with his family.  Likewise, I feel like I’ve become a lot like his mom.   I just think she’s nailed a few things and I feel lucky to have been able to spend so much time with her over the years as she’s tutored me.  Not that my mom was a slacker, it’s completely ingrained in me to write thank you notes, to remember birthdays, to buy gifts, to spend time with girlfriends, to make holidays special, to have nice Sunday dinners, to use white serving dishes. But every woman has her own personality and ways of doing things, so it’s been a blessing to have both women as teachers.

Both taught me to re-use my plastic ziplock bags and to grocery shop early in the morning.  Both taught me how to make a tight bed and to turn down the covers so it looks inviting, to welcome company warmly and hospitably.  Both taught me the importance of dinnertime and cooking from scratch.  And how to pack a hearty picnic.

But I never knew about making bread until Todd and I were married and we started making pizza on Friday nights.  I was too unfamiliar and apprehensive about yeast in those days, so Todd did the crust. We’d always ordered Domino’s growing up; I guess I never knew you could make it at home.  Todd’s mom taught me about warm water and cinnamon rolls and how sticky the dough needs to be.  She taught me about French bread and how to turn it a quarter turn and to use the heels of our hands so it wouldn’t get wrapped up in our fingers.

I had no idea about camping.  I’d been twice before I got married: once with a friend when I was in 7th grade and again as a college student with our cousins.  But Todd’s family camped everywhere and so he introduced me to a whole new world.  We began as soon as we got married and I fell in love with sleeping in a tent and cooking outside.  There’s nothing I’d rather do in the world than go camping.  I remember Todd’s mom telling me how she and Jerry were at a dance in college and ended up going to the canyon to have a campfire instead.  She set the precedence and I’m so grateful; I’d much rather wear jeans and sit in a camp chair than stuff myself into a fancy dress and make small talk holding red punch any day.  Her love of the outdoors is contagious and inspiring, and Todd and I remind ourselves a lot of his parents as we have taken the reins and led our own family on many nature expeditions.

I’d never heard of a tin foil dinner in my life until we were in vet school.  Todd’s mom used to pack them and her family to the lake or park where they’d have dinner and a chance to explore.  We’ve followed suit and have gone on many similar outings, making tin foil dinners the same as she always did: hamburger, potatoes, carrots, onions, Lipton onion soup mix and cream of something soup.  I’ve seen others, but I prefer hers and always go back to the original.  (She also taught me bring a wet washcloth in a baggie; I’m sure most people my age just bring store-bought wipes, but I love—and prefer—her way, so old-school and natural.)

Both moms showed us they cared for their children by making home-cooked meals, but I didn’t realize that’s what it meant until his mom pointed it out.  I must’ve been complaining about cooking at some point and she told me that we serve our families by cooking for them.  I’ve never looked at making dinner in the same way since.  And so maybe that’s why it’s easy for me to want to do it.  Even though I still don’t love cooking, I do love serving people I care about—whether it’s my own family or other families.  She taught me to see the joy in everyday tasks and to recognize how meaningful such seemingly little acts are.

I love talking with other women so much, and of course I appreciate quiet times with my two moms, listening to stories about earlier times, from their growing up years, about their parents.  They help connect me and Todd to our grandparents and other family members, and I’m so glad for the glimpses into the past they’ve both shared.  Hearing their memories has inspired me to talk about my own childhood more and to encourage Todd to do the same.

We’ve never lived near Todd’s parents.  But I don’t think it would be that different if we did (except it would be fun to spend more time together of course).  They have always been the kind to respect our privacy, to show confidence in us by staying unobtrusive.  They aren’t the meddling type and have always made us feel like we were capable in handling our own lives. Todd’s of course asked for their thoughts when we’ve had decisions to make, and I know they’ve had their opinions, but they’ve been gracious and kind as they allow us to learn by our own experience.  How wise and strengthening this has been.

Likewise, she’s been very respectful of Todd’s other siblings.  I don’t hear her gossip, and she remains vague, allowing others both in and out of her family to figure things out on their own and to share their own news.  But she petitions us to pray for one another and lets us know if someone needs some extra care.  She is always excited for her family’s milestones, and nothing thrills her more than than when someone’s house has sold or when one of her kids gets a new job or a grandkid is going on a mission. I love how she balances knowing what’s going on in our lives without betraying confidences or interfering.  

I learned the importance of cleanliness and order early on in life, and so I was grateful to be able to continue learning from Todd’s mom.  She has always kept a tidy house, beds made, dishes done.  But I've never felt uptight in her homes; they've always felt lived in and tranquil.

She's a natural in the kitchen.  I've always loved her trays of spices (with the labels on the lids of the jars so you can read what they are), as well as her other tins with bigger cooking implements in them like baking soda and salt, all in little cake-pan “drawers.”  Both moms have loads of recipe books, and for some reason I’m drawn to them whenever I visit either house.  I have loved the ones they’ve shared with me over the years, and they’re my stand-bys even today.  Lemon bars, French bread… I’ve tried others and I go back.

I love how hard-working these two women are.  My mom worked in a bank full-time as I was growing up; Todd’s mom stayed home with her six kids for a good portion of their early years until she worked in a pre-school.  They’ve shown me how to juggle responsibilities, to keep up with the basics, to get up early, to make the most of the day.  I can see why my mom fell asleep waiting for her nails to dry at 9 at night, and I can see why Todd’s parents still turn in around 10.  Their days are full and productive.  And yet I love how they can rest by watching a show or playing a game at the end of the day.  By seeing her leave some things for tomorrow, I have learned that it’s more important to re-charge, to be with my husband, to relax for a bit instead of running myself ragged getting everything done.  I’ve learned there is no such thing anyway.  And that tomorrow will be another chance.

Neither of our families were rich from a purely financial standpoint.  But both taught me that we could still maintain a nice home, that we could make a rented apartment, a fixer-upper, or a 1930s fishing resort look its best with some attention.  They showed me how a little paint could transform a wall, how planting flowers and hanging beautiful pictures could make any place feel a little more like home.  I love that even when Todd’s parents were on their mission in Omaha, they decorated their little apartment with personal furnishings and decorations that made it feel like home.  Her yard’s always been beautiful, full of flowers and lush plantings and hanging baskets, inviting and homey.

They showed me that vacations don’t need to be fancy either.  Both Todd and I grew up taking road trips to see family; that was about the extent of our summer vacations.  We were happy with our traditions, and we didn’t need anything more.  I learned recently how valuable family trips are even to adults as they reflect on those memories, and so I’m grateful our families invested in them, that they spent the money and made the effort to help us know our relatives.

I love that Todd’s mom, although frugal, recognizes there’s a time to spend.  Whenever we visit them she takes the girls and me into town for lunch and a shopping trip.  She might think nothing of a little Dairy Queen lunch, but it is a joy for us girls, a tradition we cherish with grandma.  They helped Todd out that first year of college by letting him live in the dorms and paying for a meal plan even though they still had five other kids at home to care for.  They generously bought a plane ticket for me to fly from San Diego to Chicago so we could see each other once he got home from his mission, a huge surprise for me. I still reflect back on that gift and can’t get over their generosity.  They also let us live with them for a month our first Christmas in vet school; I don’t think we realized how hard it was at that point for them to get the resort business up and running, but they were so generous and kind and never made us feel unwelcome.  I have no idea how she did it, but she managed to create a magical holiday for us even though she was so busy with working in town and running their new business.

I’ll always be a bit envious of her creativity and resourcefulness.  She just has a knack for knowing how to do almost everything.  I’ve watched her teach the girls crafts and to sew; I’ve admired her projects and artwork, especially her stained glass that she learned to do in her later years.  I love her confidence as she works and how she encourages her granddaughters to dig through her supplies and to create their own masterpieces.  She’s that same way in the kitchen, always up for trying a new recipe.  I love how she cans and preserves food, grows a garden, and keeps her freezers stocked.

I remember as a brand new mom asking her for advice.  She refused to detail how to mother; she simply said to love them and be consistent.  That has stuck with me over the years, and I always go back to it when I’m in a quandary as to how to proceed.  I would’ve liked more to go on, but it really has sufficed for the most part.

Same when I asked her if she thought I should go to work when we were struggling to know how to do vet school.  She wouldn’t say one way or another, just that sometimes moms had to work.  I also asked her how to know what to study in college, and she said to go with our talents, what comes naturally to us.  I’ve passed on that advice to my own kids as they’ve started to have similar questions.

I love how unpretentious she is, so down to earth and very approachable.  That very first time I met her, she swept me into a bear hug, a girl she didn’t even know and who was taking her son away from her!  She welcomed me unconditionally into her heart right from the beginning, and I know she’s done the same with all of her kids’ spouses.  I felt comfortable with her immediately. I love how she doesn’t need to wear fancy clothes and jewels, she’s comfortable in her jeans and washable shirts when she’s working around the house and in her yard.  She looks beautiful when she’s dressed up, but I sense she feels most comfortable in her play clothes.

She continues to teach all of us the importance of spending time together, always up for a game with grandkids, a boat ride with grandpa or an outing to the lake.  Even as they advance in years, they’re still camping, taking day trips, visiting new cities for overnighters, and traveling to see their kids across the country.  I love that she’ll watch movies with us when we visit, always eager to make us all popcorn (which I also learned from her how to make on the stove). Even recently, as we were camping in the Ozarks, she told our 17 year old daughter to go visit with her cousins; your book can wait, family is more important. She definitely lives by that mantra, as I’ve watched her swing on the front porch with one of her sons, take a little walk with grandpa, or read stories with the grandkids.  She’s always made time for her family, and her example has helped me slow down and remember to make people a priority, to choose relationships above all else.

Friends have always asked where our kids get their pretty blue eyes, and I simply tell them from their grandmas.  I’ve always known my own mom has beautiful eyes, but I think my other mom’s are beautiful as well.  Her blue eyes sparkle and dance, even behind glasses, with enthusiasm for life, with love for her family, and with wisdom and confidence that comes from knowing who she is and what really matters.  I have loved moments when I’ve seen them glisten, when we’re sharing a tender moment, especially when she’s talking about one of her kids or grandkids.  Just looking in her eyes I know where her heart is; and above all, she’s taught me in a million different ways that it belongs to God and her family. I am forever blessed—and changed—as an honorary part of her family and to have her as another mother. 

Not exactly stress

Just hanging out by the campfire this past week, my 17 year old daughter asked what she could do to not be stressed like I was when I was a young mom.  I think the question stemmed from some old pictures I’d found from her toddler days that I’d shown her earlier in the week.  Maybe still haunting her.  (Who are we kidding? They still haunt me.  And I’d be super embarrassed if any of our friends found them, so I tucked them back in their vintage suitcase and put the little basket back on top for safekeeping.)

As I started to answer her, I tripped over my words and couldn’t succinctly gather my thoughts.  How to sum up how not to be stressed out mom?  And yet I knew instinctively she wasn’t asking for a collage of mothering advice, just a simple how to avoid the inevitable craziness of life with young kids.

Going back… after four years of vet school in Illinois, my husband and I moved to Montana with our 2 and 4 year old boys and immediately became pregnant with our daughter. Five kids in eight years. Dogs. A fixer-upper 1700 square foot house from the 70s. A garden and raspberry patch. A third acre lot needing constant weeding and mowing. Projects inside and out always at some stage of progress. A husband who was on-call, gone 8-6:30 and worked a lot of Saturdays, helped out in the bishopric, and who hunted and fished often.  No relatives within 600 miles.  Nothing out of the ordinary, just a regular everyday family in my mind.  But it was messy.  And to be honest, nothing’s really changed all that much.  Except the kids have grown up and can help a little more.  We’re working on yet another fixer-upper, we still have more projects than daylight along with lots of animals, and life is still pretty ordinary as I see it.

So as I reminisced with Todd later on our drive down the mountain, I asked what we could’ve changed, what could’ve helped relieve some of our/my stress in our younger days.  Without much fanfare or commentary, he reminded me of my old self and offered the sage advice, Don’t compare yourself to other moms.  So wise, probably the best advice I can think of as I look back on my younger mom days. Maybe it was because I didn’t have a stay-at-home model to refer to, so I looked laterally to other moms around me. I had good intentions, I took my role seriously and I wanted to do a good job.

In my young mind I thought being that kind of mom meant things like making Easter cookies using scripture verses, the kind that turn hollow (empty) after sitting in a warm oven (tomb) overnight and making paper bunny boxes just a couple of weeks after our April baby was born and I was getting ready for a trip to see my mom with the three kids.  So dumb.  I did the elf like an idiot.  We signed up for sports and I trailed everyone everywhere.  I forced instruments.  I remember doing bean jars, rewarding good behavior with a bean every now and then.  When our daughter was super young I’d insist on choosing her clothes and doing her hair. Good grief. 

We eventually bowed out of some activities of course.  And I quit thinking Family Home Evening had to follow a certain format.  We relaxed about how to share our values with our kids and encouraged them to think for themselves. I let the kids choose any clothes they wanted and I don’t know if I’ve ever braided my girls’ hair.  I quit micromanaging their music practice, and I’ve never been on parent portals or websites to check grades. All that alleviated a lot of potential stress, and it all felt very right for us to live like that.

I don’t remember when it started to click though, maybe it was a book?  But it wasn’t long before I started to recognize that by raising our family in a way that felt natural and instinctive to us, we would feel more settled and at ease than if we were constantly fighting against our personalities and energy levels and circumstances. That truth resonated with me and I started to embrace my own style regardless of what it looked like to others.  Stress, I’ve realized, stems from conflict, from trying to be something we’re not. So often it's self-induced. Peace, on the other hand, comes when we’re true to who we are.  So I had to learn to choose between what I assumed were expectations and what I came to trust as my own instincts. So while the messes and general chaos lingered, I began to feel settled as I embraced my natural inclinations as a mom.

Todd and I talked about what the days looked like years ago.  We had a lot of people over.  Families for dinner, kids to play.  We intentionally made some of our messes, and some were just the result of letting them learn and explore.  I’d put blue food coloring in the bath water so it would look like the ocean.  I let them finger paint with pudding and shaving cream.  I let them make as much of their own food as possible. And I certainly let them feed themselves from about the minute they could. I insisted on sugar cookies for every appropriate holiday. I let them experiment in the kitchen and sit on the counter while I made bread, making them flour and water piles. I encouraged them to create with mud and raw rice and to take toys and clothes outside to play Marketplace.  I taught them how to build forts and thought it’d be fun to make a zoo using all the trains and animals we had. And water.  I purposefully bought toys with lots of pieces and fodder for imagining.

We went places together.  I was never the kind of mom to save errands for when dad got home.  The last thing I wanted to do with my alone time was shop for groceries.  So I took them with me everywhere I went.  Costco, Walmart, the library, garage sales.  In the summer we almost always packed our lunches and snacks and blankets and headed to the park by about 10.  We went to the splash park, the wading pool, the zoo, story times.  I wanted the kids to experience real life by coming shopping with me and on errands, and I wanted them to be outside and to see the world.

And yet I cried myself to sleep many nights from exhaustion.  And from feeling so bad about yelling at them, for getting frustrated, for not being the calm and sweet and tidy mom that I so badly wanted to be.  I cried because I felt all alone with no family around and with Todd gone so much.  I felt resentful that we had dogs and an ugly old house and so much work.  I specifically remember crying to my mom when we stayed with her just three weeks after my daughter was born.  I felt so ashamed for having a third child.  I was so embarrassed by how inept I was, how prideful I’d been to think I could handle another on top of two busy boys.  I have no idea if other moms cry about being a mom; maybe I’m just an idiot.  When I was still so new, I assumed everyone else had it figured out and had somehow found a way to do it all.  And be clean about it.  It sure looked like it from my vantage point.  And I was flailing and failing.

But, looking back, I don’t label it as stress.  I’d categorize it all more as just the natural by-product of wanting them to live fully. Not only was there so much laundry, there were dog accidents and endless streams of dishes and papers and accidents and creative projects.  We’ve always cooked from scratch, and so there were always pots and bowls and utensils and foods out.  Hardly a time when all the dishes fit neatly into the dishwasher without remainders. We’ve always let the kids do as much on their own as possible, which contributes immensely to the work of a mom, rarely making life easier.  The days were full for sure.  Excursions, outside play, museums, pets, historical sites, nature trails, camping, cooking, reading, play dough, sugar cookies, art projects, dress up.  As enriching and tame as that all sounds, it simply requires work.  To load up the van, to buckle everyone, to remember the food and an extra pair of underwear and shorts or two, sippy cups, to keep track of everyone, to remember sunscreen and bee sting medicine.  To unload it all, to bathe everyone, to wash blankets embedded with dry grass, to carry home the bags and bags of library books, to keep them all straight, to clean up the glitter, to pick up the shredded diapers and wipes all over the yard.  Stress? I don’t know.  Nothing was too heady or too serious, just a bit of everyday work.

As Todd and I remembered our earlier days coming down the mountain road, I told him that I probably wouldn’t change much about how we did things.  I’d know, of course, to ditch the expectations I had for myself and to put on my blinders to how other moms were doing it all. But I’d tackle the work again in a heartbeat.  It’s not that different in some ways even now, and I suppose some people would feel stress about our life if they had to live it.  We’ve continued to encourage the kids to make messes as they create.  We don’t mind metal shavings and scraps of leather and fabric and bits of thread.  Yes, cook—make anything you want. Yes, bring your friends. Yes, take blankets outside and to the drive in.  Yes, hang your hammock.  Yes, bring your dogs.  Yes, make a face mask out of stuff in the kitchen.  Yes, spread your project out on the counter.  Yes, let’s cut and glue and write and build and make popcorn and smoothies and experiment.  Come here, let me show you how the sewing machine works. Help me with dinner. Yes, it was a mess. And it still is. Yes, it was a lot of work. And maybe it still is from an outsider’s perspective. Yes, I still cry occasionally about my inadequacies as a mom.  Yes, I’m embarrassed by how unkempt our house continues to be and how many unfinished projects are constantly in progress.  But yes, it feels natural and real. And like us.  Yes, I’m sure.  I’d do it all mostly all the same all over again.

My philosophy was to let kids be young and to not squelch their curiosity and creativity.  I don’t believe in staying up late cleaning and feeling resentful; we wanted to teach them to help and accept what they could do.  I felt to enjoy the days at the park and the pool; the day will come all too soon when they won’t even want you there.  Sit on the porch with your cute husband and ignore your sink of dishes inside for an hour.  Or the night.  Read piles and piles of books with your kids.  Pay the late fees and the replacement fees. Let them dress up and use markers and knives and have pets.  And while I have absolutely no regrets over dumped-out Lego buckets and grass stains and lost books and lax bedtimes, it’s certainly not the life every mom wants, I get that.  But even though it was messy and looked stressful, looking back, I wouldn’t call it that. I guess I’m just so glad we went with it, that we embraced it, that we were true to what felt right to us.  I suppose I figure messes are rarely permanent, that we can almost always get things back to normal.  For me, nothing made me happier than to see you kids discovering, learning, exploring, building, and creating. And while it made for a some unnecessary work on my part, it felt ok, like an investment, and totally worth it.

But you’re not me, and so maybe this all sounds a bit over-the-top to you.  Your kids will need you to feel at home with yourself.  To feel settled and confident with who you are. Because it helps them feel secure. When we’re ok with who we are, the natural extension is that we allow others—including our kids—to be. And so that’s my answer, sweet Avery.  Be you.  Embrace your style, what feels real.  Teach them to sew and make fun decorations, hug and cuddle and watch old movies and teach them about all sorts of music you love, talk to them about all the causes you’re passionate about and let them help, run with them, and take your dogs, bring them thrift-store shopping and to cute eateries, scout out the vintage clothing stores, go to the drive-in.  Have fun with them in ways that feel natural. There’s no way around it, kids will inevitably do all sorts of things that can make life feel out of control and crazy and your days long and your workload heavy, but you can alleviate extra stress by simply relying on your instincts and trusting your core. And by being your own kind of mom. (But don't be afraid of a less-than perfect house, you will never regret it later on.)

Wondering about the good

Todd and I have spent some time talking about this the past little bit because I’ve felt unsettled about the way a couple of things have played out.  It’s been on my mind, but I set it aside because I decided it was just me being typically Caren and making things weird and complicated.  Until a good friend talked about her struggle with this exact issue during our discussion on Sunday. 

I’ve always heard, learned, studied, been told, and felt that if something seemed good (ie along the lines of serving), it was from God and that was all the criteria we needed for a go-ahead.  So if we feel to call someone out of the blue, to randomly send someone a card, to get in touch with a long-lost friend, or to text an acquaintance, it’s all within the parameters of good and therefore inspired.  And so I’ve tried to follow through, as I think we all do, on ideas and promptings I’ve felt.  But in doing so, I’ve sent notes even when it seems weird or unnecessary.  I’ve texted people who seem just fine.  I’ve called to check in on a friend I was thinking of just to find out all was well.  Which is exactly what my friend was telling us just the other day.  She’s had the same experiences.  And we’re not the only ones. 

With the heightened focus on ministering (serving in meaningful and personal ways those around us) juxtaposed with one of my resolutions this year, stay out of people’s business, I’m befuddled.  To the point that I feel like sitting out an inning or two.  Just to get my bearings and to figure things out.

Because sometimes all I feel is dumb.  Misled.  Like some kind of silly Pollyanna do-gooder.  A little friendship fairy who’s making a fool of herself. A desperate soul in need of something to do with her time.

Believe me, I’m not trying to make work for myself.  I’m never, ever bored.  I love puttering and doing my own thing.  I’m an introvert to the core; I’m happier with a book than crowds. But at the same time I want to extend myself.  As I assume we all do.  I’m like you, I want to love, serve, reach, strengthen, welcome, befriend, listen, and include. I want to be an instrument for sure. But to be honest, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing with the thoughts that run incessantly through my head.

I’ve tried following this admonition, taking it as a fail-proof guide.  But as I think about it even initially, I realize how I could’ve gotten things wrong.  There are certainly more positive thoughts and intentions that stream through a person’s mind in a day than could ever be accomplished in a lifetime.

I think about all the people I’d like to have over, the tiny gifts or treats I could bring to help celebrate a special day or what I could do for a friend going through a rough patch, ladies who could use a fun card in their mail. I wonder who’s lonely and could use a visit, who’s having surgery or a baby or a wedding, who’s moving in or out, and what we can do to help.  In the past I’ve just pounced on a good idea no matter how fleeting. I’ll admit I’ve been hasty, assuming that simply because a good thought came to visit, I was meant to entertain it.

But I love how God wants us to know the scriptures in their entirety, to string them together, rather than relying on a random verse here or there to be our sole admonition.  He reminds us  throughout the scriptures that we need to study things out for ourselves and to expect confirmation in our minds as well as our hearts.  That we shouldn’t run faster than we have strength.  That all things need to be done in wisdom and order.  That we all have different gifts and abilities. That we are all different parts of the body of Christ/the church, that we all have a role to play.  That there is a time and a season.  That we should pray over everything, even our flocks and fields.  That He notices when even a sparrow falls.  That He knows how to give the best gifts. That we should be anxiously engaged in good causes using our own free will.  That we are instruments in His hands.  That our top priorities reside within our families.  Reminders that provide dimension to the random ideas that are strewn about my mind.

It’s obvious that some of them are simply not meant for me to execute.  At least right now.  Foster? Adopt? Go back to school? I acknowledge those thoughts as they run through my head periodically.  And yet I feel nothing compelling me to act on them.  I can’t help but think of the different causes my friends support, the front-and-center roles they play, their powerful leadership and community involvement.  And I can’t help but wonder if maybe I should be doing something similar.  But I know myself and I’m keenly aware that I’m not ready to take on anything of the sort.  It’s easy to recognize my limits and to say no for now to things like that. 

So why can’t I sift through my other good ideas better? Make dinner for a friend who’s having a minor surgery… sure, it wouldn’t be a huge deal.  By all accounts, a good idea.  But necessary? I immediately started to text a friend to see if she wanted to help.  But then I asked Todd what he thought and cancelled the plan.  I realized just because I could see something that could be done, it wasn’t necessarily what needed to be done.  At least not in this case.  I guess I felt that confirmation because the thought never came back, it didn’t persist, I didn’t feel anything other than calm about moving on.  I wonder if I get confused when good ideas come in the form of a behind-the-scenes small act of service that seems to be tailored specifically to me, my season of life, and my abilities.  If I’m getting an idea that resonates with something I’d like to do or feel comfortable doing, then I assume God’s telling me this one’s for me.

But I have a tendency to see a need and have a desire to fix it like the matching game: issue, solution, match.  Maybe a lot of us are like that.  But just because the match seems glaringly obvious doesn’t mean it necessarily is.  There are nuances to consider.  Mostly I need to slow down and think things through.  Not all day.  Not even usually for half a day.  But for a minute or so. Move on to another activity long enough to see how the idea’s still sitting with me.

How will this impact my family and my day? What’s my relationship with this person? Will it make anyone uncomfortable? How will it come across?  Would it make better sense to just leave this situation alone and give her some space? Is there someone better suited to fill this need? So many times I start and end with the first question and use that as my sole barometer.  But I can see now that that’s why sometimes things haven’t ended well in the past.  I haven’t stopped to ascertain even those basic questions, and I haven’t sought confirmation that what I’m considering is appropriate or needful. I think that’s why we’re encouraged to just go ahead with anything good we think to do, because if we sat and analyzed anything for too long we’d never act on any of our good thoughts.  There are always obstacles and excuses and never enough time.  But maybe there’s some wisdom in simply slowing down, asking God for a nod, and paying attention to how we feel, a tiny confirmation to move forward.  Or at least letting Him know, Here’s the plan, let me know if I’ve got things wrong.  This can all happen in just a minute or two; it doesn’t have to be a huge production, just an acknowledgment with and a team-up with God.

I’ve written notes I’ve never sent.  I’ve sent notes I never should’ve written.  I’ve thought of notes I never even wrote at all. I’ve said too much, I’ve missed chances to say anything at all. I wonder if I’ve gotten in the way more than once.  And I can’t help but wonder how any of it has been received. I guess I’m just saying that maybe it’s wise to just take a moment and think about a good idea before we act to make sure it’s really what we’re being asked to do.   And yet, I still believe it’s not wrong to err on the side of being generous and loving.  Even when it doesn’t seem to make a lick of difference, when there’s no response. When we can’t see anything out of place, any reason why we’d need to get involved. 

I obviously still grapple with this, with knowing when to extend myself and when to bow out.  And yet I know that when we are doing our best to follow Christ, to serve and love as He’s taught, when we really are trying to listen to what our heart is telling us, we will more often than not manage to do some good.