I often find myself in a moment these days where I am suddenly overcome with the urge to share it. It might be a view, or a taste; the feeling or the thought that washes over me. And then, nothing. I pull out my phone and come up blank. I am so consumed by the experience of the moment that it feels like a dream. You know… the more you share, the more it disappears. And so I hold onto the moment. The moment is for me, or for my family, or a friend or colleague or even the stranger with whom I share it. The world will continue to spin without my input. This moment is where I belong.
My worth is found in Jesus; this can never change or be changed. The work he did on the cross defines my soul forever. When God looks at me, he sees a woman wonderfully and fearfully made. When God looks at me, he sees me through the lens of Jesus’ sacrifice. I am holy and righteous. I am perfect, just as I am. I found in Christ. My identity is found in my worth.
My work, however, is a more fluid topic. As a parent who works outside of the home, it’s important to me that I enjoy what I do when away from my family. But as a human with a lot of layers, I do not want to be defined or even identified by my work. And yet, it’s the first thing we ask when we meet someone. What do you do? Anything short of dream job suddenly seems like a dull waste of time.
It is difficult to reconcile the focus on the dream job when the truth is, very rarely do avocation and vocation meet. In fact, only 30% of American adults report being fulfilled in their work. Once a salary hits $75,000, more money does not improve our emotional health. Additionally, most of us have an incomplete sense of work we’ll enjoy twenty years out from high school. This is completely natural and normal, as we lack a developed prefrontal cortex until our mid-twenties. And yet, students in the United States are pressured to consider and commit to a career path as early as middle school. Fast forward a few decades, though, and only 10% of American adults are working out their childhood dreams.
What about those of us who didn’t pick a dream job in childhood? I oscillated between backup dancer for a pop singer (this was during my Britney phase) and soccer mom with 2-3 kids and a Suburban (I grew up at private school and watched a lot of moms; my plan was oddly specific). I only decided on nursing after nearly failing out of fashion school and taking a semester off to travel. It felt like the most straightforward through through college and into a stable and well-paying job. I did not consider nursing as a career until I neared my thirties and decided to become a nurse practitioner.
Everyone wants to spend their time in a meaningful manner, but I think the hyper-focus on vocation is especially pervasive in Christian culture. Especially among young people, I’ve found many Christians to be rather obsessed with God’s will being revealed to them in the form of a singular choice or path. In addition, I think we get hung up on finding work that embodies a sense of purpose as the crucial, necessary piece to fulfilling the Great Commandment and the Great Commission. What’s interesting, though, is that a career is not intrinsic to either the Great Commandment or the Great Commission. Our working is not central to identity in Christ. Our being is. We don’t work as sons and daughters of God. We are sons and daughters of God. We don’t work as followers of Jesus. We are followers of Jesus. We work out our identity by loving God, loving self, and loving neighbor. We can do that at home, or online, or in a cubicle, or in a coffeeshop. We can do that at jobs we like, but don’t love.
My identity remains the same, no matter where I am and what I do. I find value in my work, but I dot find my worth there. My worth is already locked up in the long-ago work of Jesus; this truth allows me to make vocational decisions with freedom and without worry.
I had hoped Hadassah would nap while I fed the pigs breakfast, but it appeared to be a no-go on this particular morning. So instead of pushing the issue, I scooped her up and pulled her into my lap after I made my oatmeal. I enjoyed a few bites while the rest of the kids finished their dry cereal and played on the kitchen floor. Suddenly, the baby pooped on me. Like, straight through her onesie and onto my lap, missing her pants entirely. I looked up at Isaiah Jane in shock and tried to laugh, but she had a surprise of her own. IJ had apparently swallowed too much water in one gulp, and proceeded to spew it all over me, Hadassah Lee, and the carpet. I set aside my breakfast and jumped up to get everyone dry and changed.
By the time I was actually ready to leave the house, the oatmeal had grown cold and the ice had melted in my coffee. Tempted to throw it out and leave without eating, I set the dishes by the sink. On the way out a few minutes later, though, I stopped myself. I took my breakfast with me, dishes and all, photographing them on the tailgate of the Suburban before I took off. I later enjoyed my freezing-cold oatmeal in the driver’s seat after I’d arrived at my destination. I needed to remind myself of a few things.
First of all, I’m lucky to have food to put in my stomach. My church just finished collecting snacks for a local elementary school where kids often arrive hungry. It’s in our own backyard, and it isn’t a joke. I am rich because I get to eat breakfast every day. Second of all, I am not owned by interruptions. I am not a victim of my surroundings, of the tiny moments that threaten to drag me down throughout the day. Gratefulness is one of the easiest ways to reset my mood, but I must work for it. I must fight to take back my day, sometimes over and over again. It isn’t enough to talk about the things that make us thankful. It’s the sometimes-painful, daily practice of gratitude that shapes us. These days, I’m choosing to work.
After having four babies in less than four years, I’d like to think I’ve acquired a bit of expertise when it comes to baby gear. We’ve been through strollers and carriers, bath items and bedding items, diapers and car seats. While I might forget a bunch of stuff when rushing to get Hadassah out of the house, I almost always seem to remember one important item. Really, y’all… all you need is a swaddle blanket. Okay, so maybe it’s not ALL you need. But I could probably get your list down to just a few things, and this is one of them. Behold, the things you can do with one of those sweetly soft muslins from Aden & Anais:
Swaddle baby the official, old-fashioned way.
Roll up and prop under chin for paci control.
Place baby on top to enjoy some tummy time.
Place baby on top and change a diaper.
Place baby underneath and cover up while nursing.
Throw over your shoulder and soak up projectile vomit.
Stuff corner in bra to soak up breastmilk, in the event of forgotten nursing pad.
Tuck around baby in carseat or stroller, to keep warm without overheating.
Tie and twist to form a makeshift sling; ease those aching arms.
What about you? What are some of the magical uses you’ve found for a swaddle blanket?
My parents’ birthday is today. Crazy, right? When they learned they shared the same one, they sort of had to get married. More than thirty years later, though, they’re still taking photos like this. I know it’s been a long road full of hard work, and I’m thankful to them for that. Both my mom and dad are healthy, living near me, and still married to each other. None of those things do I take for granted.
My dad promised that he’d never miss an event of mine, and I cannot remember one that he did. My mom held my stomach when it got sick, and my heart when it got broken. My dad taught me phrases like, Make decisions based on how you want to feel. My mom encouraged me to grow with phrases like, You were never mine to begin with. My dad made my husband work for his approval and blessing, and now he calls him his son. My mom drove to school and pulled me out of class to make up after morning fights, and now she’s my best friend.
The best part is that they aren’t Mom & Dad anymore… now they’re Chief & Sunshine, which makes things all the more fun. Happy birthday, you two! Keep doing what you’re doing!
Chris & I were saving this grapefruit for a time when we could split it together. We moved it to the top basket of our hanging tier, in order to keep it from inquiring eyes and hands. Mornings are a bit hectic, though, so it sat. And sat. And sat. And went bad. As I threw it into the compost pile, I couldn’t help but smile at myself. This is the first good thing in awhile that I’ve ruined in the name of waiting. That must mean I’m on my way.
You see, I used to be notorious for holding onto things for the right time. I’ve let chocolates go bad, outfits miss their season, library books return unread. Because there never is a truly perfect time for anything, is there? So let’s go for it. I’m reading the books. I’m wearing the outfits and eating the chocolates. I even used both bath bombs within a week of receiving them when Hadassah was born!
This is a challenge for everyone, but especially moms… Grab your moment. Make it yours, soak it up, and store it away for memory’s sake. Please, don’t let the grapefruit go bad.
Instead of resting from work, what if we worked from a rested place?
I think I first heard the phrase from Jessi, during an Influence Network team meeting a few months back. She & Hayley regularly encourage us to take time for ourselves and our families. All of us will have had a new baby by the end of the this year, so it’s been a crazy one for the entire core team. The idea of working from a place of rest seemed delicious to me. I desperately wanted to make real the idea that God does not honor busy. He is not impressed with my almost-constant state of moving and working and doing. He tells it to me straight, in His word, I will fight for you. Just be still.
I’ve digested and processed this concept over and over recently, going as far as to share it with my women’s group at church this week. And just when I sounded super spiritual, looking these women in the eyes and telling them that God doesn’t honor our busy, I started to lose it. I smiled with tears in my eyes and whispered, “Bullsh*t.”
I can’t seem to make my heart and mind and body connect on this. God doesn’t need me to work so hard. He doesn’t want me striving. He wants me resting. That is when I’m most pliable, most vulnerable, most open to His love and His voice and His will. So why do I continue to work so hard? Why do I continue to strive? Why do I refuse to rest?
I don’t have a happy ending here, folks. I’m not there yet. I’m at step one – admitting there’s a problem. But I think God’s grace tells me that’s enough for right now.
