My dad used to describe himself as a jack of all trades, master of none, and I could rightly say it about me. I have been exposed to a little bit of this and that. I have surface-level knowledge on a variety of things and hold opinions on a range of issues I have varying degrees of knowledge on. But, despite the tone I may sometimes convey here and in person, I know a lot about very little.

When I left my full-time job, it occurred to me it had become more than that.  It was a career.  I had cultivated expertise—people sought my advice on things because I was the resident “expert.”  This flattered me a little, I suppose, but I hadn’t guessed how much I’d miss it.

Now I am an expert at exactly nothing. Still, there are a handful of issues near to my heart, on the tip of my tongue. I think many of us could probably narrow our passions down to identify The One Thing: The thing you do so well that, when you see it done poorly, it makes your blood boil.  The thing you focus on at the expense of others. The thing you feel confident enough about to judge others on.

If I’m honest, my One Thing is probably food.  Over the course of the last three or four years, I have made a series of changes—tiny steps—toward a real-food diet for our family.  Some people probably think I receive royalties every time someone downloads the documentary, “Food, Inc.”  

I try hard not to let the quest for real food interfere with really living—there are absolutely exceptions and compromises.  But I have read and watched and researched and learned things I can’t unknow, and so I devote considerable time and a larger chunk of our weekly budget than I am comfortable with seeking, buying and cooking real food from scratch.  This commitment frequently runs counter to convenience and modern life, which annoys me.  It occurs to me that sometimes we are the weird family. But I’ve become okay with it, because I truly believe it’s the better way to be.

Sounds virtuous, right? If I left it at that, it would be. But I don’t.

On a weekly basis I find myself caring for other people’s children, feeding them snacks and lunches packed from home.  And I have been appalled-- loudly, and to anyone who would listen-- about what some people are feeding their precious babies.  I may express frustration about loved ones who just can’t or won’t or don’t feel compelled to make changes I know would radically improve their lives. I judge strangers and friends, aloud and internally, organic green smoothie in hand, from my comfortable perch of being right and good.

And it’s wrong.

I know fellow mothers whose One Thing might be extended breastfeeding, back sleeping, staying home with the kids, attachment parenting, eradicating circumcision, car seat safety,  methods of discipline, learning styles, schooling (or unschooling), natural home birth, and a host of other issues.  And, if we let ourselves go there, I could probably get into it with just about every one of my friends.

I fought every day and through many nights to nurse my second child for one year. My kids never slept on their backs or in my bed, I worked full-time for the first four years I was a mother; I wore them in a carrier, but would not consider myself an attachment parenting devotee. I’m on the fence about circumcision; as long as kids are in car seats I can’t manage to get passionate about the type or dither about its fastening. We do not spank our children, and if you weathered a meltdown at our house, you might click your tongue about how we dealt with it. We are reluctantly sending our oldest to public kindergarten next year, and while I aspire toward a natural birth if blessed with another opportunity, I can never imagine doing it at home.

And you know what? All of that is okay.  And it’s okay for you to disagree with me.  And it’s okay for you to lovingly feed your child whatever it is you’re feeding him, and it’s NOT okay for me to judge your character because of it.

A quick glance at my Facebook newsfeed tells me this phenomenon is not limited to motherhood or lifestyle choices. Maybe your One Thing is the Second Amendment, maybe it’s abortion, maybe it’s human trafficking. Maybe it’s theology or social justice or personal finances.  Maybe it’s federal spending or welfare.

You know what? With all due respect, your one thing is just that—yours.  It’s probably very worthy, and there is likely a reason it gets more of your attention than the other issues you may also be passionate about. But that doesn’t mean it falls in the same priority order in others’ lives, and that doesn’t mean they are wrong, and it doesn’t mean you’re better or smarter for choosing that One Thing.

I’d like to think the reason I judge others about food is because it’s just that important.  But I don’t think that’s it. I think I judge them because maybe that’s the one thing I feel like I’m doing well.  We all harbor insecurities—since I’ve become a mother mine have multiplied. There are so many areas I could be giving more attention, so many opportunities to improve. So if there’s one area I can feel good about, I’m going to embrace it, even if it means putting others down to make myself feel better.

But instead of doing that, what if I recognized the One Thing in others and, agree or disagree, listened and tried to learn from it?  Maybe if more of us tried to do that, there would be fewer angry Facebook rants, fewer verbal standoffs.  Maybe we’d realize most of us are just doing the best we can, and that there is less space between us than we think.

Today I'm so honored to be posting over at Grace For Moms!

This post, this truth, this resolution—they pain me.  This year, I am trying to embrace grace by keeping my mouth shut.  I feel that, in typing that sentence, I have completed the easiest part of this journey.

At recess my first day at a new school on the sidelines of an eighth –grade basketball court, I stood awkwardly against the wall in my oversized men’s rugby shirt and poufy bangs. A lanky girl I had met in homeroom smiled and waved me over.  Grateful for a friendly face, I talked with her for a few minutes.  When I walked away, another girl nodded at me to join her.  The second girl wore enormous Doc Martens and too much eyeliner—she was clearly cool.  “Don’t talk to those girls,” she said, gesturing across the field. “It’s social suicide.”
Read the rest here.

If Barack Obama were my friend on Facebook, our relationship status would be, "it's complicated." I have always shied away from strict partisanship, and much to my family's dismay, I am not a single issue voter. I shudder when I hear "God's people" attempt to speak of God's political affiliation or opinions, and with the exception of my undying love for Brady Anderson, I've really never gotten it about being a celebrity's biggest fan. I don't ever foresee political signs on my lawn or bumper stickers on my car or onesies on my child. I'm just not that kind of girl.

It does not offend my sensibilities or seem contradictory to me to choose the things I believe in from whichever side, then weigh them to see who comes out on top (or least on the bottom), even if that means an R on one ballot column and a D on another. Aside from the irritation I have over not being able to vote in primaries as a voter of undeclared loyalty, this works for me. I believe there is only one man who ever could have saved us and changed everything, and he's already been here once, and he's not the president. Still, I'm not easily sucked into "the sky is falling," overwrought predictions. I think if I say God is in control, then I should act like it, not like the leader of the free world has more power than the one who created it. But still, it's complicated.

Living in proximity to D.C. probably sounds much more exciting than it usually is. In college in North Carolina, the 7-foot Australian I had driven to the grocery store boasted that his home was 30 minutes from members of the then-popular band, Savage Garden. "Really," I said casually, "Well I live about 30 minutes from the President of the United States. You might have heard of him." But everyone here knows that distance rarely has any impact on how long it takes to get somewhere, and that in many ways, Baltimore is a world away from D.C. So I brag about my friend on Capitol Hill, and friends from the south think I'm savvy, but I just pay attention; I don't really know. Even so, the week leading up to the inauguration was interesting. I took for granted the signs above the Baltimore-Washington Parkway I travel every day that said, "Inauguration Jan 20. Expect Heavy Delays." Friends and colleagues were off because they couldn't get to work. Others I knew stayed home to watch TV; others I knew were actually in the thick of it. But not me.

On Tuesday morning I stood in a dark conference room with a man I'd never met staring at the TV in the corner. "I'm glad they have it on somewhere," he said, watching the masses wait on the Mall. "Driving up 95 this morning, I felt really...lonely. During the election, no one here said anything. It's just so bizarre."

We discussed the unique environment where we work, which tends to be a bastion of Republican ideals in the middle of a very blue state. I told him, "Last week I mentioned concern about traffic on inauguration day, and a colleague said to me, 'I don't really think he's that popular around here, is he?'" Which, I guess, just proves you can always find someone to tell you what you want to hear. Later that morning we were joined by others who brought their lunch and sat mostly in silence to watch the ceremony, and it was a little less lonely.

No matter who you voted for, I think it's hard not to feel proud to be part of a country where it's possible to hold elections and execute peaceful transfers of power, to assemble millions of people in one place without a single arrest, and to elect as president a member of a race that was not so long ago in chains. And while I reject the idea that any one person could fix all that ails us, I hold a cautious hope that some change will do us good.

Recently someone who sort of knew me a long time ago asked me the secret to my success. Naturally, this made me laugh nervously, look around my messy, suburban life and think, "What success?"

My reaction got me thinking. In my stunted grad school attempt, I had to record myself answering interview questions.  Daniel was my interviewer. He asked me what “success” meant to me.

I have always known to say that success is not achievable by income or status, and it turns out I still believe those things are true.  But we have debt, for a multitude of reasons we don’t own a home anymore, and this past year we’ve been learning to live on one income. I have chosen to forgo what was turning out to be a lucrative career to be home with my babies while I still can. 

When I became a working mother, I sometimes thought immediate success would be having a choice to make about whether to stay home.  Other times I thought success meant being there for every milestone. Now that I’m home, I see it’s more complicated.  I wonder if my decision—while the right one for us at this time—means I will not ever know career success.

And then there’s the issue of passion. I envy teachers, doctors, fire fighters, even politicians; I envy people who have always known what they wanted to be.  Who have the kind of jobs little kids say they want when they grow up. For many of them, making a living is an extension of their passion. How very convenient, I think. I remember, in the aforementioned grad school attempt, sitting beside people who worked at National Geographic or the Smithsonian, people who found fulfillment in their work. And while I have always tried to make the most of whatever situation I’m in, I have not yet found creative fulfillment in a job I’ve had. Since I was a second grader, I said I wanted to be a writer. So now I write here, for you, for me, for anonymous passersby, but it’s without the expectation that it will ever line my pockets.

So, then what success? I wrote this in a few moments of blissful silence while my beautiful blonde spitfires slept upstairs. That day I made breakfast and lunch, put two children in timeout a combined total of five times, bought groceries, and did laundry.  Later we headed to the library, too close to dinner, and Daniel met us out to eat.  Every day doesn’t look like this day. And, on the surface, to me, it doesn’t look “successful.” 

But, at least for today, my children and family are healthy. I’m married to a man I still adore and who really is my best friend. We have the things we really need. I have creative outlets, albeit not income generating ones, and friends that love me, albeit not ones I can hug very frequently.

In my interview I remember saying something about not worrying. I thought being successful would mean attaining peace. I can’t say I’ve realized my 24-year-old self’s idea of success.  I still worry—about money, that something may happen to me, to my kids, to my traveling husband.
I still actively seek peace. I have dreams I’m not sure I’ll ever realize.

But I don’t take enough time to be thankful for all that I already have.

I think Facebook and Pinterest are partly to blame.  Most of us are guilty of posting only our red letter moments online—the highlights—for all to see. I don’t take pictures of myself on days without  mascara or when I’m wearing those wretched faded black yoga pants Daniel is liable to throw away at any moment.  Even when I share slip ups, I don’t really let you in. It’s all done in a self-deprecating way so that you’ll think I’m charming and relatable, but I don’t share the darkest days. I don’t want to acknowledge or immortalize them, so why would I share?  And I know that’s what most people do.  Their Pinterest boards reflect the homes, wardrobes, and hobbies they’d like to have, not necessarily the ones they actually do.  They’re not trying to mislead anyone, and neither am I.

The problem is that I forget, and I think many of us do.  I compare the galleries of nights out, smiling children and best meals with my dark room of unfolded laundry, temper tantrums, and not yet developed potential. It doesn’t mean I’m going to stop posting highlights—they are what make all the rest of life worth it—but I’m going to try to remember that that’s what everyone else is doing too.

Why not step away from the social media and comparisons with me. What does success really look like? And are you certain you haven’t found it yet?

We really ought to get out of our own way.

Somebody that I used to know used to wait. He’d pray— specifically, expectantly— and then he’d wait.  I was alternately inspired by his complete, pure faith, and irritated by his inaction.

I think of him when I face decisions, when I pray for big change. There is something to having faith, for sure.  Something to being able to think bigger than our ability to plan.  But I think there is also something to working hard. To showing up, every day, even when we don’t feel like it.  Especially when we don’t feel like it. I can’t expect my dreams to knock on my door just because they are worthy and I am busy working hard at other things. I have to work for them, to fight for them.

I don’t really like making resolutions.  Once I proclaim it, I can’t unsay it.  So if I fail, which I probably will, I can’t take it back.  Knowing this, I either don’t make resolutions, or I make them so vague that it’s practically impossible for even me to determine whether I have attained them.

I have also stayed away from the idea of selecting a “guiding word” for the year.  I have friends, a couple, who pray over and choose one each year.  They focus on it all year long.  For me, a wordsmith, this seemed too difficult.  Choose just one?  For the year? When there is so much I'd like to change?  And so many blessed words?

And yet, this year, after so much change, I found myself reevaluating. I looked at my life, at the things I don’t do that leave me disappointed at the end of every day.  I have a pile of reasons for them, many of them valid, but it’s never enough to make me feel better. 

I have stopped getting up early, I’m not reading, I’m not writing, and even when I do, it’s not with regularity and intent to do something greater.  I’m not as fit as I’d like to be, spiritually or physically.  When I consider all of these issues, at first, they seem unrelated.  But when I look a little closer, they are essentially the same.  I lack discipline.

When I was single and enjoying it, my dad described me as “committed to being non-committal,” and that was pretty accurate. I didn’t like making plans.  I wanted to be free.  Clearly, life has taken me a world away from that now.  There is much discipline in the way I cook and eat, the way we live, how we spend our money, for the most part, and the way we raise our children. My capacity for discipline is great, bordering on drudgery at times, but it’s all outwardly focused, and I’m suffering because of it.  And, I suspect, those I love are too.

 So this year, we all made resolutions in four categories: for learning, for our family, for our communities and for ourselves. They could be as direct and hard to attain as Mirabella's, "Stop crying for no reason," or as nonsensical and awesome as Emerie's "go to the summer." Mine were all variations on a theme; they all fit under the umbrella of discipline.  

I think, before, lacking discipline was my way of having at least a smidgen of spontaneity in my life—something that was unscripted or unplanned.  But without a plan for the small bit of time that is mine, it gets wasted.  It’s spent on Facebook or reading words others have penned instead of strengthening and reviving my body, filling my soul or spilling it for others.

It isn’t dramatic. It starts with an alarm clock, with getting up and moving, working at the parts I don’t like, spending energy on things I’m not  yet good at, writing when I’m uninspired.  It’s sweeping change made in small choices over many days. I can do better. And this year, I resolve to.

Whatever your big change, here’s to tiny steps in the right direction.