Have you ever noticed how many people are pushing balance?  Balance your diet, your budget, your work versus your life, your alone time versus time with your kids, your schedule so you can exercise, shop smart, keep the romance in your marriage, keep your home clean, your life on track, your sanity.  We are told that the key to achieving all these things-- at the same time, no less-- is supposed to be balance.   So, at the risk of airing my dirty laundry (I wouldn't have any if I had found this elusive balance), what exactly is balance, and how am I supposed to find it?   I have spent my life, and the last four years I've been a mother in particular, searching for (but more often lamenting my lack of ability to find) balance. 

I failed. Over and over and over again.  I started to prickle every time I even heard the word.   And then, I decided to reject it.

I have determined I don't believe in balance.   I said this recently to Daniel, just venting, not expecting a debate.  He asked me to explain.    Here's the thing: If I am one place, I am not another.  And I mean that physically, mentally, and any other way you'd like to approach it.  There is no getting around it.  If I am at work, I am not with my kids.  If I am with my kids, I am not at work, and therefore, not making money. If I nurture my marriage the way it needs, I am sacrificing some time with my children. If I spend all my time with my kids, I am neglecting myself and my marriage. I can't work AND be home AND spend quality, creative time with my kids AND make everything from scratch AND spend the time it takes to shop thoughtfully, healthfully and sustainably AND keep my house clean and organized AND be a meaningful member of my church AND tend to friendships, family members and ministries AND nurture my marriage AND write and exercise and read and do the things I need to keep myself healthy.  I CAN'T*.

The * is the key here. * = Not all at the same time.   

So what does this mean?  Logistically, probably nothing different.  But mentally, it's huge.  It means acknowledging choices-- owning them-- and then not feeling guilty about the repercussions.  It means I can't always make it to my small group, because doing so when my husband is away means sacrificing that time with my children when I've already been at the office all day, foregoing their peaceful bedtime and full night's sleep, and giving up any hope of a few quiet moments to myself. But I am choosing to be okay with that.  

It means going on dates and overnights with my husband, even though it results in additional precious moments spent away from my children. Because I believe the overall benefit is greater than the in-the-moment sacrifice.  It means working toward a plan to work differently, to work less, even though it means acknowledging that I might not have a future in this career field.  It might not be waiting for me when I come back. 
But I am choosing to be okay with that.  

It means reallocating our budget to dedicate more resources to food and a lifestyle that will keep our family healthy.  It means abandoning coupons and not always being able to be frugal. 
And I am choosing to be okay with that.  

Really, it means making a choice, this thing over that at this time.   

Daniel listened, head cocked to the side, and said, "I see what you're saying, but I disagree.  I look at life over a week, or a month, or a year and determine whether it was balanced."  That may work for him, but I can't figure out how to implement that in the middle of my days.  Ironically, I don't have the time.    Instead, I will continue to see it all as making choices.  Sometimes I will get it wrong, but I will try to be more forgiving when I do.  I will try to take the advice I gave Mirabella the other day, when her disobedience had an unintended consequence.  I told her, "We all make mistakes.  And when we do, we say we're sorry, we try to see what we can learn for next time, and then we move on."

Contrary to the opinion of some of my acquaintances (but probably not the longsuffering people that love me), I am not an over achiever.  In my natural state, I will do what it takes to get by.  I have been fortunate that, in many cases “getting by” has been perceived as exceling.  I don’t know what to credit this to.  The grace of God?  Being in the right place at the right time? Benefitting from low expectations?  In any case, I breezed through high school (with the exception of the math classes—those were a tad less breezy), and when I landed in my small Baptist college, I didn’t know how to work very hard.  And also, I was rather impressed with myself.  At first, no one challenged this.  While walking through the sunny quad en route to my work study, when I would encounter my friend Shade reading his Sports Illustrated on a bench and saying, “C. Don’t go to work,” I would take his advice.  I just wouldn't go.  I would not even think to mention it the next time I graced them with my presence.  See?  I told you.  I was obnoxious.

I can’t remember when I met Dr. Gayle Price, though it was likely at the pinnacle of this arrogance.  I remember this: I did not like her, and she taught me more than anyone has.   She was the one who suggested I consider majoring in English.  She presented me with a defense for not if but when my parents countered with, “but how will you make any money?” and, “oh, so you’re going to teach?”

When I became her work study student, she looked me square in the eye and said, “I rely on you and expect you to be here. If you cannot be here, I expect you to call.”  It’s embarrassing to admit this now, but that was kind of an epiphany for me.  I can’t explain why, but I really didn’t know that.

When I took Advanced Composition, the only class for which she was my professor, she knocked me down.  I remember screeching in, always a couple minutes late, and being subjected to her glare.  She never addressed the fact that I was late.  I almost wished she had.  She assigned a lot of reading and infinitely more writing.  She took her time giving us feedback.  I remember being shocked when I received my first paper back from her.  She had bled all over the margins with her neat cursive.  Her hard copy commentary accompanied a cassette tape of her voice, reading through and providing thoughtful criticism.  I had to listen to it in the car because that’s the only place I had a cassette player. She gave me a lower grade than anyone ever had on a paper.  I was offended.  I was a writer, I thought, or at least I was going to be.  She told me I was lazy.  She told me my talent didn’t matter unless I was willing to do the hard work; she told me talent wasn’t enough.  She pissed me off. I decided she didn’t like me.  I decided I didn’t like her.  And then, finally, I decided maybe she was right.

Dr. Price was fair.  She was generous with her time, her praise, her advice, her intellect—her gifts.  One of her colleagues said of her once that, though she always had so much going on, when you finally sat down with her, she would make you feel like you were the only thing that mattered.  She was fully present.  Now, as a working mother who constantly feels divided no matter where I am, I have reflected on this compliment often.  I can think of no higher praise.

Dr. Price taught me how to be a better editor.  She taught me to help others improve their writing when I worked for her in the Writing Center.  She taught me it’s okay to bring store-brought brownies to a party in a tin to make them seem homemade (she never knew she taught me that one).  She taught me to avoid the comma splice and embrace the semicolon.

She taught me how to write about matters of faith and the heart without being overly sentimental.  She introduced me to one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott.  And years after I had graduated, she wrote me a touching letter of recommendation that helped me get into grad school (and if we had spoken more recently, she would have urged me not to let my growing family and career keep me from finishing that degree).

I didn’t know Dr. Price had become sick until the very end.  I doubt she was well enough to have read my good-bye.  I regret that I did not make an effort to stay in touch.  I doubt she would even have remembered me, the punk from ten years ago, now somewhat reformed.   But I have cried for her and for her grown children over this last week since her passing. And I will always be grateful for all that she taught me, not the least of which was the importance of showing up.

Every day, Mirabella prays variations of the same prayer.  “Please help Aunt Nae see her mommy again,” she says.  

Last night, as I knelt by her bed, I said, “Honey, Aunt Nae’s mommy is in heaven.  She is not going to see her any time soon.”

Not surprisingly, I wasn’t ready for what followed.  Her bottom lip stuck out and her eyes welled up.  I explained that Aunt Nae’s mommy is not sad; her body is perfect now, not broken like it was before.  She is with her husband and friends, she can see and dance and sing; she is happy.

“But how come the person who goes to heaven isn’t sad, but the other people, the people who are missing them, are sad?”  She said.  It was a great question.  That I couldn’t answer.

“I’m going to die one day, right Mommy?”  She asked, clear-eyed.  I cringed and told her she would, hopefully many, many years from now.  I take pride in being honest with my children, but there are times when I question that choice.

“When we get to heaven, will we see God?” She asked, wanting to know what he might look like.

“What do you think, honey?”  I asked. 

“I think He might be sort of a girl.  And I think He has brown skin.  And white or black clothes.  And He is bigger than a giant.  Does God ever sleep?”  She asked.

“No.  He never does,” I said.

“But then doesn’t He get tired?”  She asked.  She cried for her loved one who lost a mommy.  She cried for questions with hard answers, or no answers at all.

I sang to her and rocked her and hid my own tears.  It was among the first times she cried because she was sad and scared. And all I could do was hold her.

“How can I think of anything else, Mommy?” She asked.  I sang “My favorite things” and asked her to think of some of her favorite things.

“Well, my favorite things are flowers and lots of snow hills…and YOU!  My family!” She burst into tears.  And, I’m not going to lie, so did I.

It is so heartbreaking, mothering a child.  It’s beautiful, and sacred, maddening, hilarious and sad.  All at the very same time.

Here's what I'm not missing lately: Opportunities to listen, learn, and be gracious or patient.  What I can't seem to find: The grace, patience and sleep I need to face them.  

This last week has been tough.  For the first time, my so-fledgling-it's-not-even-a-business-yet company was tested (since the company's just me, that means I was tested).  And I'm short.  In nearly every way I could be.    

One of my favorite people often says, "I'mma just be real."  Can I be real, friends?  Often I'm just angry.  I'm angry that I don't know what or where or when is next, angry that my husband is gone so frequently.  Angry that I'm not in control of really anything.  I am angry that the setup of our life doesn't yet reflect what I long for it to be.  And then?  I'm angry that I get angry and can't do a better job managing it. I am not angry with anyone.  No one is at fault, so I have nowhere to direct it.

Daniel called me out this week.    "Why are you so angry?" he asked, after I lost my patience with him over probably nothing.   I told him why and that I think I have a right to be.  And also, that I'm not happy about it and can't figure out a place for it to go.   "We need to find you a different punching bag," he said, and he's right.  I know.  Maybe an actual punching bag?  Working two jobs, raising two kids, and managing a home with any level of proficiency requires time and energy.  It requires care and leaves very little space for self care.   

We are blessed to have support in the way of wonderful childcare, family and friends, and a church community that is so much more than that there should be a different word for them.  We are not alone.  Yet in the midst of that, we can never answer the question, "What can I do to help?" with anything tangible.  Because, really, nothing tangible is wrong.  Like most people, our plate is loaded, with good and difficult things. We have uncertainty.  But that's it.  So I am left sort of complaining, like now.  Then feeling bad about that too, like five minutes from now.
 
I have a need to know what's coming.  That's how I am.  If there was a time when I relished the unknown, it is gone.  And yet, here we are, unsure about so much.  But sure of this: That we have each other. That we have a Lord who deeply cares about our dreams and who sees around corners. That we have today.  

I turn my struggle toward acceptance, toward thankfulness. Even though I don't know what the coming month or year holds, I can choose to be thankful for this day.  I can settle into the discomfort of the things I can't control.  Somewhere in there, if I nestle deep enough, maybe there is peace.

With our girls now 22 months and 4 years old (today!), this year we have had to decide what to do about Santa.  In Daniel’s childhood home, Santa’s presents were numerous, wrapped in white tissue paper (have you ever tried to wrap anything of substance in tissue paper?). For my family, Santa was a pretty big deal. I wouldn’t venture to say that he overtook the holiday; I feel like my parents always worked to remind us of its real reason.  Even Santa's letters to us urged us to focus on Jesus.  But for many years I remember "catching Santa" while he finished placing the last present, often at about 2:00 in the morning. We would then proceed to open our presents in the middle of the night.  I believed in Santa Claus long after I should have stopped because I had seen him. I later learned that he was a kind family friend who might as well have been Santa, staying up all night, dressed in a red suit and eating cookies and delivering joy to children and their parents alike for many years.

Santa was a positive experience for Daniel and me, and now here we are, adults, fully aware of what Christmas means and working hard to teach our small children.  I have scoured Netflix for videos that focus on the real meaning of Christmas (that did not go well).  We selected an armload of books from the library, only one of which was simple enough to suffice.  The others are either unnecessarily complicated, or they feature made up characters (the star, the shepherd, the angel) who were apparently present at the birth of Jesus.  These characters end up requiring back story, and a couple of them have been downright awful.  In the case of The Littlest Angel, why, when I'm trying to explain to my preschooler the concept of God being born, do I need to also explain why a four-year-old angel is lamenting the life he misses on Earth?  Really?

So back to our Christmas.  Year round, we have been striving to be purposeful and to focus less on things.  We don't really have TV, we don't watch many movies, we monitor the music we bring in, and we try to limit the number of toys our kids acquire, but it sometimes feels like a losing battle.  Some people have told us they think we don't give our kids much in the way of gifts, but lately we have been feeling the weight of the responsibility to set expectations and focus for future years.  To that end, this season the girls helped me pack our shoeboxes for Operation Christmas Child and chose the toys we donated to our church's Christmas outreach event.  At the event, Mirabella made crafts with the children and helped one of the mothers select toys for her kids.  We are trying to set a precedent of focusing on others.  We plan to deliver homemade gift baskets to several neighbors on Christmas morning.  As for differentiating between Christ's birth and Santa's loot, we have talked very little of Santa.  We have agreed to allow him into our home, but we are limiting his role.  We do not bring him up.  We have avoided books and limited movies about him. We do not venture to the mall.  We read the Christmas story frequently.  We have carved time into our new traditions on Christmas Eve and morning to read and talk about it, and Santa will only be bringing each child one gift. 

A co-worker-- upon hearing my take on Santa, why my kids don't watch commercials or need Power Wheels or haven't seen Alvin and the Chipmunks, the Squeaquel, or why they don't eat many treats or know much about computer games-- accused me of trying to control everything.  I can see how it could be mistaken for that.  It's not, though it certainly is relatively easy to control outside influences at this point.  I know it will only get harder and that the foundation we set does not guarantee a certain outcome.  But I still believe it's our responsibility as parents to set the stage, to communciate what we, as a family, consider to be of value.  Worshiping God, serving and treating others with respect and compassion, loving each other-- these are our core values.  And it's not that any of the other things-- including the trappings of a big Chrismas-- are bad, but for us, I fear that they get in the way. 

I can't control the fact that Mirabella's birthday falls three days before Christmas or that we have a large and loving family that joyfully lavishes gifts on my children.  But I can model thankfulness. I can show that we value experience and time together over things. I can talk patiently with Mirabella about why she received one birthday present (in addition to a party and special day with one-on-one time with each parent). I can try.

I read enough about simple living/homemaking/mothering to know that, compared to many, I am only dabbling in simplicity; there is so much more (and in some cases, less) we could be doing.  Which is why I am working hard to quit comparing and focus on doing the best I can by my family.   

Merry Christmas to you and yours.  May it be filled with love and all the simple wonder it deserves.

I pulled into the terrible parking lot Sunday afternoon somewhat unprepared for the task.  I was exhausted from traveling the night before to avoid post-Thanksgiving traffic.  But my cupboards were bare, and though it had been a wonderful visit, my reserves were empty.  

I'm not sure what it is about this particular parking lot; it could be the poor layout or the high percentage of elderly people, or the diverse neighborhood. I have always loved living in a racially, culturally and religiously diverse area.  Homogenousness disorients me.  But often times it seems diversity breeds disagreement.  It's a consequence I'll happily accept, though it's not always pleasant. Whatever the reason, something about this place guarantees that I will hear horns and see swears and hand gestures every time I am there. Once as I was trying to get Emerie out of her car seat, Mirabella at my side, the woman who had been parked beside me talking on her phone rolled down her window and said, "I need to pull out, and I don't want to hit your kid." 

Incredulous, I said, "Hold on just a second, I'm still getting my baby out of the car."  She looked annoyed.  On another recent trip, I saw a woman yelling at another who had tapped her bumper while pulling too far into a spot.   

"Your car's not even damaged!" The very clearly pregnant  defendant cried.   

"We don't know that!" Her accuser yelled, "Not until I drive it! Look, I don't want to upset you, because I can see that your pregnant, but you hit my car."  Police were summoned.   People fight for spots, even when there are some in clear sight.  On my way in Sunday I saw several seemingly mild-mannered women shout obscenities at other drivers.  

Now here's where it stops being about everyone else.  It's easy to condemn others for their actions and attitudes. Believe me, I'm good at it.  But after being in this lot for a minute, I heard myself sarcastically laughing at a driver who was trying to go around me as I waited for a car in front of me to park. "Hold on, honey," I told her, "What's the rush?"  Not a minute later, as I waited for an elderly driver to decide where she was going, "Oh, just park already!" I shouted.  I heard it as soon as I said it.  I am no better.  Over the last few months, I get angry quickly and often without just cause.  I vividly remember my verbal fisticuffs with another shopper when I was pregnant with Mirabella; it scared my sister.  I feel like that a lot lately, but I don't have a pregnancy to blame it on.  It has gotten to the point that I brought it up in my small group as a prayer need.  I am not sure what is at the root of it, but it has to stop.  I'm not the person I want to be.  

So when I heard myself hurrying the old lady so I could get into Trader Joe's faster, I made a decision-- or maybe more of a plea.  Lord, please give me opportunities to show grace. After that, I smiled when drivers pretended not to see me as I walked across the parking lot.  I tried to see it as an opportunity.  

In the store, having collected what was on my list and then some, I stood in the checkout line behind an African woman-- likely from Ghana or Nigeria, I couldn't tell which.  She was dressed as if she had come from church.  Trader Joe's doesn't have a conveyor belt, just a counter, so she was taking items from her cart-- a bag of apples, a chicken, another bag of apples-- placing them on the counter and asking the cashier what each cost.  She looked embarrassed and was clearly fretting over what would have to go back.  I stood watching.  The cashier said, "Are you getting these, or are you still deciding?  It's no rush."  I could see that this was just the kind of opportunity I had been asking for.  I felt butterflies, wondering what I should do; what I would say.   

Finally, I approached her. "Ma'am," I said, touching her arm, "Please pay for whatever you can afford, and let me cover the rest.  I would really like to do this for you."   

Her eyes grew wide, "You mean...you want to pay?"  

"Yes," I said. "Please just pay for however much you can, and we'll do a separate transaction.  I will pay for the rest."   She stood staring for a while. 

"Are you a Christian?" she asked.  

"I am.  Are you?"  She nodded.   

"Oh, the Lord bless you," she said in her lovely accent, " I am just so touched."  I went to put my arm around her, awkwardly, and she hugged me.   

"I am so happy to be able to do this," I said. She paid for her portion and we instructed the cashier to ring the rest up.  We stood in awkward silence while we waited.  And when I swiped my card I felt the weight of something much bigger.  I was paying for $38 worth of groceries. Though the coincidence of the amount struck me, it was not a large sum.  But as I signed my name to cover her debt and saw her visible gratitude, I couldn't help but think of the infinitely larger debt that has been covered for me, for all of us, and I welled up.  

As she steered her cart around me and the befuddled cashier, she said, "Thank you so much.  I am just so moved.  I have to get out of here because I feel like crying.  But thank you.  God bless you."   I smiled and wished her blessings and said you're welcome.  I never know what to say.  

As I started bagging my groceries the cashier squinted at me.  "Is she a friend of yours?"  

"No," I said.  

"That was really kind of you," she said.   I shrugged. And this is the part where I always struggle.  I am not an evangelist.  I have never been comfortable with approaching people on the street or forcing God into a conversation.  It just doesn't seem authentic to me.  And while maybe it works for others, I have mostly abandoned it.  It's why this idea of intentional living is so attractive to me, this idea that if we treat everyone like they matter, we can accomplish the same goal.  And mostly, I think it works.  But it only brings me so far.  It brings me to the point of a stranger asking me why I have showed another stranger kindness, and I choke. 

I said something like, "I just feel like if I see something, and I am able to help, why wouldn't I?"  I didn't mean to, but I gave myself the credit.  I felt terrible.  I tried to think of a way to salvage it, but the moment was gone.  I knew that girl would tell her co-workers and friends later that day about the nice person who performed a random act of kindness, but that wasn't my intent.  I could have talked about how I have been the person whose card was declined in the grocery line.  I could have mentioned times when others have shown me grace for absolutely no reason.  I could have said God has lavished his love on me, and I am called to lavish it on others.  But I didn't.  I walked out, humbled, grateful for the opportunity, and hopeful for another chance.