On Being Perfect

Inside this envelop...

 

 

Was this picture.

He waved a wrinkled piece of paper clutched in his dirty, toddler hand. “This is you,” Bryce said. In the center of the paper was a large circle with two straight lines extending from the bottom. Filling the circle were two large dots.

“This is a really neat picture, sweetheart. Tell me about it.” I picked him up and he settled into my lap.

“This is you, Mom,” he said again. Pride burst from his eyes. Together, we identified the parts of the picture I recognized - the head, legs and eyes.

“But where are my arms?” I teased, giving him a tight squeeze.

“Right here.” He pointed to either side of the circle. Although we couldn’t see them, he knew exactly where they were.

“And, where is my hair?” I was curious now about the different way we saw the picture. He pointed to the top of the circle, as if my short, blond hair was obviously visible to anyone who could see it. It didn’t take long for me to understand that to my son, his picture was perfect. Nothing was missing and everything was in its place. To anyone else, his simple drawing would be lacking key elements, incomplete and unfinished. Bryce didn’t care about any of that, nor did I. His perception of perfection was based on a different set of criteria. He saw more than just lines. He saw me.

Time has passed since that discussion and his portrait has found a permanent place on the fridge. Nearly every day, I pause for a few minutes and look at his “perfect” picture of me. Hidden inside the simple lines of a stick figure are valuable lessons for how to approach the criteria, or idea, of what it means to be perfect.

To be perfect doesn’t mean you need to have or be everything. As mothers, we are asked to wear multiple hats of responsibility each day. We cook and clean for our families. We volunteer in the school and help with homework. We support our children in various activities and sports. Many of us have responsibilities with our community or church, not to mention any personal interests or hobbies. Each one of these hats comes with its own list of responsibilities and expectations, including an elusive image of perfection for each particular job. The pressure is great to do everything and be everything for everyone.

There are plenty of days when I run at full speed, trying to juggle responsibilities and reach for the image of perfection. I switch hats like a skilled magician and do my best to rise to the expectations. Unfortunately, in my efforts to meet the expectation of perfection in various mothering obligations, I can’t remember if I took the time to actually connect with my children. I volunteered in the school, cleaned a bathroom and mended a blouse. I helped the children finish homework, do chores and get to practice but I can’t remember if I stopped chasing perfection long enough to say “I love you.”

To be perfect doesn’t mean I need to be the best at everything that is asked of me as a mother. Just as my son’s drawing didn’t have all the parts one might expect, I don’t have to be perfect under all the different hats I wear. Oftentimes, the truest perfection can be found, simply in ensuring that my family knows I love them, by slowing down long enough to make the time to connect with them and tell them “I love you.”

To be perfect means you “see.” Considering all the things that were left out of my son’s perfect picture, the eyes were not missing. In fact, they were front and center. I love looking into my son’s eyes when he talks. His expressions are contagious as he opens his eyes wide with excitement or squints with a question. They sparkle with a joke and tear up when he is sad. I get more than words when I look my child in his eyes as we talk. It is when we are eye to eye, that we truly connect.

The stick figure portrait is a reminder that my children want to see my eyes and connect with me. It has been said that the eyes are the window to the soul. When I take the time to look into the eyes of my children and really see them, the exhausting activity level of my grade-schooler becomes enthusiasm and the tireless mess-making of my toddler becomes curiosity.  

To be perfect means that I see my children as the amazing individuals they are. I find glimpses of perfection when I connect with my children eye to eye, soul to soul.

To be perfect is a process.  My son’s perfect portrait of me, drawn with simple lines, will eventually be tucked away in a special place to be treasured for years to come. As he grows and matures, he will draw other pictures and they will be different than the first. Surely in later pictures missing parts will be added as he includes arms, hair and a smile among other attributes.

As a mother, I too will grow and mature. It is logical and mercifully reassuring that my image of perfection must shift and change as well, becoming more complete with each new phase of growth. I believe motherhood is a living, breathing calling in life, always changing, getting better and better. Should we not allow our image of perfection to do the same?

It is tempting to make our image of perfection complicated, with expectations beyond any of our reach. What I have learned through my son’s depiction of perfection is that it doesn’t have to be complicated. In fact, perfection can really be quite simple because it begins with where you already are and grows with you. Your picture of perfection will always be uniquely yours. It should be celebrated, appreciated and treasured.

Celebrate good times...c'mon!

Earlier this week, I posted this picture on facebook and said this:
"2nd revision. 2 day deadline on Saturday. So, I'm giving myself a little time to cry and I'll eat something really bad for me then I guess I'll get to work. There's a lot more red than black on these pages. I'm just sayin'.... "

It's the 2nd revision from my editor at Segullah. (That's still thrilling to say... My Editor. I'm learning to own it, Jen.) My deadline was in 2 days and I was feeling the crunch on top of children's homework, a family wedding and cousins visiting from California with whom I really wanted to spend time.

So I sat at the computer, said a prayer and started to revise. A little later a friend came to the door bearing a gift. A cold, chocolately ice cream gift. A little later in the day, another friend stopped by with a bag of goodies, some of my favorite goodies, involving chocolate and peanut butter.

They both relayed sentiments similar to the many amazing comments on facebook. Beautiful validation and support.

My heart swelled like a sponge soaking in the outpouring of love and friendship I felt from those reaching out to offer encouragement and support, through their words, well wishes and thoughtful gifts. Who am I to deserve any of this?

As I've reflected on this over the weekend, I've learned two things.

#1. I want to be that kind of friend to others. Because it's a big deal and goes a long way to feel so much love. I want to support and encourage friends as they achieve goals and work toward their dreams. I want to be aware of and involved in what my friends, family, spouse and children are doing so I can offer the same love and strength to them with which I have been so blessed.

The problem is I'm sort of a blockhead and I'm just not that aware. Too often I'm not paying attention, I'm wrapped up in myself or just plain distracted. It happens, doesn't it? We want to do something. We're ready and willing, we just don't know who or how. That leads me to #2.

#2. Say Something. Let your friends and family know what you're working on, dreaming about, struggling with. We want to know! (And you may get yummy treats and amazing words of affirmation.) I'm reminded of the book "Mutant Message Down Under" by Marlo Morgan. She writes about the lessons she learned on a walk-about with an aboriginal tribe. At one point, she is trying to describe birthday parties to the tribe and they are clueless. They don't celebrate birthdays.

"If you don't celebrate getting older," I said, "what do you celebrate?"
"Getting better," was the reply. "We celebrate if we are a better, wiser person this year than last. Only you would know, so it is you who tells the others when it is time to have the party."
And later in the book -
"...it is in recognition of the uniqueness and contribution to life. They believe that the purpose for the passage of time is to allow a person to become better, wiser, to express more and more of one's beingness. So if you are a better person this year than last, and only you know that for certain, then you call for the party. Whe you say you are ready, everyone honors that."

I LOVE this concept. Hence, one of the reasons I posted on facebook in the first place. And I'm so grateful to the friends who are joining me in my journey and my celebration.

And for the rest of us knuckleheads, let's all celebrate with each other more often. Just remember, YOU can be the one to tell us when it is time to have the party!



published on Segullah

Head over to Segullah and read my essay. Its been a while since I've been published, so here is the latest. You might have already read it on the blog and that's ok. Go over and re-read it and comment. It might be just the thing you need as you gear up for another Sunday.

Opening Services

A Morning Devotional

I wasn’t quite sure what woke me up at first. The sound was distorted coming through the ceiling into my basement room. I turned onto my back, rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stared at the ceiling. Slowly the sounds started to morph into words I could understand. It sounded like singing. “There is sunshine in my soul today.” A smile moved the corners of my mouth. It was my grandparents, singing in the new day.

I moved in with my grandparents when I went to college. I only lived with them for a couple of semesters and the arrangement was simple. I was to help with house and yard work and take Grandpa’s blood pressure every night and they would provide me with a room in which to sleep and study, and use of their kitchen and laundry room. It was a good arrangement, more in my favor than theirs.

My bedroom was right beneath my grandparents. While my room was furnished with one twin bed, a dresser and a desk, my grandparents’ had two hospital beds in their room. Their ninety-year-old bodies were frail, tired and worn from living a full life. This necessitated their separate beds, fully equipped with remote controls. As a youth, my siblings and I found it fun and entertaining to lay on their beds and watch TV, propped up, being able to raise our head or feet or both, as we pleased.

Listening to their warbled singing, I reflected on the night before. I had gone into their room to do the routine blood pressure check and I saw my grandfather, tethered by his oxygen tank, near my grandma’s bed. There was a buzzing sound in the room. He was hard of hearing, even with his hearing aids in, so I walked closer to get his attention. I saw in his hands an electric massager, the origin of the buzzing sound. I stood back, not wanting to interrupt.  My grandma lay on her stomach on her bed as he methodically ran the massager up and down her back.

Grandma worked hard. She was a nurse by training and a teacher by default. She was always learning and always eager to impart her knowledge. In the most recent years of her life, she hosted learning circles and study groups at her home. She worked hard to take care of Grandpa, especially with his declining health. Grandpa recognized this and always made sure to say thank you. But that night, words weren’t enough. He wanted to show her by rubbing out the stress and strain in her muscles with a massage. Knowing he didn’t have the strength himself, he pulled out that electric massager and did his best to relieve any stress and discomfort she had before going to bed. I heard him whisper, “Thank you,” and she sighed in reply. It was a tender moment I wouldn’t interrupt. When I returned later to attend to my duties and wish them good night, the lights were dim and they were both laying in their own separate hospital beds.

I let the memory of the night before fall off of me and decided to join my grandparents in their impromptu morning devotional. I quickly dressed and jumped the stairs, two at a time, to their bedroom. I stopped short at the door. Grandma, although I could hear her low, scratchy morning voice still singing, was not in her bed. I took a step further into the room and looked at Grandpa’s bed. There she was, snuggled deeply into the curve of Grandpa’s arm. His fingers gently caressed her shoulder, her arm draped gently across his chest, fingers stroking the oxygen tube that was his lifeline to this failing body. His chest rose and fell with the phrasing of the song they continued to sing. I snuck back downstairs, humming along and prepared a simple breakfast of toast and applesauce, accompanied by their beautiful music all the while.

It wasn’t very long after that morning that Grandpa passed away, peacefully at home in that same hospital bed. A few years later, Grandma followed. They had been married for 64 years. I often think about the compassion I witnessed between my grandparents. They loved each other, that was sure. Living with them for over a year, I witnessed arguments and frustrations. Neither of them was perfect. I also witnessed contrition and forgiveness. They didn’t just love in word, but through their actions and service and compassion for each other.  On still mornings, I can still hear their deep, warbled voices singing down through my ceiling. They sing of love and compassion, of forgiveness and joy. They urge me to snuggle into my husband, still full of health and vigor, and to sing softly into his ear, “There is sunshine in my soul today.”

(I originally wrote this as a submission for an e-book about Lessons I Learned From My Parents, then I decided not to submit. I wanted to share it anyway.)

Posting at Power of Moms today

My essay "Tying Knots" is live over at Power of Moms. You may have already read it but go check it out again. I know I need the reminder again and again, especially when the kids are home all the day and the chances of a mommy melt-down increase.

Capturing the Rainbow

There was still a trace of rain in the air as I drove south on the interstate.  The road stretched flat and straight to the horizon.  Fortress-like mountains reached high on the east while a flat, gray lake bordered the west.  Heavy gray rainclouds slowly dispersed behind me.  It was the perfect set-up for the framed by my windshield.  A beautiful display of color majestically arched through the sky.  The rainbow appeared to actually rest on the road in the distance ahead of me. 

Rainbows are so many different kinds of beautiful, I thought.  Sometimes the backdrop is a gray sky, sometimes the air sparkles like diamonds, with leftover water droplets from a sudden summer afternoon shower.  Sometimes the rainbow arches the entire sky and other times you catch just a glimpse or portion of the colorful crescent - a smattering of color between straggling clouds.  Many have attempted to capture the elusive beauty of their shape, color and reflection of light in art, photography or prose.  Of course none have been able to capture the rainbow itself.

As I drove, keeping an eye on the rainbow ahead, my heart was filled with the longing that my pre-teen daughter know she’s as stunning as a rainbow.  “Oh Sydney,” I would say.  “A rainbow isn’t beautiful because of its shape or color or reflection.  It’s beautiful because it was created by God.  The rainbow was created from the beginning to be breath-takingly beautiful and yet to signify something even more beautiful.  It holds a promise for the future, a promise of His love and deliverance. It’s not merely a reflection of light but of light and truth, goodness and divine beauty.  That is representative of who you are.   

“The world would want you to think that beauty lies in shape and color.  There are those who will tell you that the reflection that matters is reputation, accomplishment, physical features and comparison.  That image of beauty is as fleeting and unattainable as grasping the colors of a rainbow. Your true beauty is that you were created by God.

“When a rainbow is seen for what it was divinely created to be, it is the true beauty, glory and love of the God who created it.  Sydney, when see your body, mind and heart, I want you to also see the God who created you.  For He is there, in the intricate details of who you are.  He created you to be beautiful, to rise in His glory and to love and be loved.  When you truly see yourself as a daughter of God and recognize His reflection within you, I think you will find the end of your rainbow.”

I could see through the windshield, where the rainbow ended.  It was straight ahead in the middle of the interstate. If I could just keep my eye on it, I would drive right through it. Before I had finished the thought, the carnival of light had disappeared. One quick glance back confirmed the color was behind me. But it’s reflection of truth was still with me.