A Nest With A Revolving Door

I was not prepared for this.

I did what they told me to. Those older wise women in ministry as they reflected reverent behavior. They told us not to slander. Not to drink-if you do, not too much. We were admonished to love our husbands and children. To be discreet in our actions, make sure all of our flirtations and obedience was towards our husbands and NOT make friends with other men. Don’t act like Jezebel. Defer all final decisions to the husband. It’s ok to make suggestions, but in the end his word is law.

It was our job, to make sure God wasn’t blasphemed.

Over the last 20ish years of marriage and kids, I’ve watched my friends feel shame when the economy soured and they went back to work. Those who chose to send their kids to school defending it with, “My husband…” Those who did homeschool explain why their kids needed to go to school. I had friends who wouldn’t invite people over because she wasn’t a good housekeeper.

The cycle continues with the younger moms today. They carry a heavy millstone of obligation to everyone else.

And here I sit.

Two kids in college and yesterday I dropped Girly off for classes that we’ve added to the homeschool schedule. This season is coming to a close.

The season of children.
The season of being that hot wife.
The season of running the home.
The season of everyone else’s agenda.

I’ve spent the last year looking forward to this and also dreading it because it exposes a nasty, uncomfortable question:

What about me?

Friendships were directly tied to who the kids were friends with. Now that most of the boys’ friends are off to college, those moms are off on adventure of discovery. Their nest is completely empty while mine still has a fledglings and a rotating door.

I feel lost.

What about me?

Somehow I got the idea through the women’s ministry to not ask that question. It’s about Jesus. It’s about being God’s representative. It’s about the husband. It’s about the kids.

I feel confused. I’m not the kind of mom who wishes the kids were small again. I’ve loved every stage. Every moment that we passed through was savored. I like being their friend and mentor now. I like watching them make decisions and mistakes themselves. The question haunts:

What about me?

I become irritated with myself. The question sounds pathetic.

So…

In my struggle to find an answer I reflect on all of the women’s retreats, bible studies, groups, sermons and mentoring for an answer. It eludes me. I’m not an older woman who could mentor. I am not a younger woman eager to learn home management, child rearing and husband happiness techniques.

I am in a middle and feel a bit abandoned. I have no clear answer. My thoughts fall to my youth, when the focus simply was loving God and serving others. I wonder if that should have been the message all along.

Finding Good Enough

I am a perfectionist.

Not the kind that does everything perfectly, but the kind that gets anxiety when things aren't perfect. 

When I see a flaw I feel shame. I feel the need to repent. I want to crawl into a hole and lament.

It is the perfect first ingredient in making an anorexic. When I was eating only one meal a day, I felt in control. The little mistakes didn’t hurt as much because my body was in perfect discipline. The best days were when I never even felt hungry. I took Jesus’ words, “Deny yourself and follow me” a little too literally.

Then I found recovery.

First on the agenda was acceptance. I was not perfect. I would make mistakes. I had flaws. The point was to grow from mistakes and strengthen my weaknesses. Jesus knew I was filled with shortcomings. That is why God sent him.

To fulfill the Law.

To make me free.

He was perfect so I didn’t have to be.

The most important application of this new flaw filled life was the need to accept “good enough.” Often I wouldn’t start a project because I knew mistakes would be made. I would measure once and then cut twice. In painting, the outside of my hand would pick up a dollop of wet color and smear it outside the lines. I would panic. Wanting to throw it all away and try again I would hear Holy Spirit’s sweet words:

“It’s an opportunity.”

The blob of paint became a flower.

See, the point was not a perfect project. The point was showing up. Starting, working through the middle and then finishing.

So armed with this new discipline, I began to manage life.

Housework- good enough.

Cooking-good enough.

Relationships…

Now, marriage is not perfect. In fact, it is the opposite of perfect. Marriage is exasperating, refining, puzzling and laughter filled. One of my major snags with Counting Mutant is this:

He’s an accountant.

 An auditor to be precise. He loves to look at a pattern and find the flaw, then point it out so it can be fixed. Then… perfection. With his wisdom and logic, short comings can easily be rectified. Mistakes can be fixed. All of the columns add up.

Earlier this week I talked about my new found freedom of falling. He lovingly messaged me a few errors I might like to rectify. Of course I immediately felt hurt. Vulnerable.  Then I walked through the mantras:

I need to take criticism well.

It is for my own good.

It’s not personal.

He loves me, that’s why he points out my flaws.

Then Holy Spirit turned on that light of understanding:

A Perfectionist married an Auditor.

I realized it wasn’t personal. It was simply a clash of perfectionism. I looked at the critique again. Fixed what I thought was important. Not every mistake needs to be fixed. Sometimes they are left to remind us of grace.

To teach us about Good Enough.