Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much

I don’t think I do too much. I don’t do enough.

The Bath, Mary Cassatt

After the commotion of the evening calmed, I read a few of the meditations searching to see if my offense was truth I needed to face. I found words about addiction and disease. I found admonishments to take time for myself. I found reminders that we have choices in this life. And perhaps that is the key.

I realize that I have choices. Our family is starting a business, and I’m helping to start a school. I have purposefully made these choices. I am not overwhelmed and overtaken because of the seeming chaos around me.

Peace is first internal. I find it in quiet prayers throughout the day. I find it by attempting to match my actions to reality. The children running around here are more important than the door that might fall off its hinges from swinging. Serving all the souls who enter my home is a privilege.

Slipping into bed, I asked my beloved if he thinks I am a workaholic like the book suggested. He worries that I do too much, too. His reply:

No, you just have so much faith. That is why you are busy.

Faith. Really? If those words from the one who knows me best here on earth are true, then my busyness is not some compelling drive for acceptance. It is not my doing at all. If those words are true, my choices simply start with being willing to open my heart, because faith is a gift.

For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, so that no one may boast. (Ephesians 2:8-9)

I ask the little ones to clean their room and the whining starts.

Where does that come from?

Their words express what is in my heart.

I tell them if they can’t clean up they have too much stuff.

They see the plastic bag and the whining turns to screaming. I reassure my girls that I’m not throwing things away. It’s just…there is so little room. We need to store some things for the sake of sanity.

And I grow weary. Headache and heat mixed with the inner turmoil of a soul who craves order and beauty. I pause to pray.

The constant dilapidation into chaos happens in my heart, too.

Setting things right begins internally. It happens when I choose to lay it all down.

It happens when I choose contentment in the midst of chaos.

I remind my soul that this too shall pass. The things around me are temporal. I squint to see with the eyes of faith. Eternal beings are in my care. These precious souls need a good model to follow, but I fail. I wail. I flail.

Discipline is far from me, but can’t it be squeezed in to replace some of the messes within?

And when that happens, the external might just might match the internal.

And then my children will learn habits worthy of modeling.

My girls are busy playing and my teenager emerges to see what is for breakfast. Stomach grumbling turns verbal.

Why do we have to do school today?

Our weekend was too busy.

I try to ignore the moaning, but it’s in my soul, too.

Where is our joy?

We pray, eat together, and lessons begin.

It’s Monday, so I pull out our Thankful Journals.

The day I decided to make these books was a day like the one I described above. The sun had been missing for days. We all felt grumpy. We needed to go to Good News Club in the afternoon, but no one wanted to go.

The internal battle in my own heart was won by gratitude.

I told my soul Good News Club is a wonderful opportunity. It is work. It can be hard, but it is worth the effort. It is an act of worship, an act of love.

As I considered my own internal raging, I thought of my kids. They have opportunities, too. They are blessed, but have they been counting their blessings?

I asked the kids to wait while I went to rummage in the shed.

When I came back, I carried a stack of composition books. Four were brand-new, but a pile of others where full of handwriting and pictures.

Those full books were the journals I made while they were babies. I read a few bits of the prayers I prayed for each of them. I told them that we were going to make something similar.

Scrapbook paper, magazines, and old calendars soon littered the floor as my children found images they wanted to glue onto their notebooks. I joined them in the cutting and gluing and soon we each had our own special place to record our blessings.

These are our Thankful Journals. We pull them out every Monday morning to chase away the grumbling and complaining.

My children grab their books and scatter.  It only takes a few moments to record their thanksgiving, but those moments change the rest of our day.

Inspired by One Thousand Gifts. {Disclosure: This is an affiliate link. If you purchase items from Christianbook.com after clicking this link, I receive a few pennies.}

How is it that sharing my passion with strangers-who-became-friends was easier than exposing my soul living here? Here where so many have invested in me. Here where I bump into those long-loved and begin to love anew.

There are so many individual stories to catch up on, but there is a knowing. Maybe that knowing is what I fear.

photo credit: Robb North

Dylan and I packed our bus and went to Texas to mission training school, but it wasn’t our doing. Generosity was our income and faith was our food.

The people who live here paid our way. Names noted one by one. Faces of saints who believed in us. Families who prayed and cared and gave with an open hand.

There is a weight to those gifts.

I was going to the other side of the world, not Idaho. Sent out more than once, yet called back with a dim idea that I can make a difference. But who am I?

Voices say I am a prayer warrior, a good friend, a giver of grace…The words swirl around my heart. Then they quietly slip to the floor.

I know who I really am.

I am fickle, lazy, prideful. I talk too much and listen too little. My patience fails and my selfishness flares. I am a sinner.

Don’t expect much from me, but expect everything from the Savior.

Somewhere along the way, He taught me the risk of love was worth it.

Somewhere along the way, He taught me where I end and someone else begins.

Somewhere along the way, He humbled me by pulling me out of my myopia.

I am crushed by His mercy.

Vulnerability is having the ability to be wounded. Yes, that is what I still fear. Being misunderstood, being screamed at again, being stripped of even more of my pride. Hurting my family. Losing my friends. But does fear help? No, it hinders.

Love reaches out in spite of fear.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. (I Corinthians 13: 4-6)

Love recognizes that we are all somewhere along the way…

After almost thirteen years of parenting, I wonder if I need to change my definition of perfect time.

It’s imagination that says I accomplish great things after everyone else is asleep. The opposite is often true. My brain is bleary from the work of the day, so I stare at the wall or click link after link on the never-ending internet. Then next morning an empty coffee cup follows me because I experienced perfect time.

Instead of pining for hours of quiet and wasting the rare moments of solitude, can I be diligent in the minutes I have throughout the day?

It is hard to focus in the multitasking of motherhood and homeschool, but what if I fill in the lesson plans while my son works on his math? What if I type out a few sentences when inspiration strikes?

What if I stop grumbling about not having time alone and focus more on why I’m not alone?

I get to homeschool three amazing children. It is messy and delightful, frustrating and rewarding. There are so many things wrapped up in this choice, but I don’t want it any other way (usually).