Letting the Fruit Go

The mark of a successful and faithful disciple is that she will "bear good fruit." Paul, the evangelists, the psalmists, and even Jeremiah tell us over and over again that righteous people who have a healthy relationship with God will bear fruit. The fruit proves that we are living according to God's will and commandments.

Jesus compares himself to the vine and his followers to the branches in the Gospel of John in the fifteenth chapter. God the Father establishes and tends the "true vine" of Jesus Christ and Christ's faithful followers are the branches. We are inextricably connected to Jesus and the father by our dedication and belief. It's a very straightforward analogy: if we nurture and strengthen our relationship with Christ, we will bear fruit; if we turn away from that relationship, the branch cannot be nourished from the vine and we wither, fruitless. A solid and constant connection with Christ is productive and helps us build up the kingdom of heaven. A bad relationship is bad for the branch and renders it impotent. 

But here's what scripture doesn't tell us: It's damn difficult to let go of the fruit! The authors of the books of the Bible leave the story at the point where the branch or tree has born fruit, as if that's some sort of "happily ever after." 

Faith doesn't end once the fruit has formed and waits to fall from the branch. In many ways, the biggest leap of faith is yet to come, when we let the fruit go, allowing it to fall to the ground. What if the fruit doesn't fall on good soil? What if it's carried away by a bird? What if it falls among the weeds? Or what if it doesn't grow the way we think it should grow?

The "fruit of our loins" may be the easiest comparison. We bear children and try our best to shelter them, feed them, water them, nurture them until they are ripe and ready for the wider world. The fruit most often is more ready to let go than the branch is ready to release it. What if they get lost? What if they wander too far from the vine or even the whole vineyard? What if they forget to wear their jacket and catch cold? As long as the fruit hangs on the branch, the branch can make sure the fruit is safe and loved.

But a fruit that hangs to the branch past maturity will dry out and die, unable to unfold its own roots into the soil and reach its branches toward the heavens. The fruit has a purpose that it cannot pursue as long as it remains on the branch.

Ministry is no different. We listen to God's call to start or join a ministry and we put our everything into that work, that purpose. We invest, nurture, love, attend committee meetings, stay up late stuffing envelopes, open up and close down the church, and set tables and cook for hundreds. Under our care the ministry grows and flourishes. Other people see the fruit of our efforts and are energized. They join in the work and share how God is calling them to contribute and shape it. Soon, something causes us to step back and realize that it's no longer "our" ministry but that of the community. Later, we feel God calling us elsewhere and we have to allow others to pick up the fruit we worked so hard to cultivate and nourish.

Starting a new ministry isn't easy, same as starting a new family. Let's face it: we have no idea what we're doing. We're not fully equipped for the demands of the job.  That new baby arrives and we stare at the first full diaper and wonder what we were thinking. Similarly, we volunteer to start a new ministry to reach out to battered women then realize we've never once had a conversation with a victim of abuse. Through the gifts of the spirit, trust in God, perseverance, forgiveness, and a lot of gumption, we make it work. We figure it out.

And then it's time to let go. Just when we thought we knew how to trust in God, we turn in time to see the fruit falling from the branch. Holy crap. This whole time we've been swimming in five foot water, deep enough for us to trust in God to buoy us but shallow enough we can reach our big toe to bounce on solid ground. Letting the fruit go feels like being shoved over to tread above an abyss and forced to watch our most precious treasure sink beyond our site. 

God says to us, "Well done, good and faithful servant. Now it's time to let go, little one. I've got it from here." With a mixture of heartbreak, pride, insecurity, helplessness, and a compulsive urge to grab to regain control, we look back at God and decide. Will we close our fists tightly around the fruit? Will we shout, "No! Not yet! I'm not ready?" Or will we muster a depth of faith that has never been demanded of us before? Will we be able to loosen our grasp and, with love, release the thing we've given all of our love and attention, all the while knowing it was never ours to begin with?

We read and hear, "Don't hold on too tightly." This saying is popularly plastered on Pinterest, placards, t-shirts, and signs and are good words. The fruit can't mature if it's too sheltered from the sun, water, and wind. We must give it room to breathe. 

The other side should read, "Now let the fruit go!" Trust God. The fruit is ready because of your hard work and love. You did as God asked of you and now this part of your work is done. It's time to relinquish your sense of control. You've been responsible and have done well. It's time for the fruit to fall and pursue it's own purpose, even if it doesn't take the perfectly planned path you made for it.

"Popular" Does Not Equal Popular

Flash back to the sixth grade with me. Like every other sixth grade in history, we had a group of "popular" girls, who today would be called "mean girls" or "queen bees." It doesn't matter what you call them, the scenario is the same: a clique of girls rules the roost that is sixth grade in America. They have inside jokes, usually timed to make outsiders feel even more like outsiders. They laugh and cast sideways glances and sing songs taught to them by older siblings, rendering them just "the coolest."

For the better part of sixth grade, we were at the mercy of these girls. They decided who was in or out, what was cool, what clothes were trendy and what backpack was the fashion for that year. This was standard fare. The rest of us went along with it, wanting to make our hair look just-so but failing. These were the girls who the boys crushed on and who the boys asked to "go" with them. Surely we all wanted to be a part of that group, right?

The class trip that year was to Huntsville, Alabama, to visit the space center. Needless to say, we were completely excited about this. We reported to the school bright and early the morning of the trip and found two fifteen-passenger vans waiting for us (remember those days?). Oh. No. This meant the class had to divide up between the two vans, which left one fundamental question: who would end up in the van with the popular girls?

It would be understandable if you heard that question to mean "who would GET to ride in the van with the popular girls." Wouldn't this be the perfect opportunity to get in their group? To prove just how cool we were and could hang? That makes sense, but that is not how we felt. We were afraid we would get stuck in the car with the popular girls and suffer through several hours of inside jokes, sideways glances, and eye rolls.

One of the chaperones came to the side of the vans and said something that relieved us of our crippling stress: we didn't have to divide ourselves evenly between the vans. All they cared about was that everyone was on a van and ready to go. We did the only reasonable thing to be expected and all piled into one van while the popular girls piled into the other. Granted, there were twice as many of us as the popular girls, so we crammed into our van while they had plenty of room to spread out in theirs. They were delighted to have a whole van to themselves and we were delighted to not have to spend the next few hours with the "popular" girls.

Once we were on our way, I started thinking about the other van and looked at all the smiling and laughing faces in our van. That's when the confusion and realization set in: why were they the popular girls when none of us wanted to be around them? Was popularity as arbitrary as it now seemed to my sixth grade brain? Yes. Yes it was.

In an instant, I was liberated and learned a lesson that has carried me most of my life. It seems "popular" does not equal popular. We don't have to struggle to shoehorn ourselves into someone else's definition of what is cool or awesome or trendy because it's all made-up. Those are cultural constructs. Riding in a van from Georgia to Alabama I was surrounded by awesome kids who were laughing and having a great time because we had been freed from the prison of appealing to popularity. Suddenly we could be 100% authentically ourselves and we were having a blast. It was more fun not to give a rip about the popular girls.

Never again did I chain myself to the idea that "popular" was better. Never again did I try to jump into the popularity contest. I could simply be myself with my quirky fashion choices and goofy personality.

Friends, when your kiddos are struggling because of queen bees and boys who act like they're "all that," tell them about my van ride to Alabama and let them know it does get better. Tell them life is way more fun when you stop caring what the popular kids think and, instead, find the people who want to be with you just as you are. Be popular with the people who are comfortable in their own skin and thrive in diversity.

As a footnote, we all grew up and grew out of our popularity obsession. I became friends with all of those girls. No surprise to anyone, they have had the same trials and challenges of adulthood as the next person. Also, I'm still having fun dancing in the grocery store aisles and wearing clothes no one else seems to wear.

Honest to Kids

"Honest to God" is the saying I grew up hearing but it should be "Honest to kids." God already knows the truth, so being honest  to God is no real challenge. I imagine we all sound like 5-year-olds to God: "Momma, ducks like water;"
"Momma, rain falls from the sky;"
"Momma, I just passed gas." Thanks, Captain Obvious.

God must feel like this all the time. "Honest to God, I had no idea what I was doing."
God thinks, "No joke. Tell me something I didn't know. . . Oh, wait. You can't."

Kids, on the other hand, are a whole other matter.

"Momma, where do babies come from?"

"Momma, why is your belly big and wobbly?"

"Momma, why did that guy with a gun kill all those students?" Honest to kids is much harder.

It isn't hard because they can't handle the truth. It's because I can't. Being honest with them means being honest with myself and being vulnerable. They'll know their daddy and I had sex! They'll know I eat more than I exercise and I'll feel ashamed! They'll know there is evil in the world and people are capable of terrible things! What if they turn out like me? What if they lose their sense of safety?

I want the bubble! Give me the bubble!!

Maybe this is why my generation is full of super-strength helicopter parents. We don't want to face the harsh realities ourselves and all our kids will have to deal with sooner rather than later.

The life I want is one in which sex isn't a taboo subject that causes embarrassment, I am super-fit and can eat whatever I want, and people don't take automatic weapons to shoot up schools.

But that's not a life I can have.

So, I have to accept life as it is and strive for the life I should have: One in which my kids know I'll be honest with them, no matter how hard. One in which they know how deeply we love them no matter their shape or size. One in which they are equipped to face the world.

This is the life I choose, even though it's not the life I want. And it's a life that's way harder.

And that's ok. We were built to survive and do hard things, not wrap ourselves in a bubble. 

That said, it doesn't mean I won't try plenty of bubbles on for size.

The Losses of Gain

This morning my son said “Mommy, I miss Toccoa.” We moved from that city to our new home this summer and occasionally our kids will wax nostalgic about our old home. My immediate reaction has been to worry that they aren’t adjusting to their new surroundings and that I’m not doing a good job helping them settle in and make new friends.

But that’s not what my son meant. He wasn’t making a negative comment about our current home. He’s adjusting just fine, as are our girls. All three have made friends, love their new school and being in Rabun County. He simply was mourning the losses that have come from the change.

Somewhere along the line we are taught that we should only be happy when positive things happen to us. When we have a new baby we are to be elated all the time. When a new and better job comes our way, it’s all balloons and “congratulations!” Weddings are all about celebrating and sending the couple off into their “happily ever after.”

But that’s not real, is it? Even though these are exciting and positive events, they are still changes and with every change comes some kind of loss. The new parents have the joy of a new baby but that baby means the end of their days of spontaneity and a lot of their free time. They can’t decide to walk out the door at a moment’s notice to go to a movie or on a couples’ weekend. Similarly, a new job with better pay also means leaving coworkers and friends, a support network, at the previous job. And all of us who are married know the myth that “happily ever after” means all sunshine and roses. We commit ourselves to one another out of a deep and abiding love, but that commitment includes forever taking someone else’s needs and desires into account. In getting married, we give up the rights to our self-centered impulses that once ruled our lives as single people.

My son was pointing out the obvious: when we gained our new life here, there are opportunities and relationships in our old lives that have been missed, lost, or forever changed. He wasn’t making a condemnation of the new, just recognizing that he misses some of the old.

Too often we don’t allow ourselves time and space to mourn the losses that come with the gain. Somehow we’ve decided that all loss is bad and mourning is a sign of failure. We willfully deny that loss is fundamentally a part of any change, no matter how positive that change may be. We don’t want to admit any sadness in the face of improvement and progress. Celebration is only about joy and happiness.

But that’s not the way of the world. Quite often we are unable to fully engage the elation of positive change because we’re denying all that we’ve lost, even for good reason. There’s no shame in mourning losses, regardless of the nature of the change. I miss things about my former job and our former town. That’s not to say I’m unhappy with where I am now. I love my new church and our new community. But moving here was a change and with that change came the loss of the life we knew.

My son had a simple word for me: that he missed his old life. My Mom Anxiety wanted to jump to the rescue. I wanted to espouse the fabulousness of his new house, new school, new town. I wanted to cover up the sadness and loss because I have bought into the dysfunction that sadness can only mean there's something wrong and that I have to be the one to fix it.

No. He just wanted to tell me that he wished he had gotten to have a play date with one of his friends from preschool before we moved (That brought on the other familiar emotion, Mom Guilt). He was not saying that the many play dates and sleepovers he's had here were not enough or inadequate. He was not saying that he wanted to move back and hated where he is now. He simply was missing one thing, one "could have been" from our old life. That's all.

And that's o.k., healthy even.

The lies we don't tell

We all lie on social media. Most of us don't even know we're doing it.
I'm not talking about all the "fake news" articles we share, thought that is a problem.
I'm talking about the image we project on our various Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc., accounts.
I'll admit it, I'm guilty. I only post good pictures and cute snippets of stories. I'm showing our best lives: the smiling or funny faces, delicious meals, and fun activities. I'm not posting pics of the complaining faces from the car full of grumpy people after a week and a half on the road. I won't go home and post the filthy house and piles of laundry waiting for me.
It's called "lying by omission." We deceive one another by leaving out important details. In the case of social media, those are the details of all of the crap we deal with between the share-worthy moments. I'm willing to bet this lying by omission is contributing to other people's depression. For that matter, we add to our own anxiety and depression when we cruise Instagram or Facebook and believe the lie that everyone else seems to be "getting it right," when we feel like we must be failing.
Am I going to start showing you all the piles of dirty laundry in our hallway? Probably not. But I'll try to be better. I'll try to share with you more of the average and even bad days so you don't run the risk of believing everything in my life is always picture perfect.
I'm also going to choose to look at your posts with a healthier and more honest filter. I'm going to remind myself that before you took that perfection family photo on the beach, you finished a stressful 6-10 hour drive, complete with 5+ hours of "are we there yet." I'll know that before the pic of the smiling kid in front of the perfect birthday cake, that same kid had a total meltdown because he wanted the blue balloons, not the red ones, and that you spent ten minutes in the grocery store trying to find a miraculous way to procure said blue balloons before realizing you had to settle for the red ones.
Don't believe the lies I don't tell and I'll try not to believe yours. Instead, I'll remember to celebrate the perfect story you tell in spite of the bumps and false turns and failures that preceded your post.
Remember, we capture and share the wonderful moments because we want to be able to go back to them the rest of the time. The memories give us hope that the smiles will come again.
And, just for you, some mundane photos of my everyday reality:

Why are there always so many towels?!

Yes. Those are Christmas towels in April, still waiting to be put in one of many storage boxes. 

And this is my home desk on a good day.