Not doing "all the things"

When my friend means she's overwhelmed by all she has to do (which feels like EVERYTHING), she says has to do "all the things."
I love this saying and have adopted it as my own.
Recently I visited a friend in Kentucky, and we joked about our shared sense of guilt for not signing up our kids for "all the things." When we were kids, we played a different sport every season and maybe took music lessons, but that was it. I had a couple of friends who played summer club sports and others who played two sports a season, but not many.
As a mom today, I feel like I'm failing if my kids aren't 100% dedicated to multiple things, playing that sport and taking those lessons year round, for six days a week. Or, I feel similarly incompetent as a 21st-century mom if my kids aren't taking music, gymnastics, soccer, and art, plus volunteering to bathe sick puppies three days a week.
What if I fail to introduce my kids to the one thing that will make their life perfect and give it ultimate meaning? What if my kid is the next Joshua Bell but misses her chance because I failed to put a violin in her hands when she was five? What if my son is the next Lin Manuel Miranda but will never get his "shot" because we don't live in NYC where he can take all of the dance, voice, and music classes? What if? What if?! WHAT IF??!!
IF I don't do "all the things" so my kids can do ALL THE THINGS, then I HAVE FAILED as an American mom in the 2010s.
No joke.
That's the message we all receive. And that's the message my friend and I laughed about, with more than a hint of lament.
No, we will not sacrifice all of our time so that our kids can do "all the things."
I am going to say "no" to things, not just for scheduling or financial reasons, but because I want family time. I want my kids to have downtime. And I just don't want to drive all the time and feel stressed.
And I'm not going to feel guilty about that. We make sacrifices for one another as a family all the time but we have to decide where we draw the line and for what reasons.
I have friends who do all the things and I'm happy for them and proud of them, but that's not the type of mom I am, and my kids will turn out just fine. The life my husband and I want for ourselves, for each other, and for our family includes lots of spontaneous trips and activities.
Friends, this doesn't make my guilt disappear. I still have moments of worry that I haven't introduced my kids to their perfect instrument or perfect sport. The blaring message out there of the high standards expected of me as a mother today is deafening and not to be ignored. But when the guilt comes, I take a breath and remind myself why I have chosen to be the kind of mom that I am. I am parenting in a way authentic to myself, and I'm pretty happy with who I am. The best mom I can be is the one that flows from me as I am, not who I'm "supposed" to be.

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.