not so grateful.

i wanted to check in here before the week screams ahead of me, this fantastic holiday week.  we’re hosting thanksgiving for 29 people in our living room this year.  eek!!  the tables are fresh, the turkey is ready for pick-up, & my cousins are bringing pie.  truly a fortunate week.  {on a side note, i’ve never been so glad to be a minimalist:  pull the couch downstairs, shove the keyboard in girl’s room, carry the reading basket to the basement, & voila!  dining hall.  badda bing, badda boom.}thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  i don’t yet have to conjure gift lists to check off again, no fudge to stir yet, no what-am-i-going-to-get-my-mother-in-law.  just dinner.  dinner – one of my favorite things – with family around & some thoughts thrown down toward gratitude.  except that this year, i’ve not really gotten around to the gratitude part.

& i can tell i am less when i forget gratitude.

the truth is, as much as i want to be grateful, i’m just not very good at it.  like how i’ve always wanted to run a (half) marathon, but i don’t actually run (i used to.  lay off.)  i forget to say “thank You” for the everyday things:  the sun warm in the window & my cozy bed with little tiny boys sleeping against my shoulder & just even waking up at all in the morning.  it takes time to note these things, & frankly, i’ve got better things to do.


i also forget to say “thank You” for the big ticket items.  like praise sweet Jesus that i’m not sick when every other member of my family was throwing up this week, or that the sick we had isn’t something far worse, because it could be, you know.  plenty of people have it worse, & if i can turn my cute little nose (it actually is.  ask anyone.) away from those more affluent, more talented, more beautiful than i am, i can actually look my life gratefully in the eye.

but then, hello, there are the rotten things that i absolutely never think to say thanks for. because, obviously.  they’re awful.  losing my hair.  andy losing his job.  uprooting & finding ourselves strangers YET AGAIN in a foreign land (WI).  (kind of just kidding.)

i read ann voskamp a couple years ago, & in her NY times best-seller One Thousand Gifts she encourages a body to say thanks to God for everything.  because that’s how the apostle paul laid it down in the new testament:  “in everything, give thanks;  this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”  (1 thess 5:18).

but that’s a terrible idea.

except that it isn’t, & that’s the gig, right?  i didn’t know i could say “thanks” for puke.  that’s ridiculous.  but if i had gotten my head around a simple “thank you,” i know my brainwave would’ve changed.  instead of fear gripping my tiny heart, or frustration, i could’ve sat squarely in the peace of a quiet house with sick kiddos, reading a book to them by the white noise of the humidifier diffusing lavendar oil into the air.  which we did for awhile.  but i also slugged around a hefty slab of harumph along with a bazillion loads of laundry up & down the stairs.  this was not what i had in mind when i looked out into the week & saw a blank slate. heck, no.  a full week of stomach flu will not ever be on my agenda.  (duh.)

but that’s where we land, the challenge of thanksgiving.  God has done the whole world for me, & will keep on doing it.  that’s who He is.  & i can either keep harumphing at the things i don’t like, or i can turn my hands up & offer a “thanks”.  the sick wasn’t so bad, & the really rotten things?  it turns out they’re turning out, in their own way.  & really, i don’t know what the heck is going on down here.  i mean, when the plan changes, i could actually be grateful that i’m not powerful enough to have screwed it up.  i ought to be jazzed that my will doesn’t win.

my life:  a little like this old candleholder.  kind of screwed up but hopefully shining a light anyway.  

anyway, that’s what i’m thinking about, as the kids are playing pool behind me & making our basement into a nightclub (lights low, cheese on a plate with toothpicks.  i don’t know what they’ve been watching, but whatever.).

i just wanted you to know if you wrestle with feeling grateful this week, you’re not alone.  i get it.  & thanks.  thanks for keeping it real.

i think this thanksgiving’s gonna rock.

happy t-day my friends.

authenticity is way too much work.

we’re hosting a dinner party at our house tonight, a pizza night with brownies & icecream & coffee & people we don’t know very well.  i’m cleaning bathrooms & sweeping dry garbanzo beans off the floor & straightening the longterm mess.  there’s the I-should-get-it-together-because-they’ve-never-been-here-before clause.  except that, honestly, I can’t actually get it together.  not in the way that I would like to, I mean.  not in a pinteresting way.  not in an instagram-worthy way.  the jill-has-it-together way.  because, honestly.  jill doesn’t really have it together very much at all.

the toddler wants to drink his milk out of the starbucks’ refresher can, for goodness sake.
I came here for your commiseration, obviously.

i’m also writing questions for our small group meeting on sunday. the topic?  authenticity.  of course it is.  authenticity is such the buzzword in our culture right now.  we all want to be our truest selves.  I love this!!  I’ve played my authenticity banjo a long time, & in light of the wonders of social media, the topic of authenticity is so crucial.  we struggle to find authenticity.  we get well-versed in posting our wonderful lives as opposed to the life that is actually going on.

[I just wanted to tell you the toddler, with no shirt or socks, just tried to refill his refresher can with half & half he found in the fridge, which, of course, splattered all over the floor.  no, I wasn’t actually paying attention until the frantic scream from one of the other kids.]

do you really want all my authenticity?  i’m not so sure.  I meet plenty of people who ask me how i’m doing without actually wanting to know.  we do this to each other.  i do it.  sometimes we can’t help it.  who has time for the truth at every interaction?  you know the brush off:  “how are you?”  “well,” you start to say, “it’s actually a little hairy right now.”  & then you notice their eyes glazing over & you quickly withdraw your story & tuck it back down safe.

authenticity is way too much work, i’m saying.  with authenticity banners flying, now we’re trying to figure out what to hold out to the public, as opposed to what to keep in the quiet pockets of ourselves.  if I post this adorable picture of an actual wonder-filled afternoon with my kids, will you think less of me because i’m not also telling you about the mice I can’t get rid of or the tantrum I, I mean, they had?  &, honestly, who IS my authentic self?  I’m not even sure i’d recognize her wide awake in a well-lit room.  I’ve spent a long time trying to be someone else.  or at least the self I wanted to be, instead of the self I am.  if i’m not even okay with me, how is this ever going to work?

& that’s where the truth comes in:  somewhere down around the bottom of myself, I am.  just me, jill.  without my badges or my capes.  just the actual girl that Jesus set down a few years back to be right here, right now.  kombucha-loving, journal-writing, photo-taking, hermit introvert.

so, yes.  authenticity is way too much work.  but if we’re going to affect the change we want to see in the world, do we have a choice but to do the hard work of first digging down into our truest selves, & then holding them out kindly & full of courage?

I don’t think we do.  after all, you are art, remember?  we want to see it. we need to.

so, here’s to the courage to look your authentic self in the eye & say a gentle, “hello.  I’ve missed you.  let’s be friends.”

now i’m off to make brownies & straighten the mess, but not too much.  it’s a little hairy around here, & i’m going to try to be okay with that.  & pinteresting?
pinterest ain’t got nothing on these curtains (my actual room with my actual children.).
happy weekend, all.
keep it real.

why the internet is actually dangerous.

we are people, just like you. we eat, sleep, go to work, raise kids. we clean toilets & make lists & feed the cat. we are people, just like you. except when we’re not.

like, I forget that other moms have hair.  or I forget that I don’t until I notice a little girl in the grocery store beside the chex mix staring up at my bandana.  what is she looking at?  OH, that’s right!!  I completely forgot.  i’m bald.  she’s probably never seen a bald woman before.  I smile at her to ease her nervousness.

obviously there are tons of places where we are different.  I live in the woods, you live in the city.  you go on vacation, i go to north dakota.  you have a jumbo garden, I have a few rows inside some chicken wire.  your kids go to school, my kids stay home.  I drive a minivan, you don’t have to drive a minivan.

these places where I am different from you are great.  the best, even, i’d say.  we can learn from each other!  we can grow!  they are the pieces we should hold out to each other & say, “hey, look at this!  isn’t it interesting?  would you like to try a bite?” as though we were offering a sample of a sprinkle cupcake.  like, I live in the country.  would you like to come have a bonfire & dig around in the dirt?  or, we homeschool here, & can I tell you, I don’t actively teach my kids to read?  “yes,” we could say to each other.  “that’s interesting.  I’ve never thought of that before.  tell me about it.”

the problem is, instead of offering up our differences, we tuck them down inside our shirts & pretend they don’t exist.  I don’t want you to think i’m strange;  I want you to like me.  if you think i’m too different, you might not like me.  so I want to be unique, but not too unique.  all those years of school with the cool kids & the me-not-so-cool did wonders for my different-o-meter.  I don’t think you need details.  you were there, too.

OR, we see another woman’s differences & instantly & insanely covet them.  this was me yesterday.  my day was over before it started, which was unfortunate:  it had started so well.  i’d managed out of bed before the kids, made my tea, lit a candle even.  I read my Word for the day, & then, since no one was up yet, tucked into my novel.  happy, contented me, sitting in my old, gruffy glider by the window as the sun came up, reading.  postcard from my ideal vacation.

but there sat my phone.  “i’ll just check my email quick.  that way i’m not on a screen when the kids wake up.”  (I tell myself this all the time to assuage my screen-addiction guilt.)  so i’m scrolling through a blog about being our authentic, artistic selves (ironic?  I think yes.), & click on a new writer.  her words are amazing.  she’s posted an ultrasound, is having a baby.  I click on her “about” page, & that’s where everything goes wrong.  as I read about this lovely lady’s small children & all her accolades, all the christian websites she’s written for, the books she’s written, my innards began to unravel.  I haven’t written anything like that.  I have a degree in creative writing, & I can’t write like that.  I can’t write with tiny kids like she can.  H*ll, I can’t even get out of bed in the morning.

then (because that wasn’t enough), I click over to another blog about travel & read about all the airplanes this woman’s children have been on.  whaaaat.  let’s just drive the envy knife down deep, eh?  you all know my stance on travel.

there it was.  a complete & downward spiral into the gory pit.  my contentment flew out the now-open window of comparison, & I was jealous.  jealous.  what am I, five?  yes, it turns out.  a five-year-old sizing up her girlfriend’s cupcake & being dazzled by all the sprinkles, harrumphing at her own bland hunk of flour.

& this discontent stuck with me, too.  as if I’d tattooed the words I was now applying to myself on my forearm with a shame-colored sharpie:  wannabe.  poser.  never good enough.  they were there, & I wasn’t even taking the rubbing alcohol to them to try & scrub them off.  the entire color of my world shadowed & grayed.  I was irritated with my kids, with my own inability to carve out creative time, with my need for sleep!  who gets irritated because they need to sleep?  I did, because yesterday, I saw someone else doing what I thought I should be doing & wasn’t.  I had measured myself & come up lacking.

the sad thing is that I didn’t actively try to get myself out of the slump.  I just took it as Truth:  I am less of a woman, less of a writer & mother, because I don’t look like her.  I have failed.  look at me, I have failed.

I think we women, we people, we everyone circle around envy our whole lives.  I used to gaze longingly at my friend’s car, then her boyfriend.  when I was first married, I wanted a legitimate job, not substitute teaching.  now that I have kids, I covet other families’ RV adventures, envy their hobby farms with the baby chicks & wooden fences, dream about having my name mean something big as an author.

for you it might be her house, her countertops.  or how clean she keeps it.  it might be his (seemingly) well-behaved kids, or dog.  for you it might be her waistline.  or her brownies.  or her brownies that don’t contribute to her waistline.  if you’re online at all, you automatically amp up the comparison a hundredfold.  the internet is a dangerous place if i’m there too much & without a hefty self-preserving filter.

fortunately. . .& this is big. . .fortunately, i’m never left to my own devices.  throughout the course of this gray day (did I mention it was rainy & overcast?  of course it was.), Jesus showed up.  I couldn’t manage myself (& was doing poorly with the house & kids), so the Savior of my soul stepped in & showed me myself.  through the afternoon, He kept pointing out to me:  see?  this is who I made you, this mother who stays home every minute with her kids.  look at them.  do you see how they’re growing?  do you see them smiling?  that’s because of you.  well, you & Me, but you need to know about you right now.

little by little, I felt myself sinking back into the contentment edging my own life.  we played chess in the afternoon.  we hiked down by the river & I dredged a floating shoe out of the water, stepping into the cold water in my sandals, when one of the boys dropped it.  I saved the dried up dill plant from the garden & brought it in the house for the kids to shake the seeds off, to save for next spring.  I made dinner.  I let them eat dessert.  I rocked the little one to sleep in the middle of the night because he was crying & couldn’t fall back to sleep without me.  I also yelled, forgot to start the laundry, got mad at the toddler who was so chipper at 9 pm.  this is it.  this is my life.

& today?  it looks better.  I didn’t start off with sabotage.  my phone is still sitting on the nightstand in our room.

& here?  in this life?  i’m getting a grip on it today.  because really, I don’t want someone else’s life.  especially when all i’m comparing to are the glory bits.  the sprinkles. nobody posts her gore on instagram.  I want my own life.  I want my pseudo-minimalism, my homeschooling, my food, my kids, my river, my self-employed husband.  I want to be me, & I want to be superfantastically okay with being me.

i’m making a vow to you, then.  to bring to this place my honest self.  to not be scared that you will judge me in my idiosyncrasies.  to hold out my hand of different, offering you a sample.
IMG_3315& to stay off my phone first thing in the morning, for the love of all that is good & holy.


we had plans, you know.  big plans.  a bus.  a roadtrip.  four little kids & us, a couple duffle bags, a backpack of books & some pencils.  we were going.  for a long time, we were going.

the plan was to sell the house, to move somewhere else.  then, after the last box was hauled in from the (choose one:  moving van.  friend’s pick-up truck.  back of the van.), after we’d unpacked the spaghetti pot & made dinner, after we’d done a load of jeans, we’d point ourselves southwest & go in a (choose one:  bus. camper. mini van.).

but that didn’t happen.
actual windshield photo.  thank you, ND.  your bug-to-car ratio is astronomical.  you didn’t need to prove it. 

our big plans included WEST:  california, legoland, the grand canyon. a big warm loop of state lines crossed, cousins visited, first-time-in-this-state pictures.  we would find new adventures, exciting places, meet new people.
but instead of California, we got north dakota. not exactly exotic, not even warm.
it seemed like a cruel recalculation on paper.
but.  & that’s where Jesus comes in, taking our teeny plans, unfolding them like a giant roadmap laid out on the kitchen table, & making them into something, well, better.

how can north Dakota in the fall possibly rival a California roadtrip?

let me show you.
my parents’ farm, where i grew up, along the canadian border.

four-wheelin’also known as “field rollin,'” if you’re new to the sport.  or 5 years old..
uncle jay, running the semi.  leif loved riding with “uh day”.

not only was it gorgeous weather for september in north dakota, but between field lunch runs, bumping along the gravel roads in papa’s pick-up, riding in the combine, & “full house” episodes in the evenings with grandma, we even managed to sneak in a blissful afternoon at the Lake, my most hallowed place, for kayaking.
it was 85 degrees.
tell me God doesn’t love me.
my mama & me, dominating the photo.

AND.  there was cousin time.  my cousin Kelly’s kids, just down the road from my mom & dad’s.  literally, cousins for neighbors.  booyah.

 & then back to the farm, an actual wonderland.  extreme climbing against gale-like winds?  who needs the grand canyon. . . .
IMG_3133throw in a gram, a papa, an uncle, & a daily buffet & really.
I may never get to california.
did I mention the rides?  both older kids learned to mow.  & LOVED it.  bam-o.
so, there it is.  ND instead of CA.  warm weather, riding around on farm equipment all week, eating, drinking, bonfires, cousins, kayaking, the Lake.

recalculating, I think we’re going to get along just fine.

(p.s. — if you subscribe & received this post with photos un-see-able, my hugest apologies.  wordpress & i were having a thing, but the kinks are worked out now.  ALSO, check out the new “about” page at the top, cleverly renamed “this is how we do it”.  if you start singing a 90’s song, it’s not my fault.)

just a minute, you are art.

IMG_2951it’s been awhile.
I’ve missed this place, this photo & song bit.
like grown-up show ‘n tell.
sit down in my circle, here next to me.

what I’m into lately is potential.  who we are, what we’re intended to be.  breaking out of who we think we should be to who we really are.  knocking down the bullhorns of culture that prescribe (for me) what a thirty-something woman should look like, literally & figuratively.

I stared this stigma squarely in the nose this morning.  I was sitting on the floor playing cards with two of my kids (which, don’t get all goosey, never happens.  truthfully.) when a vehicle drove up.  one of andy’s t-shirt customers was slated to pick up her order, & he’d just left to buy toilet paper.  i raced up, scooping up the laundry the little boys had used for a war & shoved it back in the basket, pulling it behind a wall on my way to the door.  I answered the door to a truly gorgeous woman, with the jeans & the hair & the smell.  (do you know what pretty smells like?  I do.).  I had managed out of my pajamas, but as I watched her glance into my kitchen, I saw it through visitor eyes (so different from we-live-here eyes): huge scrap bowl of apple peelings & egg shells alongside bills & houseplants, with a couple pantyliners on the side.  leif had been pulling off the sticky backs & plastering them on his tummy, saying, “owie”.  & that’s where they landed when i unstuck him.  nice.
also, I hadn’t brushed my teeth.  (it was only 12:30.  not like the middle of the day.)

after pretty woman left, I had my mini breakdown, feeling my feelings of inferiority, blah, blah, blah.  & then I got back to it:  cards & chaos & countertops housing miscellany.  this is who i am, & i’m good with it (usually).

striking, how quickly the bullhorns scramble to shout me down.

so, usually “just a minute’s” are succinct tidbits, but today had more.  & while i’m pacing back into myself, I want you to know who you are, too.  you may not be Revlon in skinny jeans, or you might be.  you might be home with your kids, or you might be busting your bum in the ER on weekends because that’s what makes you tick.  maybe you won’t leave the house with lipstick.  maybe you’re good with a solid tube of chappy.

one thing i do know about us is art is who we are.  I am art, you are.  what we do is art, or can be.
I used to think being an artist meant that I could draw.  which i abslute cannot, except at pictionary.  (I rock pictionary.)  but the farther I walk this road, the more I understand all of life is art because it was created.  we have a Creator who formed us out of some pretty funky stuff, & then knit into us an individual artistry that the world needs.  it needs you, because if you look around when you stroll wal-mart for chicken broth, there ain’t a whole lot of happy going down.

we could use a little more happy.
take a look at the little ones.  ever notice how little kids go deep into their creating, going slow (because they have not learned “better” yet) & putting their whole selves into it?  & then when they run up to you, sticky paint hands & a wonder-filled page upheld, they are glowing? they have done what they were meant to do.  they have created.

I can do that, too.  create, I mean. how I made that chili last night with two kinds of (canned) tomatos?
cornbread to go along, hot butter sliding off?
absolute artistry.
my four kids + huz gathered around our small wooden table on mismatched chairs beside the picture window?
call the Guggenheim, my friends.
it’s getting lovely in here.

& this idea of art everywhere, in you, around you, comes down to noticing.  I spend a lot of time reigning myself in to go slow enough to see.  we’ve talked about this before.  but if you’re going too fast, cruising down the interstate of your life, if you don’t slow down a bit, take ten minutes off in the afternoon on tuesday before you take the kids to karate, you’re not going to see the art. you have to go sloooooow.  or at least a little bit slower than the culturally-appropriate warp speed.
if you don’t notice it, you can’t enjoy it.  & if you can’t enjoy it, you can’t realize that you have the opportunity to create art every day.  in all the tiny & small things.  (ha,ha.  shameless plug.)  because you were intended to be amazing.  & you are. 
so, go be an artist today.  pour cereal in a pretty bowl.  take an extra minute to make coffee just how you like it, & drink it from your favorite mug.  take the time to unearth it from the back of the cupboard.  don’t have a favorite mug?
we can’t be friends.

& if you need a little inspo, listen:
(you’ve heard the song if you’ve been alive recently, but have you seen the video?  it’s on repeat ’round here.  you’re welcome.)

happy creating, my friends.  you are art.
(“just a minute” is a once-in-a-blue-moon post on fridays, in which I offer up a photo & a song (two of my most favorite things) that hit me between the eyes recently.  if you’d like to leave a scrap of what strikes you, please do, either in the comments or on facebook.  love love.)

the paper cow (on being an individual.)

I didn’t recognize him when I walked in, which is remarkable.  he’s been in costume since he was 4:  pirates, mario brothers, ghostbusters; it’s a long list.  but when I came up the wooden steps to the barn’s loft & came around the corner, I couldn’t place his shiny squares & hat.  which is funny.  I usually have a feel for his flare.

it didn’t matter.  he was in one of his all-time favorite places doing what he loves: costuming & setting scenes.

that’s my boy.  (who is so obviously an archer, once he picked up his bow.  duh.)every summer, our kids spend a day or two at the paper cow theatre, a magnificent wonderland in a refurbished barn, just a few miles south of town.  the kids love it there, we love hanging out there to watch their “show” after a day of hard imagining, & the atmosphere — two claps for kris, the heart behind the barn.  clap, clap.
thalia, the yellow faerie on a mission with her pally, (wait for it. . .) the green faerie. 

while we sat in the front row on refurbished church pews, I studied kris, the director.  she owned us, all of us, from the second we stepped into her costumed world, a giant dragon hanging in the rafters & the innards of a piano wallpapering the sound booth.  as I watched her, my heart rose.  she so passionately loves what she’s doing: guiding the sleuths, fusing drama goodness in to their tiny hearts, encircling them for a day in somewhere else.  not only is kris in her absolute element, she’s handcrafted every square inch of it with a palm sander. she bought a dairy barn & turned it into a children’s theatre for crying out loud.

my soul sits up & takes notes on that brand of intention.
church pews.  brilliant, recycled happiness.
I wanted to take the edible mermaid home.

the barn is one of the most wonder-filled places I’ve ever been.  wandering around in it, after the last kid takes off his gloves & hangs up his fox ears, gets me thinking about meeting, greeting, & owning my own purpose on this lovely planet.  any chance I get to redirect my life, to point it purposefully from the helm, I take.  I have one go-’round here.  ’twill not be wasting.

being in the barn reminds me just how much is possible, what a wonder-filled place this life, my life, is.
& after every performance, there’s milk & cookies.


for when you’re failing at everything

this morning, before I was actually awake, I scrubbed the bathroom floor where all the mouse poo was. we have a cat, a stupendous hunter, usually.  I don’t know if she’s on break or what, but I had to clean up after she let this little guy slide.  i’m taking it out of her pay.  thank you, cat.  you have failed this city.

then, before the tile was dry, I turned around to witness the fallout of not one but both of the refrigerator door railings coming off, sending all but a couple stoic salad dressing bottles left standing when the 5-year-old went in search of milk.  minutes before, I made the in-house toddler shut the fridge;  no, I didn’t want to unwrap butter or chase his heft of bowling ball cabbages for the forty-seventh time.  it was a little early in the day.  when you are two & mama tells you “no”, you have two choices.  ambivalence or rage.  you can guess which set up the entire contents of the refrigerator door for their bold leap to catastrophe.  by the grace of God (you think i’m joking but I assure I am most certainly not), only the pickle jar met its end.  pickle blood all over the ranch, the milk, the ketchup, the cod liver oil.  gallons of ungodly yellow-green pickle blood.

this was after the mouse poo, remember.
all before breakfast.

as I knelt barking orders at my soldiers children, I thought about how I really had two choices at that point.  (one of them was not vacation.)  I could either carry on as sergeant, or I could draw them in (kids, not pickles) & actually connect with them over this current ridiculousness.  because it truly was ridiculous.  this can’t be what normal people do.  i’d like to tell you I put down my orange bath towel & all the glass shards, pulled someone into my lap, & we all lived happily ever after.

i’ll not start lying to you now.

I managed us through the pickle fiasco, we went on with our day, & at the end of it, we’d wedged in brownies & icecream.  my kids would call this a win.  I, on the other hand, sat at the piano (where I’ve always done honest thinking) tinkering around & dragging myself yet again through the triggered landmines of our day.

most days are like that.  good, bad, ridiculous.  but at least some part of every day, i’m muddling around in my own, well-cooked vat of failure.  like tonight, after the brownies were brushed off teeth & the toddler was asleep (halle-freaking-lujah.), the five-year-old asked if he could fall asleep in my bed.  baahhhh.  I was just. so. tired.  so I told him he could lay with his big brother, that really mommy’s bed was just too crowded.  he lobbied.  I resisted.  because, please honey.

after he was tucked in beside big brother, both of them little burritos under their turquoise checkered comforter, & he’d actually forgotten about falling asleep beside me, I duked it out with yet another failure:  I could’ve just let him.  what’s the big deal?  why can’t I make it past 9 pm?  how long have I been doing this mothering gig?  you’d think by this stage in the game i’d have come up with some better methods of bedtime, of conserving a little energy, & not being a train wreck at the end of every day.

see?  it doesn’t really matter what it is.
failure’s waiting to drag me under.  mouse poo, pickle juice, barking, bedtime.
it doesn’t matter.
& these are just the minor ones.

so what’s left, then?  well, some days I get dragged down & I stay down.  some days I eat all the popcorn in the bowl.  some days i just do more things:  work harder, push down the failure into the laundry basket or the dirty dishes or the crumb trail leading under the couch.  sometimes I go to bed early & cry for awhile.

but some days, I let Jesus get a word in edgewise, tell me how it actually is.  that i’m not meant for perfection, not yet.
that He gets my failure, & He’ll raise me a whole boatload of joy anyway.
that we’re in this together, this crazy, messed-up, ridiculous set of days.
that there’s an end in sight, even if I can’t see it myself.
We’re in this together, & it’s okay, whatever it is.  He doesn’t care.

& that’s the Voice I have to scrabble to hear.  every day.  because failure is loud.  & insistent.  there will always be thirty seven thousands ways in which I’ve come up short yet again.

but Jesus, He’s quiet.  persistent.  calming.
He’ll love me, give me a hand with my messes, turn them into something better than pickle juice all over the kitchen floor.
& that, I need a whole lot of that these days.