Tag Archives: receiving

Forty and (In)secure

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Twenty One Pilots’s song, “Stressed Out,” laments the insecurities of adulthood, noting that fear is still present, and we still care what people think. I turned 40 this month, and yes, I’m still insecure. It’s different than high school. And the same. I want you to like me. I want to be well-dressed and well-spoken, and most importantly, perceived well.

I’m a grown-up—have been for quite some time—and I can tell you what maturity doesn’t mean. Being grown up doesn’t involve control and confidence; it doesn’t mean growing out of awkward traits and social habits; it doesn’t include a clean house and well-kept yard, or a passel of perfect grown-up girlfriends.

I’m less sure what being a grownup does mean. But I’ve noticed I’m softer than I used to be—more flexible, a teensy bit less judgmental, and I know more about cooking and cleaning than I did 20 years ago.

I know less about God, love, and relationships. It’s been said that the more you know, the more you know you don’t know anything. I can confirm this.

There’s a real sense of loss, not landing in adulthood firmly in control and certainty, an expert in the kitchen, the workplace, the bedroom. I get tired of being wrong, confused, ineffective. If knowledge comes from experience, I am an expert in exhaustion, stress, and leaving my cell phone in obscure places.

I know I’m sounding a tad morose. But there is a happy ending. There’s something left after losing control, and the appearance of control, and pretending to have control. What’s left is eyes to see a different life entirely—a life of watching the cat lick his fur, thinking of my three favorite moments from the day just before I fall asleep, fighting less with my kids and husband, knowing there will not be a seismic event when my to-do list is left undone.

And I know myself better. I know I love writing and small groups. I know I like a clean house, but not enough to put in the work. I know I’m scared of the interminable wants and needs of my children. Being quiet and alone—especially in nature—returns me to myself. Banana splits and blended mochas almost always sound good. I try the hardest to be self-sufficient when I’m at my weakest. Animals make me happy. Getting called “a writer” makes me stand a little taller. Synchronicity feels like opening a birthday present.

My birthday, which this year fell on the first Sunday in May, played out like a dream Mother’s Day. My husband cleaned the kitchen, top to bottom. He and the kids cooked breakfast and dinner, and took me out for lunch. I sorted through a large tote, five bags, and an unconstrained pile of children’s clothing I hauled up from the basement, and found most of it could be passed on. I went to the park and watched goslings and ducklings, heard the smack-smack of their webbed feet in shallow water, and marveled at their fluffy bodies. I took a nap. With my parents and sister, I ate fresh-made blackberry pie with “40” cut into the top crust. Michael gave me a gift certificate to have the house professionally cleaned (when the dust settles from our six-month construction project). Like I said, a dream day.

It’s worth noting I couldn’t have planned such a day. All was gift—the generosity of my husband, my children, my sister. Many times I have planned a birthday party for myself, with friends and presents and homemade cake. But for forty, this un-forced birthday felt fitting. The people who love me gave what they wanted to give. And I received. I basked. I rested. And yes, I sorted children’s clothing—one of those things I never can find time to do.

Maybe I’m ready to accept this life I have. Whether I die tomorrow or in another 40 years, I will die complicated—a mix of peace and insecurity, frustration and gratitude, mundane and miraculous. And not at all grown up.

Receiving Joy

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“Expect suffering. I want to receive this teaching,” I wrote in my prayer journal. Five days later I came down with the worst cold I’d had in years. Perhaps God in His great grace had prepared me by putting suffering on my mind beforehand. Whatever the case, He blessed me with a spirit of acceptance. I had one angry tantrum (in my head and on my face) for a couple of hours, followed by a good cry, some pats on the cheek from my seven-year-old, and a slightly scared inquiry from my husband as to whether I needed anything.

It’s frustrating being sick and knowing no one else is going to cook or clean or help the kids with piano practice and pet care and chores. It’s frustrating to cancel the play date and the sleepover and the dinner with friends and the meal delivery to other friends.

But it’s also nice to rest in bed, to watch my children try some new things I usually do for them, to have more time for prayer, and to practice gratitude.

By God’s grace I had an attitude of receiving instead of fighting, and somehow—honestly, I find it rather mysterious—the sickness was a blessing. And it was followed by the biggest surprise of all. On the fourth day I woke up full of joy. As I drifted between sleep and wakefulness I felt that both were bliss. When I looked outside, the world seemed more beautiful. My energy was coming back, and where usually I would feel a sense of guilty relief—I can finally catch up on days of neglected tasks—I felt alive, vibrant. It all seemed very silly, like an overreaction. But there it was, that intangible we call joy.

Suffering (which admittedly is a strong word to describe a cold) has a tremendous capacity to grow me, to introduce me to my mature and whole self. This post-cold joy was a treasured moment in which I caught a glimpse of Spirit-fruit in my life. I was awed. I was grateful.

Papa God, I have opened my hands (literally, daily) and I have received Your abundance. There is a sweet moment of contentment here, releasing the past and not knowing the future, tasting the pleasure of this moment, that I have received a blessing from You.