Who am I and why am I here?
A few years ago I went to a Christian bookstore looking for a
devotional book. I was feeling a desperate need for inspiration, and I mean desperate.
There were dozens to choose from. The first one I picked up was about
marriage. I wasn't looking for a marriage book, but I always get carried away in bookstores and come home having spent more than I meant to on things I hadn't intended to buy. (If we ever come into Significant Money, while my husband is paying all our utilities in advance I'll be racing around Barnes and Noble till somebody shoots me with a tranquilizer gun.)
Anyway, this particular book had stories by different women on the best thing they ever did for their marriage. I flipped it open and read the story of a woman who went with her husband to translate the Bible for a primitive tribe in South America. They spent 16 years there. She gave birth to their second child shortly after they arrived. They lived in a grass hut she helped build and she served as a doctor for this village with no other training than American motherhood and a doctor available by radio. Her husband, as it turns out, considered this an act of love. Act of love?! I should say so! Love for God, love for her husband, love for the people she served. Did she inspire me? She should. Did I feel guilty and inadequate? Oh yeah! I want to read the book by the woman who pats herself on the back for making dinner for her family three nights in a row without resorting to "Cereal Night." She might not inspire me to do better, but she'll sure make me feel like I'm not alone.
Years ago (feels like only minutes) I met a woman at MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) who shared that she felt guilty if she didn't polish her baseboards—baseboards!—every week with some homemade beeswax concoction, like her mother did. I had never heard of such a thing! (Sorry, Mom, I know you tried.) This woman allegedly felt guilty for getting down on the floor and playing with her son while she let the housework wait. Oh, puh-leeeez! Hiding in the bathroom, glomming a bag of snack-size Snickers you've been hiding in your husband's underwear drawer (no kid would go there) while your kids play alone and the housework goes undone—there's guilt! I want to hear from that woman!
Oh wait—I am that woman.
Do I have a point? Keep reading, I'm sure I'll come to one . . . or two.
devotional book. I was feeling a desperate need for inspiration, and I mean desperate.
There were dozens to choose from. The first one I picked up was about
marriage. I wasn't looking for a marriage book, but I always get carried away in bookstores and come home having spent more than I meant to on things I hadn't intended to buy. (If we ever come into Significant Money, while my husband is paying all our utilities in advance I'll be racing around Barnes and Noble till somebody shoots me with a tranquilizer gun.)
Anyway, this particular book had stories by different women on the best thing they ever did for their marriage. I flipped it open and read the story of a woman who went with her husband to translate the Bible for a primitive tribe in South America. They spent 16 years there. She gave birth to their second child shortly after they arrived. They lived in a grass hut she helped build and she served as a doctor for this village with no other training than American motherhood and a doctor available by radio. Her husband, as it turns out, considered this an act of love. Act of love?! I should say so! Love for God, love for her husband, love for the people she served. Did she inspire me? She should. Did I feel guilty and inadequate? Oh yeah! I want to read the book by the woman who pats herself on the back for making dinner for her family three nights in a row without resorting to "Cereal Night." She might not inspire me to do better, but she'll sure make me feel like I'm not alone.
Years ago (feels like only minutes) I met a woman at MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) who shared that she felt guilty if she didn't polish her baseboards—baseboards!—every week with some homemade beeswax concoction, like her mother did. I had never heard of such a thing! (Sorry, Mom, I know you tried.) This woman allegedly felt guilty for getting down on the floor and playing with her son while she let the housework wait. Oh, puh-leeeez! Hiding in the bathroom, glomming a bag of snack-size Snickers you've been hiding in your husband's underwear drawer (no kid would go there) while your kids play alone and the housework goes undone—there's guilt! I want to hear from that woman!
Oh wait—I am that woman.
Do I have a point? Keep reading, I'm sure I'll come to one . . . or two.
