PearlS | The Average Pearl

the group

Several years ago I managed the kitchen at a retirement facility. It was the best job I’d ever had, for several reasons. I got to cook while someone else washed the dishes. There was unlimited butter, cream, and wine, and I could make just about whatever I wanted. I loved the residents, and they loved me. It paid enough to cover our basement-hole-apartment rent.

Unfortunately, the director of the facility was a poor manager of people and regularly made his employees feel misused. People were quitting left and right. At one point, I had to hire my mom and brother on as temporary kitchen help because we were so short staffed. I eventually got fed up, too. It just so happened that the week I handed in my resignation, the residents had filled out a survey regarding the activities offered at our facility. I halfheartedly flipped through the pages, sad to be leaving my favorite older folks, curious to see their opinions on paper. The survey was a list of ratings of various things–outings, yoga, weight lifting, dining–and each activity was ranked on a scale of one to five. At the bottom I saw the last category…Spiritual development/services. It garnered a whopping one on the scale. I knew I could do something.

Before I gave my two weeks’ notice to my boss, I asked him if I might be able to start up a Bible study for the residents, citing the “spiritual development” survey rating. He thought it was a super idea. It wasn’t the best timing (he was quite flustered when I quit my job a day later), but I had permission to continue, and I wouldn’t have to cut ties with my older friends at the retirement home.

I talked Joe into leading a Bible study with me, but we argued every time we tried to sit down and plan it out. I printed off the entire book of John in large print copies to hand out to participants. We wrote down a few questions, planning to go through a chapter per week. Then, every Wednesday night, we drove in stony silence all the way to Bible study, me feeling irritated he didn’t care enough (he didn’t), he thinking me an irrational worrywart (I was). We surreptitiously slipped out the door each week so I wouldn’t have to see all my old friends and feel sad that I didn’t work there anymore.
It was a total flop. At least, it felt like it. Only a few residents came. Most of them listened dutifully, glued to their seats, lips sealed. We studied the whole book of John and moved on to Acts. Arthur, a man of about 95 years, was the most vocal participant. He consistently played devil’s advocate, as if we were some seminary graduates who had any idea how to describe the geography of Greece or explain why John chapter 8 includes italicized words.

To promote generosity, we took up an offering for a special project–wheelchairs to send to Uganda. One lady gave ten dollars and wanted me to provide a tax receipt. This boggled my mind. I was crushed. I had anticipated great joy–beautiful fellowship! And here it felt like closed minds, closed mouths, closed hearts. I was twenty-something, a college dropout, working at a temp agency after quitting my favorite job. My young marriage was strained, I was inexperienced with apologetics (sorry, Art) and supremely discouraged.

Still, there were hints of gratitude, old ladies who hugged us and thanked us and worried when it thunderstormed and we couldn’t make it to a meeting. I loved those people. Even Art and his curmudgeonly affections won me over. It was enough to keep us afloat.

We continued the Bible study for a year and a half. Meanwhile, Joe and I both finished college. We found jobs in another state. We announced to our little group that we were leaving.
Before we departed, I called up my friend in ministry at the local college. I told him about our small study group; I did not tell him about the struggle. I said, “We don’t want this to die. If you think you can keep it going, I’m sure the residents would be so thankful.”

I really thought it would die. I had mostly forgotten why we had started it.

It was twelve years ago this May.

Every once in awhile my friend, Lance, gives me updates. It never died. In fact, it grew. It’s growing. Students from Lance’s ministry serve with him. Old people and young people are changed. Lance has told me of generous residents who have given tens of thousands of dollars to grow the work of the Lord in the community there (I’m sure they are able to get a tax receipt, for the record). I can hardly believe it when he writes me the news.

I had such little faith–probably exactly the size of a mustard seed.

I’m continually blown away at what God can do when I offer him my few loaves of bread. He has never failed to multiply it.

I wonder about Art, Jane, Max, Ming, and the rest of our core group from twelve years ago. They are all gone now. Those meetings seemed a bit futile, but we still opened the word of God. It wasn’t a waste; it is never a waste. I’m thankful for Lance who knew an opportunity when he saw one. I’m thankful for years that pass, because that’s the only way for roots to grow deep. I’m thankful for a tangible picture of God’s faithfulness in my life. He redeems everything, everything.

It makes me brave.

Salt

Two weeks ago Rachel Held Evans passed on to the other side. I have read some of her writing. It made me laugh. It made me think. I didn’t agree with a lot of her musings–I never “left” the church. But I also hadn’t viewed church through the lens of modern salvation, steeped in American culture and unsaid rules of belonging. I scampered around the edges of steepled buildings, an imposter, clutching onto my legalism for years. Church never indicated fullness to me, only a limping bride, frustratingly imperfect in her desire to serve God. In hindsight, I was never fully immersed in the church like she was, never gave church a chance to hurt me. Her struggle was not mine.

But I still, like Rachel, chucked my copy of Debi Pearl’s Created to Be His Helpmeet across the room when I read it, annoyed with its examination of biblical submission. As if my marriage (rocky at the time) would be preserved if I only called my husband at work to flirt with him. If my resumé only touted some clever acting skills, I could get him to take out the garbage for me. If I only knew my role as a woman, I wouldn’t be so hard to get along with.

It left a terrible taste in my mouth. It felt like a false assumption that all women are powerless, mute Barbies, dependent on men, reliant on sexual prowess, second-class citizens. Obviously, I read too intensely into the purpose of the book–the message was not an indictment on my failures as a wife. But it had me praying for wisdom in my own marriage, because I was a fraud if I thought I could save it with a few coy glances. I prayed for a way to articulate the full spectrum of womanhood in light of who God created women to be.

My own mother is no church lady, though she is the truest Christian I know. She works harder and complains less than anyone I’ve ever met. She isn’t a hugger or a talker. She never concerned herself with appearance, never crossed the entrance of a nail salon, never owned a hair dryer. She has been the primary example of womanhood in my life. It’s no wonder that for the longest time I thought Beth Moore was probably a huge Bible study fraud, with her hair, makeup, and aesthetic perfection. I cannot reckon the two ladies, and yet both are women. Both are followers of Christ. Who can define a woman, define her place at the table?

I think Rachel Held Evans understood this dilemma. She also wrestled through moral questions as they applied to her life. Our lives. She threw salt on meat. With her words she sprinkled the world around her. We need more of it. This is what draws people to the Lord–we crave truth, but sometimes we will only taste it when it’s been justly seasoned.

This makes me think on our modern times. It makes me think on gender equality in America, something RHE was passionate about. There is a good chance this will taste too salty for some readers, but I feel it’s worth the risk. Salt is a key ingredient (even in deliciously sweet things, like cupcakes and iced cinnamon rolls) and I will try to sprinkle judiciously.

To be honest, for a long time I thought things were unfair and unequal.

I used to read my way around some of the letters of Paul in the Bible because it felt too raw, the idea that women should be silent, covered, obedient. I read it with a hard, unbelieving heart, and it only ever felt like glass ceilings. Ceilings that I didn’t mind throwing rocks at.

But here is what I didn’t know, something that takes years of smoothing and turning over and over, like a rock tumbler in my skeptic mind: My Father knows what evil is, and he wants more than anything to protect me. I am precious to him, a daughter whose worth is above rubies.

In the beginning, the man needed a helper, and God created for him a perfect person for the job. This came as no surprise to God that Adam needed major help in the garden. He just waited for Adam to realize it first on his own. (This happens to be a marriage-saver tip: give your man the opportunity to notice.) Men and women complete each other. They are two sides to the same coin; they add dimension to the other. Together, they form the human race. As a woman, I have a special purpose. Though it will never be realized solely by my union with my husband, it is beautiful to tend to a living, breathing picture of wholeness in a broken world. The opportunity to partake in building life with other human beings is a priceless gift from God.

It is for my good that He wants a man to lead a house and shoulder my burdens (Eph. 5:22-24). Not because I can’t (all the single moms raise a hand), but because my husband needs to be strong, steady, courageous, and I ought not hinder him. God is more pro-equality than we humans can even hope to attain to, and he is doling out justice with complete, sovereign wisdom. Just as a pair of oxen is yoked together, we are to pull equal weight in a partnership. And yet, the man is tasked with the heavier order: to shield and protect his woman. He is to love her in a way that sacrifices his own life to serve her (Eph. 5:25). Actually this is terribly unequal, unfair, and dreamy. A woman who is loved in this way doesn’t mind being called a helpmeet. Chivalry, we call it. We swoon over it. At least, we used to.

Along those lines, it is for my good that I am called to be a teacher (Eph. 4:11) but not a teacher of men (1 Tim. 1:12). This actually elevates the woman’s position in society by relieving her of the burden of training men to be men. We want men to be real men, and yet we’d like to still be in charge. This gets labeled regularly as misogyny when it is possibly the kindest way to bear one another’s burdens. Women refraining from teaching men encourages men to step up and valiantly defend and prove themselves. Real men become men by learning from men. To this point, fathers aren’t throw-away authority figures–they are crucial in the development of future generations.

It is for my good that He requires modesty (1 Tim. 1:9). Not because I don’t have a body, but because I do, and it is worth paying attention to. However, if I am constantly drawing attention to my flesh, it overwhelms my voice, my heart, my mind, my soul–when all should merit proper attention. It doesn’t mean a life sentenced to turtlenecks and culottes and timid eye contact. Rather, the Lord raises the standard of respect to a level of purity that is unpretentious, attractive and lovely. It doesn’t invite dishonor; it secures it.

Do you see how corrupt we are in our old nature, how quickly we pervert God’s ways when they are for our good? We will bristle at every boundary because we doubt Him. Did God really say…? the serpent hissed in the ear of the first woman. Are we today guarding our hearts from the same old lie?

The modern feminist opposes herself when she holds her idea of liberation as superior to men. She is mixed up: she wants there to be no visible difference. Equal, but not different. If equality were the goal, she would play fair. She wouldn’t use her “different” body as a tool for fighting, or vulgar parades as an example of freedom. She wouldn’t oversimplify femininity by making it a sexual argument. She wouldn’t degrade womanhood by demanding something that is already hers and that no man will ever be able to take or replicate. She wouldn’t tape shut the mouths of other women by assuming her single-minded voice speaks for them all. She wouldn’t elevate her sexual rights above that of the unborn woman’s right to live outside the womb. She wouldn’t corrupt the beauty of sisterhood and brotherhood by raising her cause above all causes. She wouldn’t divide rather than unite.
It is bizarre. She wears a vagina cap on her head in an era where men and women are encouraged to challenge their sexuality. If feminism wins, then LGBTQ loses, because only one party can, in good faith, wear the hat. Modern feminism, in a sense, misrepresents freedom.
Examine this and consider: what other lies have we believed?

Oh friends, we have strayed too far from the Father. In Him there is no male or female, black or white. This is not the picture of a transgender Jesus or a She-God, no. This is a picture of our sin in light of the Holy One. He has created us as life-givers and we have scattered to the dark corners to wallow in rage, stir up hate, and mock His holy ways. We think it unfair that his creation is so flawed, when we were the ones who walked away from God.

They are three billion shades different, lovely, strong, resilient and true in the form of woman. Not one looks like anyone else, and God himself has stamped his creation with one word: good. He is satisfied in our differences, in all our colors, sizes, languages, cultures. Our varied interpretations of deep communication, nurturing motherhood, laser-focused determination, hospitality and beauty does not shame or embarrass Him. He created us: we belong to Him. He doesn’t despise our affection for babies, clean houses, or Monday night football. He doesn’t hate our attention to detail, our tender heart, our tough-love parenting, our need for quiet time. He doesn’t look at you and think, I wish she could be more like Adam. He adores you. Your resilience amazes Him. You fill Him with joy. You are enough.

There are many on this earth who do not have voices to cry out under the oppression they are facing. We are forgetting our privilege, parading around in pussy hats. This is a global disaster. We ought to be lifting these far-flung sisters up, elevating them in a time of need. Women who sit in tents in refugee camps, praying for relief. Women whose children are starving before their eyes. Women who are slaves, their bodies used by men and discarded as if they have no soul. Consider your power, my fellow women, to be alive in America, to have a voice and be able to use it. To serve, to listen, to speak, to change lives.

Jesus said, “Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.’” (John 7:38)
We will not throw gas on a fire of hate that rages out of control, no. We will douse it with living water.
We will fill up our salt shakers like our friend, Rachel.
We will season the world.

Dream Big (or small)

Bob Goff is the founder of Dream Big workshops. He is generous and funny and has turned himself into a brand of theology through his books on outrageous love. Goff says it’s good to have a lot of dreams bubbling away on the burners of your stove. Is this true? I don’t know, but I think so. I haven’t lived long enough to see most dreams make it to the plate. I can only manage stirring one pot at a time.

Usually it’s the writing pot that bubbles up like crazy and i have to run to stir it down before it boils over like scalding milk. I’ve been running for the burner for my whole adult life. I’m starting to believe that writing isn’t actually in a pot–it happens to be the hood that catches all the grease.

Anybody who has lived for awhile on this green earth knows you must abandon some dreams to grow others. Every spring when I buy seeds to plant, I wonder at the miracle of holding a tiny shriveled seed that will, under the right conditions, with good intentions (and limited neglect) turn into the surest sign of life. That miniature green flag poking out of the dirt waves a banner of hope. Life springs from death. It’s the most confounding, beautiful miracle.

I’ve been stirring a new pot this Spring, beckoning a baby dream to germinate and sprout into this world. It’s causing a lot of other dreams to wilt in the hot sun. I’m learning to be okay with it, because I’ve seen it happen before. That’s a good thing about getting older–you don’t panic so much about keeping all the pots stirred–you go ahead and let some simmer into slow-cooked, tender, unexpected wonders. You let the others scorch the pan (and throw it out altogether). It doesn’t mean you’re a terrible cook; it’s learning to let go of the uncontrollable. You focus on the pot in front of you and keep whisking.

My kids have been the best thing I’ve ever tended. I’m amazed at how resilient and strong they are. With a bit of trellising and attention, they just keep growing and blooming. The early years are so crucial in determining the right soil, establishing roots, and worrying about the environment. I’m not able to pursue much else–I’m still emerging from the fog (and waiting a divine potty-training intervention). But some scaffolding is in place, and our garden is beginning to take shape. I’m realizing I’m not a trained gardener, but God is faithful like the sun–He makes things grow when I water seeds. If I don’t ever water anything else, I really, really want these ones to grow and produce fruit.

But I’ve got to thinking about my kids, and how they, too, need to see how dreams grow. Not just dreams, but any sort of boldness in trying out new recipes. What will happen if they see me serenade the folks at the nursing home on a Tuesday afternoon? What will they think if they see me buy lunch for the school staff? What will grow if they see me teach Sunday school for forty years straight? These are dreams, too. Not the billowy kind that float in my blue sky imagination, but solid, reliable perennials. I wonder if Bob Goff knows that any little dream is worth its pot on the stove. It doesn’t have to be big.

Maybe God’s not asking us to grow a finicky orchid. Maybe he’s just asking us to toss some seeds in the dirt and water them every other day. It doesn’t have to be a boeuf bourguignon dream in the pot you are stirring. It could be one-minute ramen noodle soup. It could nourish someone for one meal and be worth it.

Will we make a place for it on the stove?

In this world you will have trouble

Well, there’s been another school shooting. Our kids are braver than us parents, running toward the shooter, sacrificing their own life for a friend. It can only remind me of Jesus, who laid his life down for mine.
The One who calms the seas and spins the Heavens in orbit, He is the God who promises, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

“In this world you will have trouble, I leave you my peace.”
This is the only promise from the only reliable Promiser. No gun control, metal detectors, push for mental health awareness, mindful breathing, emphasis on being kind. No tattoos of love on our wrists are enough. They are drops in the bucket, bandages on a severed artery. It is not enough.

Only He is enough. The Author of life who opens doors and closes chapters and writes our history and future. We cry out to Him for mercy in our time of need, and he responds. We fall prostrate before a King who cares, who in every way understands the evil of man, who rescues us not with muscle and brute force, but with a promise of new life if we repent of our self idolatry. The only way to turn to Him is to turn away from our human nature, our penchant to hate, point fingers, reason in circles, cast blame.

When a school shooting happens, we bleed questions, why, O God? We ignore the truth spoken in the Bible–that man is a hopeless wreck, and there is only one name under Heaven by which we must be saved: Jesus.

We are unstable in every way, distracted thinkers. We rely on the media to bring us stories of hope when they only exploit pain. There is no hope, no salve for the sting of death–except a risen Savior. Yet we crane our necks, worried more about what people think than fixing our eyes on Him. We shrug our shoulders in the middle of the horror–not much I can do about it. We pick up the remote control and flip from CNN back to Game of Thrones.

This is the frailty of our flesh: we look to escape before we ever find courage to engage. We wait like sitting ducks, hoping for this life to get better without ever naming an enemy for fear of being too politically incorrect. We enamor ourselves with the raunchiest, most violent, obsessively coarse entertainment and refuse to draw any correlation between our addictions and the depravity of men.

We have failed our kids. We are the wicked ones, because we offer our children no hope of breaking our own chains. Our promises to keep them safe are fickle.

Friend, there is still an anchor for the soul. The world is wasting away, but inwardly we are being renewed day by day–this is the hope of the believer.
It might be a timid, wobbly foot forward, baby steps to the Savior. He isn’t above running to you and snatching you up in His arms.

Social Deviant

There is a trend heating up that I can’t ignore or even articulate. It’s attractive and feel-good. No, it’s not Jimmy Fallon, baked donuts, or tattoo removal (though I’m a fan of all three).

My dad always said “if the whole world is running toward it, it’s best to stay far away”, something I detested as a teenager. But his discretion–my teenage freedom–was always marked by wisdom, and it suited his children well to heed his warning. I am grateful for parents who swam upstream when the current was moving decidedly in the other direction.

Maybe it’s because I’m thirty-five (that’s halfway to seventy, by the way) and turning into a version of my dad. Maybe it’s the mom in me, the future men in my house, the future woman with her tangle of curls, sitting in my lap. Or maybe it’s because screens are everywhere all the time, feeding us a constant stream of news, and I can’t look away from the train wreck. But it’s disconcerting. I aim to pin down this wiggly matter and proclaim it to the next generation.

The culture of my beloved country is changing. Any wild idea can be lassoed and tamed into some different, made-up flavor of truth. Twelve years ago I took a college level course called Social Deviance. We picked apart behavioral anomalies and wrote research papers on everything from crossdressing to obesity. It was a legit, junior-level class, and none of my classmates blinked twice when it came to sorting out social deviants from their counterparts. I don’t think it is too ridiculous to assume now that that particular psychology class has been deleted from the curriculum. Look around, and social deviance is the new norm. In fact, you will be taunted and your good name destroyed if you even attempt to disagree with this new weirdness smelling up the air. It’s lauded in the media and paraded through our schools, libraries, workplaces, and churches.

At our local library, children’s museum, and science center, employees wear rainbow colored nametags. I’m sure they do this with dignity, not batting an eye, convinced they are open minded, bolstering inclusivity. Do they think this is loving like a neighbor? For sure! Do they consider this is part of LGBTQ propaganda? No way.

Is it hospitable or appropriate for them to declare their opinion on sexual rights to my children? I think it’s pretty unnecessary. Most of the kids I see roaming these places aren’t yet old enough to understand the sex talk.

I’m trying to view this through a lens of love, while trying to understand the seriousness of the situation. These “ambassadors” think they are loving like a neighbor. They don’t know Jesus, or they’ve so ignored Him that they’ve come up with a new definition of love.

I’ve been having a hard time sleeping at night because I’ve been thinking about this. How do we navigate life for our kids when the most outrageous deviant behavior from twelve years ago is now commonplace? Christians are to reflect the love of Jesus, but now we are the enemies, the deviants of current culture? What is love, and how do I show it?

I’ll admit; sometimes I dole out some heavy judgment at the ridiculousness that plagues our American lives. Men that “feel” like women, gender nonconformity, obsession over appearance, and a sexual revolution are really only indicative of confused self-worship. It feels heavy, but it is nothing new.
Oftentimes fury over the state of our country clouds my vision. But when I sit in judgment, I condemn myself. I consider myself a healthy, logical, clear-thinking person, but Jesus said, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” (Mark 2:17)
I forget my need for Jesus, and that we are all, every one of us, wasting away with sin disease in our hearts. I forget that I, too, have struggled with sexual sin, abuse, obsessive behavior, hate, pride. I have had doubts that God really loves me.

When I have been humbled by this fact, it is much easier for me to look at people with love. To the woman with the buzzed head, to the man who paints eyeshadow on his lids: I care more about you than your nametag. If you are sick and want to know the Physician, I won’t look away, won’t feel ashamed. I’ve sat in the waiting room myself, hoping for the doctor to cure what ails me.

Still, there are some who are sinsick and don’t want relief. Jen Hatmaker, a well-known Christian author, announced she finished writing her newest book, a “manifesto” for LGBTQ rights. Glennon Melton Doyle tweeted, “If you want to know where a church stands on inclusion, do not ask who they invite to attend. Ask who they hire to LEAD, If there are no leaders who are people of color, women, queer–you have your answer.”

This is a twisting of the gospel, an angle that equates sin with diversity. It is yet another half-truth, the worst kind of insidious lie. It claims that the Savior is just good juju, and your worst nightmare rush hour traffic accident is really just a fender bender. Folks who believe this are solidly convinced by their own self-righteousness. You really can’t be changed because this is your identity. Jesus warned his disciples of people like this when he said, “the time is coming when anyone who kills you will think they are offering a service to God. They will do such things because they have not known the Father or me.” (John 16:2-3)
Their words are venom doused with expensive perfume.

Words will fly–let them. It doesn’t mean we ought to shut up and mind our own business. After all, we are all displaying nametags, rainbow-colored or not. I can’t hide my Christian stripes, for I, like Paul am “unashamed of the gospel of Jesus Christ” (Romans 1:16). 1 Peter 3 reminds me to “be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect, keeping a clear conscience, so that those who speak maliciously against your good behavior may be ashamed of their slander.” I’ve never come up with beautiful conversation on my own, but somehow “letting your gentleness be evident to all” (Phil. 4:5) is enough for a stranger to become a friend.

It is time for believers to speak out with boldness, without fear of repercussion, not unlike Jeremiah did back in his time. He lived among his Jewish people who were whoring themselves out to the idols of their day. His introverted heart was broken at the ugliness, but he loved his people more than he feared speaking to them. We, like Jeremiah, must claim a similar territory, with burdened hearts pounding and fire in our bones. The liberal person of today thinks they are doing folks a favor by approving of self-seeking, what-feels-good behavior, but they are ultimately confused on who Love is. They are searching for sparkly, temporary salve. They are like little children plugging their ears, ignoring their daddy and toddling out into traffic. But God is so loving that He has sent His Son into the mess of rush hour to take the blow for us. And this is the miracle above all miracles: we aren’t being coerced, forced, or pushed into accepting a Savior. Real love only rescues you from the mess when you are good and ready to shout help me!
I ask the Lord to replay again and again the story of how He has snatched me from the danger of self-love and obsession. It is life to me–a song of pure, abounding energy. Love saved me. I’ll never get tired of telling others, and this is the very thing the Lord asks us to do. Not to condemn, but to point to Jesus.

I was sinking deep in sin

Far from the peaceful shore,

Very deeply stained within,

Sinking to rise no more;

But the Master of the sea

Heard my despairing cry,

From the waters lifted me,

Now safe am I

Love lifted me

When nothing else could help

Love lifted me

(James Rowe, Howard E. Smith)

the big table.

Here, I am going to talk about writing, sort of. Nothing else consumes me as much as the need to put things on paper, for better or for worse. And maybe most of it won’t make it past my notebooks in scribbled form. But there are a thousand beginnings and endings, and I need to untangle the cords if only to wrap it all back into a tidy ball. It feels urgent. What if I die in a car accident tomorrow? What if someone else writes my book instead of me? We’re all working against an enormous clock.
I wrote one children’s story today and sent it off with another older manuscript to a literary agent. I used the word ‘hag’ in one of the picture book works. I quickly texted my friend Megan to ask her opinion of the word, and she gave me slight confidence in the matter, so I crossed my fingers and kept it in the script.
I have an outline and several chapter beginnings of a book, all on papers scattered through the house. There’s a narrative nonfiction saved one Google doc, and cozied up to it only a tab over is a fiction manuscript.

Joe brought home a big Reader’s Digest full of short stories by Fitzgerald and Dorothy Parker and the like, and so I’m underlining sentences such as

He was as dogmatic as Mr. Kelada and resented bitterly the Levantine’s cocksureness. The discussions they had were acrimonious and interminable. (Mr, Know-All by W. Somerset Maugham)

Does anyone even want to read this kind of stuff anymore? I do. I want to write it, too. I could open a tab right now for a short story…and I’d want to put twelve-letter words in it like I was getting ready for a spelling test. I’m a puzzler. Nothing satisfies like locking the perfect word into place.

I have a notebook and pen on every flat surface in the house, should the need arise. I wrote today as my little girl stood in my lap, combing my hair straight into my eyes at the kitchen table. “Good,” she’d murmur, “it looking good.” Then she would brush it out of my eyes with her hands and stare at her handiwork. She was completely unperturbed by my need to scrawl notes. She repeated the process: comb flat into my eyes, brush and pat away the hair to reveal my face, stare in satisfaction.

How could I stop someone so sincere?

I’ve always been occupied with other things–I mean, since I’ve felt writing so urgent. It didn’t come along until after the babies. I am the main caretaker of the kids around here, of course. Sometimes I get the feeling other people can do kid stuff with their hands tied behind their backs, but I cannot. Even when the children are talking to my attentive face, I feel guilty for not following the conversation, My mind is always occupied. Focus is a struggle, and I understand the same issue in my own kids. They are all humming and reading all day and night. It has to be hereditary.

I remember, as a teenager, my dad driving me around to various meetings. He would always, always miss the turn. He simply was too bound up in his own thoughts to keep his mind on the road. It frustrated me when I realized I was the same. When boarding a plane, I need to look at my ticket seventy billion times to remember the flight and seat number. When I call the doctor to make an appointment, I jot down my own phone number so that it will be in front of me when the receptionist asks me for it. I constantly doubt my ability to speak in public, as if it is ad-libbing, as if I’m a liar and as soon as I open my mouth everyone will know.

With good intentions, I enrolled in an online English teaching class. I have texts to read, papers to write, and tests to take. The course is useful, and I hope to become certified in something other than being a homebody, but truthfully? I might be doing it to prove to myself I don’t need to write all the time. That some sort of fulfillment must come with a degree of professionalism.

My heart is not convinced.

Deep down, I’m waiting for a seat at the table, the grownup one, and not the kids’ card table. I’m waiting for an invitation, because my mind won’t believe it’s a legitimate work until I get a nod from somebody up the ladder. I timidly send off proposals and articles, yet before I’ve clicked the send button on the email, I’m sure I’ve flubbed it so badly, I shouldn’t have even wasted the time. The guilt of vanity weighs so heavily on my conscience, I cannot bear to be looked in the eye. They will know I’m a phony.

No, I’m waiting for a seat at the table. I think about how Jesus told his followers to not take an important seat until they were invited, lest they be embarrassed when a more distinguished guest arrives. Not to rely on themselves, as if they had any importance, but to remain humble. I wonder what this means for my own life, as I sit in my own kitchen and let my little girl brush my hair into my eyes. I suppose I won’t miss out when it comes my turn to move to the big table.

But I’m still anxious for it.