(Originally written for a talk given to a local moms’ ministry, fall 2017.)

A few Thanksgivings into being married I decided that I wanted to host at our little place in Colorado. I invited family and friends over to our house for dinner, planned the menu, cleaned the house from top to bottom, lit some candles, turned on music, the works. But here’s how crazy it got.

After going room to room meticulously vacuuming every inch of carpet before my guests arrive, I delicately hose the edges, then I go back again room to room, with socks on, and glide over the carpet with my feet, smoothing and erasing the vacuum lines, which may have taken longer than the actual vacuuming. I want you to see clean carpet, but I don’t want you to think I spent hours before you came over vacuuming my rug, because THAT would be crazy, right? Only crazy people vacuum right before their guests arrive.

Letting your guests know the effort you put into their coming? That’s just bad hospitality. I want you to see perfection without effort, like my house just unfolded out of a pop-up book, ready to go. (It’s like the “no-makeup makeup” look: spend more time on your face to make it look like you rolled out of bed looking like a goddess.)

I made my famous mashed potatoes and the dishes, but my crowning moment would be my very first turkey. At the time I worked for a natural foods store and spent half my life savings on a free-range, organic, hormone-free, house-trained, humanely de-feathered turkey fit for 20 people. I brined, basted, buttered, marinated, massaged. I was practically this turkey’s therapist for the week leading up to Thanksgiving. And what do you know, our dinner table inevitably became that scene from Christmas Vacation where everyone’s gathering around the turkey, you go to cut it, the skin splits (tzzz) and a puff of smoke comes out and everyone gnaws on the turkey like desperate animals in the wild (which is where I wanted to be at this point, in a cave somewhere, in denial...because despite my effort, my turkey was like every other turkey on Thanksgiving.

What did I do wrong? I had the perfect formula, spent extra money, a week prepping this stupid turkey. I fell short and then I let this imperfection poison the rest of the day. I spent it apologizing and muttering non-Thanksgiving-appropriate words. I was no good to anyone, though everyone had moved on and was having fun without me. Instead of slowing down to enjoy the day, I tried mentally maneuvering around it, looking at the situation a number of different ways to both chastise myself and to excuse myself. I didn’t get very far but I wasted a day that was meant to be a gift.

As silly as the story is, it illuminates a somewhat ongoing belief in my heart. If I have the perfect plan, if I’m always a little ahead of everyone else, if I’m impressive, if I take care of you before you take care of me, if I hurry more than everyone else, that the approval of others will finally convince me to approve of myself...convince me of a little something I’d always believed: that I’m ALMOST good enough, but not quite. But I’m here to deliver the bad news: all this fussing hasn’t worked. On this mess of a hamster wheel, the horizon doesn’t change all that much.

Sometimes God leads you to share something you’re right in the middle of learning, which can be incredibly uncomfortable. Sometimes it requires saying, HEY, not only am I NOT on the other side, I don’t know there IS another side, but I’m learning to be okay with that, and inviting you to walk with me through it.

It’s easy to send a quick encouragement to a few hundred friends on social media. We like empowerment, lessons on rising up to meet the challenge. A pot of coffee a day keeps the lazy away—drink more and get ‘er done! We can do that—we’re fluent in that language. We can always try harder. The issue is that more effort is not really the best match for reality. “Try harder” may have worked with that awful long jump in junior high. What about my friend and her baby boy just diagnosed with cancer? You don’t talk to those people and say drink more coffee and get ‘er done because God is on your side. What about divorce? What about your parent or child who’s struggling with addiction (or what if it’s you)? What about plain old fatigue? What about failure?

I know I’m a true beginner when I think I can put off being an encouragement or helping someone until I’m on the “other side” of a tough season or lesson of my own. Wanting to present this perfectly wrapped package “here! Here’s what I’ve learned. Open it, apply it, and you’ll be good.” In that false belief we forget we’re simply invited to BE.

Note: In the current mom-of-baby-and-toddler life I'm living, I look forward to time alone or aspects of when the present phase is over. Then I think of the irony of looking back, saying we miss something we were in a hurry to be done with. And then the irony of now missing the present because of so much looking back. Basically it might always be impossible to be 'fully present' but gosh-darn we try. My attempt to articulate some of this:

You were four weeks and loved the ceiling fan.

I loved finally going to the bathroom without needing a stool softener.

You were six weeks and loved baths.

I loved when you finally didn't pee everywhere.

You were three months and loved the music toy.

I loved that you finally tolerated 'tummy time.'

You were seven months and loved when the watermelon juice tickled your chin.

I loved how the floored shined when I cleaned it after you were done.

You were ten months and loved swinging in the hammock with Dada.

I loved filtering and framing you for more likes on Instagram.

You were twelve months, not walking, and still loved rolling and army crawling.

I loved that you could finally get what you wanted on your own.

You were fifteen months and loved your first lick of a sucker.

I loved when it was finally in the trash so I could wipe the sticky away.

You were sixteen months and loved doors and drawers and open and close.

I 'loved' bending down for the thousandth time to clean up your mess.

You were eighteen months and loved splashing in the bath.

I loved when you were contained long enough for me to check my phone.

You were nineteen months and loved sneaking into the pantry for the canister of raisins.

I loved that it occupied you long enough for me to take my belly to pee for the ninetieth time.

You were nineteen months and loved the spinny chair in Mama's hospital room.

I loved that it took your attention away from the cabinet I told you fifty times not to open.

You were nineteen months and loved and patted and burped Brother silly.

I loved that you had someone else to look at besides me.

You were two and loved books and trains and asked over and over and over for Mama to play with you.

I loved when you loved books and trains in the other room for pete's sake in the other room for pete's sake in the other room for pete's sake.

You were two and loved to name your blocks and the colors gween gween GWEEN wed wed WED oh-winge oh-winge OH-WINGE yeh-wo yeh-wo YEH-WO.

I loved that yes yes YES you knew your colors GWEEN RED OH-WINGE YEH-WO yes yes yes okay okay OKAY.

You are seven and love riding your bike.

I say I miss when you were a baby.

You are ten and love cookies and milk.

I say I miss when you were twelve months and walking or something.

You are thirteen and love teasing Brother and hurting him sometimes.

I say I miss when you were nineteen months and gentle and loved Brother more than anything.

You are eighteen and love books or girls or mechanical engineering.

I say I miss when you were two and loved fire engines or something.

You are twenty-one and ask one day if I ever got down on the ground to play with you, because you're writing a paper about childhood memories and 'need more material.'

I say of course, I can't believe you'd assume I didn't, who do you think I am, the devil?

You are two and love Mama, Dada, and Brother.

You are two and love ah-pains (airplanes) and two-wains (trains).

You are two and love books, oatmeal, doors, doors, doors, raisins, and poking brother in the eye when I'm not looking. You smile when I tell you no. You cry when I say it's not time for snack. You run away as we're about to board a plane. You hold Mama's face to kiss it with your yogurt lips.

You are two just this once. You are waking up from your nap and saying Mama and snack and Mama and poop and Mama and Brother. Go get your blocks and I'll play with you this time.