More Martha than Mary

Last week, my husband and I were in a bad place. A rut. We were out of sync. This happens from time to time, sometimes during one of our MEN-strual cycles. I’m just saying. The word MEN in right there. I am fully aware of mine, and the others in the house are alerted to it by an increase in screaming, door slamming, chocolate in the pantry. Because if you can’t climb out of your rut, the next best idea is to fill it with food.

The food doesn’t help, as if I needed to say that out loud. What does help is having a co-conspirator in Pittsburgh who runs on the same cycle. Usually one of us is able to talk the other one down from a ledge with a gentle reminder that this rage could be hormone-related. That reminder, however, is punishable by death if issued from a man’s lips.

Back to the rut. In this rut, I can’t function. Brad, when we are in a rut, doesn’t look at me. It bothers me when people don’t look at me. I think that if I were ever to be tortured for information, withholding eye contact might be an effective technique. Just to clarify, you can pretty much just ask me anything, and I’ll tell you. Unless it’s someone else’s secret, I keep those. But I won’t look at you if I’m keeping a secret. Now, if you’re my husband–or anyone reading this–you now know that if I don’t look at you, I’m protecting something. Sometimes, it’s my heart, but sometimes it’s something that belongs to someone else.

I give so much away through my eyes so if I don’t look at someone, it’s intentional. I might not trust them. I might think they wish me ill. Or I might be afraid to let them see into my soul for fear they might use that information in bad ways. And sometimes, I’m afraid that if someone looks at me, they will see someone else’s secrets that I’m keeping. This happens pretty rarely. Usually, I look so deeply into people’s eyes that they are uncomfortable and look away. Then, I begin to wonder what they have to hide. Because, I assume that like me, if you avoid eye contact you must be hiding something.

All of this brings me back to the same lesson: Just because people don’t do things the same way I do them doesn’t mean that they’re wrong, and I’m right. God reinforces that all the time. Last week, my pastor said to view people as “works in progress,” and that resonated with me not only about others but also about myself. Then, listening to my favorite online preacher, I was reminded of the story of Mary and Martha. (Martha was mad that she was cleaning and cooking, while Mary sat and listened to Jesus. Martha wanted Jesus to make Mary help her, but Jesus told Martha maybe she should check her priorities.) I can identify with Martha, because a lot of times I serve begrudgingly rather than humbly.

Today, we are out of our rut and analyzing how we got there and how not to get there again. Today, I’m cleansing the salt, sugar, and other toxins I overindulged in the last few days. Today, I am asking God to help me see with His eyes. Today, instead of beating myself up, I’m embracing the fact that I am a work in progress.

Sit Down and Shut Up

This morning, my 100 Days of Prayer Journal prompt was: What do you say to yourself about faith. Ask God to reveal what you need to be saying. Over the past week, I had to confront some long-buried issues from my childhood. I didn’t want to deal with them. And, I still don’t want to. Almost 100% of the time, I think that talking about things is the best way to deal with them, but in this particular instance: I don’t want to talk about it.

Delving into the past did make me think about a lot of other stuff, like the fact that I’m glad my kids aren’t going to have to deal with the resurfacing of awful crap from their childhoods. I’m not a perfect mother. My family is not perfect, but it isn’t a nightmare. And I don’t worry that some day my kids will wake up and question every person in their lives. I don’t worry that someday they will wake up and feel as if their whole childhood was a sham.

My family of origin had a lot of laughs, but it also harbored a lot of secrets. Secrets that we didn’t even admit to ourselves. Secrets that are buried with two of my brothers and my dad. Secrets that destroyed some of us and really screwed up others. Secrets that “aren’t nice” to talk about as my mother would say. And some that are too awful even to remember. But if you peered through the windows of our glass house, the Swans looked fine. Looks can be deceiving.

I wanted what any child wants: to be accepted, loved, and cherished, but mostly I was criticized, belittled, and beaten. I never felt good enough. I sought acceptance anywhere I could find it–with friends, with alcohol, with boys…mostly with boys. Fortunately, God sent me the perfect boy when I was pretty young. One who would tell me nearly 25 years later, “I feel like you were mine before I even knew you.” Swoon. The boy who wishes he could have protected me from everything–even my own family. The boy who walked with me and held my heart and my hand while we made the family of my dreams.

I’m off topic. Sorta. Back to my kids. They are amazing. I tell them all the time how proud I am of them. I’m not perfect. Sometimes, I yell. Sometimes, I swear. A lot of times, I’m impatient and nit-picky and neurotic. I apologize…a LOT. I always stick up for my kids when other people–people who should tell them how great they are–don’t. I tell those people how great my kids are even though they don’t care or they would see it themselves. I seek validation because I never got it from the people who mattered. There’s the revelation: I sought approval from everyone because I never got it from my parents. My kids don’t seek approval from anyone because they got it from us.

Wow. Make sure you’re sitting down the next time you ask God to reveal something to you.

I read a million books trying to figure stuff out, but all I needed was God. Not the God of my childhood, who scared me. The God I found at MY church. I spent 39 years trying to do it myself, and in one short year, God completely changed my life. I never have to live another day seeking approval, because in Him, I am accepted, loved, and cherished. In Him, I am good enough. When people tell me they don’t believe in God, I don’t judge them. I pray for them. I pray that everyone’s heart would feel as full as mine does now.