The Good Daughter

All of my life I have been vying for the title of the good daughter, the good wife, the good mother, the good ____________ (insert role here).  Achievement of these lofty titles has always been completely subjective and capricious, as prerequisites and requirements have no basis in anyone's reality other than my own. The yardstick for measuring "good" is not stable; rather, it is nebulous and mercurial, and completely dependent on my mood and state of mind at that particular moment.  If I am feeling self-righteous, and need to be vindicated, then I am "good," while if I am wallowing in the quicksand of self-pity and self-loathing, everyone else is "good" and I never will be. Regardless of where I am on the emotional spectrum, though, I can never achieve permanent goodness, or complete all the tasks and master all skills to be crowned good mother, or adored as the good daughter. There is always something: some thorn, some scab, some ugly fault or mistake, and yes, someone who is oh so much better and deserving of the title.  I could have done more, been a better person, yelled less, been more understanding, said the right thing, said nothing at all, spent more time, listened better, cooked more, smiled quicker, slept less, worked less, worked harder...the list goes on and on.  

It's exhausting, trying to achieve perfection.  

And it is impossible. Because I am not good, and no matter how hard I try, I never will be, not on my own merits. I am sinful, and selfish, and will never achieve perfection, at least not on my own. The more I struggle to achieve goodness, the more unreachable the goal becomes. Strive as I may for perfection, I can only realize frustration in it always being out of reach, with that ugly, cloudy reflection of my ego looking back at me, the wall of self blocking the finish line.  Heck, just the act of trying to be good pushes me farther away from it, because I am fooled into thinking my futile attempts at goodness (as defined by me) are worthwhile.  They are not. For goodness can no more emanate from my sinful, selfish core than clean water spring from sewage.    

Ironic that trying to be good only reinforces that I am not.

How liberating, and wonderful, and praiseworthy is that realization!

Wait a minute...what?

Yes, that's what I said. Trying to be "good" is a waste of time--only God is good, the God who created me, the God who sent his Son, also God, to redeem me, the God whose Spirit dwells within me. And I cannot be God, so therefore I cannot be good.  Only through God and His grace and His death and resurrection can I ever hope to achieve goodness, in Him. God is good. Always. In all things. Not because He does good things.  

Because He is God. God is good.  

Me? I am a mother, a daughter, a wife, a woman, a child of God. Not good. Not bad.  

Just God's.

Waiting on the Lord

It's a lot easier to wait on the Lord and trust in His timing when things are going smoothly.  But let something go wrong, something so unexpected and undeserved, and my control freak nature screams to take the helm. Waiting is not my strong suit, and soaring with wings of eagles is impossible when I'm weighed down with worries.   

Wrongly accused. To be wrongly accused and not be able to refute lies and accusations has been one of the hardest tests of my faith in God's plan and His omnipotence. It's been two years since we vainly tried to intervene in my mother's caregiving, two years of emails and letters and communication with sisters who do not hear or want to hear, and a year since they undid all our efforts and lied to the court. We are caught up in their web of lies and deceitfulness, laboriously and painstakingly working through the maze of lawyers, counterclaims, discovery, and responses, and that web threatens to take up all our time, and monopolize our thoughts. Deadlines come and go, and still no answers, no solutions. We hired a lawyer, but we depend and lean on God. People ask about the status. Our children don't understand why we can't just get the court to dismiss the case. No one has heard anything from my mother or sisters, and we don't even know where they are. Yet I trust in God and His wisdom, secure in the knowledge that He knows where they are, He knows the conclusion, and He will work it all to His glory. Nonetheless while writing this, part of me wants to take control, and at times I must rein in my desire to get answers my own way. This morning was one of those days so I searched His Word for guidance on waiting.  

Lamentations 3 gives me peace, and hope that this trial is not hopeless, and I am not lost. Like the prophet in lamentations, I have vacillated between gloomy despair and the promise of His mercies. One minute I am desolate, depressed, tortured, and full of self pity, wondering why God allows injustice. But when I  turn back to Him, when I relinquish my feeble attempt to control my destiny, then (and only then), do I fully comprehend, "Who has spoken and it came to pass, unless the Lord has commanded it?"  (Lamentations 3:37)

"The LORD is my portion," says my soul, "therefore I will hope in him.   The LORD is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him."  Lamentations 3:24-25

Peace and Quiet

Finally.  

After three months of traveling, visiting family, changing time zones, and coming and going, I'm finally home. Alone. In my own bed.  On my own schedule, no flights to catch or people to meet. Passports are safely stowed away until next time. Only one language to speak, and no need for Google translate or crappy sign language communication just because I'm too lazy to become fluent in a second language. I can safely drink water from the tap and mosquitos are again simply a nuisance.  

At home, the duplos and Legos are back in their big crate in the basement, instead of threatening to exact excruciating pain to my instep if I dare to walk around barefoot. High chair and pack n play are put away upstairs, kid-friendly dishes and sippee cups and bibs and plastic spoons are on their appointed shelves. The living room and basement are no longer a play zone, an obstacle course, or a tripping hazard. No more diaper-filled wastebaskets in every room in the house, or daily loads of laundry requiring pretreatment of mysterious food stains.The refrigerator is empty of half-eaten bananas, toddler leftovers, and freshly made veggie-fruit juices, and the giant box of goldfish crackers is empty.  

My camera is back in its case on the hook by the door, and random phone charging cords aren't hanging empty from every electrical outlet in the house. There are only two pair of shoes by the front door. I can go to the bathroom without locking the door, eat an entire meal without interruption , and sit in my own chair. No more worries about dogs getting out or cats getting in. Alex can cook a meal without concern of sixteen variations of dietary restrictions or picky eaters, and I am not on high alert for coaster-less, sweaty drinks threatening to leave watermarks on the tabletops. I can watch any show I want, skip right past Daniel tiger and Dinosaur Train, and get on the Internet without being slowed down or kicked off due to power surges, no service, or too many users.  

No more urgent calls for Grandma or Nana or Pappy or Grandpa or Mom, and no more worries of little ones hurtling to their death off stairs or rock walls. No more reading the same board book 12 times nonstop, or tickling, or card games or hearing  "I'm bored" or being the jungle mom in a make believe forest. No more tears or tantrums or car seats.   

No more hugs or kisses or "you're the best Nana" proclamations, or high-pitched squeals and giggles, or shy smiles or arms reaching up to be held. The house is quiet. My life is quiet again.I look at the photos and relive the glorious, breathless, back-achy, sleep-deprived madness of the past three months.  

I'd do it all again in a heartbeat

And I can hardly wait till December when its a madhouse again.

I'll clean in January