I'm Sorry, So Sorry...Wait, No I'm Not!

I am done apologizing.

If you're my husband and you're reading this, you're thinking - "What do you mean 'you're done?'  You haven't ever really been that great at saying those two little words."  Yes, that's true.  I am a dyed-in-the-wool first-born with a stubborn streak, and I don't really argue unless I feel strongly about something... so when I decide to put my toe to the mat on an issue, I don't back down too easily.  [I saw a great sign once that said, "I'd agree with you, but then we'd both be wrong."  That pretty much sums up how I approach arguments.  Maybe I should see a therapist...]

I guess I should clarify.  I'm done living apologetically.  This afternoon I read an article about the importance of mothers not criticizing their appearance because it defines the way in which their daughters will come to view their own bodies.  I am glad to be living in a day and age in which there is an awareness about these things.  Somehow it is empowering to me to be reminded about the powerful influence I have over critical points of self-formation in the lives of my daughters.  I think to myself, "I can do that!  I can love myself and my body and, in doing so, pass on a legacy of compassion toward self to try to give my daughters a leg up in this harsh world of airbrushed ads and boob jobs."  As I basked in premature self-congratulation about what a great job I plan to do of not criticizing my body in front of my children, I couldn't help but recognize a small gnawing feeling starting to creep up on me.  "Good for you," the little voice said, "but what about all of the other ways you cut yourself down in front of your children?"

And so, standing in my kitchen this afternoon, I decided I am done.

I am done apologizing for the state of my house.  How many times have I greeted guests at my door and said, "I'm sorry it's so messy in here"?  OF COURSE IT'S MESSY IN HERE!  I have two young children who play their way through my home like Tasmanian devils all day long.  I spend a good portion of each day feeding these precious little ones and then dealing with the fallout after mealtime - sweeping up crumbs, wiping up spills, searching on hands and knees for random green beans and forgotten pieces of chicken nuggets (not real chicken, of course - we're vegetarians) that have been thrown overboard by my two-year-old when I wasn't looking.  And apparently it's not my spiritual gift to label toy bins or switch out closets right on time, or - since we're being honest - put away clean clothes.  I can get the clothes clean, I just can't seem to get them back in our drawers in a timely manner.  So if you show up on my porch unannounced, chances are there will be some (clean!) laundry to greet you on my couch.  There is some staring at me at this very moment.  Some of it is even folded, so we're getting close!

Why do I obsess over having my house clean before I want anyone to see it?  And why, even when I've made my best attempt to straighten up, do I find myself nervously inspecting my home with fresh eyes when my guests arrive?  I certainly never show up in someone's home and mentally critique the state of their home - I hardly even notice.  So why would I assume that people are doing this to me?  Even though my paranoia is waning as I've given up all hope of keeping a perfectly maintained home, I sometimes find myself wanting to apologize.  But lately I've been stopping myself because I have an almost four-year-old who pays attention to everything, and I've started to wonder how this sounds to her little ears.  Often times she has helped in some precious four-year-old way to prepare for our guests, whether putting away some toys or library books or making her bed.  When she has pitched in like this, she is almost bursting with pride to welcome our guests when they arrive.  I wouldn't dare diminish her efforts by suggesting to someone in front of her that the state of our house is not good enough.  And then I think, well, if I wouldn't do this to my daughter, why am I willing to do it to myself?  Why do I diminish my efforts to clean instead of just saying (without words), "Welcome to our home!  We value you and your presence here and are choosing to ignore that pile of paperwork on the kitchen counter.  (Who has time to sort through junk mail every day?)  I hope my child has flushed the toilet since she last used it so you don't have a surprise greeting you when you powder your nose.  You might want to watch your step so you don't break your neck by tripping on that toy lying there.  Want some hot tea?  Now sit down right here and tell me everything!  Please don't sit on the clean clothes..."  [How would I do this without words?  I'm not sure.  But you see what I'm getting at, right?]

Just as I would never criticize the way I look in front of my child, I should not criticize our home.  This is a sacred place where my children are growing up, where we bond daily over meals, where we have dance parties and read books and make pancakes.  My children are proud of our home because this is where we do life.  I need to join them in that posture and get over the imperfections within.

I am done apologizing for my gifts and talents.  I think we are taught from an early age to deflect compliments, to minimize our achievements and our gifts in the name of humility and graciousness.  Let me be clear - I am all for humility, but I don't think true humility requires that we try to deny our gifts rather than acknowledging and cherishing them.  I don't think it requires that we diminish ourselves.  In fact, I'm pretty sure we do a thorough job of letting ourselves be diminished on a daily basis.  We compare ourselves to impossible standards, we let Pinterest and Facebook and Instagram make us feel like we're not organized enough, not creative enough, not DOING enough.  [It was enough when it was the women in magazines and in Hollywood that we compared ourselves to - now we know what everyone is doing all of the time, from our best friends to our old high school acquaintances, and they are thrown into the comparison pool as well.  It's exhausting!]  Maybe it's just me, but I tend to doubt it.  If we're going to beat ourselves up all of the time (which we need to stop doing), we need to at least have the counterbalance of giving ourselves credit for all of the things we ARE DOING.  Because I'm guessing that each of us is pretty darn amazing.  Girlfriends - let's be each other's best cheerleaders.  Enough with the competition and the jealousy and the false humility.  Let's get to know each other well enough to be able to name one another's gifts, and when our gifts are acknowledged, let's help each other learn to say, 'thank you,' to smile freely and let ourselves glow with the knowledge that we are special and that we have something important to offer the world.  Let's help one another be the very best versions of ourselves.  This is what we want for our children, isn't it?  We don't want them to hide their lights under a bushel - NO!  Let those babies shine, and teach them how by letting your own light shine the way God intended.  Don't apologize for your awesomeness!  Use it to bless those around you.  I get excited just thinking about what would happen if we could all learn to do this...

I am done apologizing for my opinions, my theology, my perspective on life.  I don't outright apologize for these things, of course, but I apologize for them in my heart every time I fail to speak up or contribute to a discussion in which the prevailing voices go against the perspective I hold.  I don't need to speak up because I have the right perspective or possess some secret truth, but because I think that part of growing up and becoming a mature adult means being brave enough to offer a dissenting voice, being gracious enough to hear dissenting voices and have a civil and even open-minded conversation.  When I don't speak up, a little part of me curls up and dies, as if I'm ashamed of who I am and what I think.  All my life I have been a people-pleaser, and if being honest, of course I still want to please people.  But I also want to have the guts to be wholly myself even when that's going to rub people the wrong way.  I want to embrace the whole of who I'm becoming, to risk sharing myself and, in doing so, possibly discovering that the whole of who I am is okay, that I will be loved not in spite of who I am but because of who I am.

AUTHENTICITY.

This is what I want for myself, this is what I want for my children.  This is what I value most highly in my friends.  It's important to be able to say those words - I'm sorry.  I'm going to save them for the times I've spoken too harshly to my children, for the times I've refused to back down in a conversation with my husband and ended up valuing the idea I'm defending more highly than the relationship, for the times I find myself acting unjustly, for the many mistakes I will make on a daily basis as I try to be a wife and mother and friend.

But I'm done apologizing for who I am.  In big ways and small, in ways spoken aloud and in ways hidden deep inside my most private self, I need to stop apologizing.  This is me.  These are the varicose veins that I get during pregnancy - awesome, right?  This is my couch piled with clean laundry.  Just scoot it out of the way before you sit down.  Want to fold an undershirt while we talk?  Go for it!  This is my latest idea - it's pretty great, isn't it?  These are my children.  I yell at them sometimes, hopefully not in front of you, but I'm pretty sure they know to their cores how much I love them.  This is what I think.  This is how I feel.  And I want to know all of these things about you, too.  Please don't worry about your veins, about your laundry - clean or dirty - about your children, your ideas, your feelings.  I don't love you in spite of those things, I love you because of them.

Let's do life together.  Let's be authentic.  And let's save those two little words for the times they're actually needed.

The House That Built Me

You may have heard the Miranda Lambert song by this title.  Whenever this song comes on the radio, I cry EVERY TIME.  Not like a little weepy cry or that choked-up feeling in the back of my throat.  No, I do the full-on shoulders-shaking ugly cry.  Unfortunately, this usually happens when I'm driving since  that's the only time I really listen to the radio.  [Don't worry - I'm able to cry hard and drive safely at the same time.]

The reason this song gets to me?  Not because I'm a huge Miranda Lambert fan, although I'm sure she's great.  It's because there was such a house in my life.  It wasn't a house I grew up in, and in fact, I only lived there about a year and a half.  When I was in 8th grade, my parents fulfilled their life-long dream and bought a piece of property in Fredericksburg, Texas to build their house on a hilltop.  It was a beautiful piece of land at the end of a cul-de-sac on a country road.  The road even had a lovely name - Countryside Bend.  I'm really into street names, so the name was a nice bonus.  

My family then proceeded to plan and build the house that would sit on the top of that hill.  I don't mean "build a house" in the typical sense, where you find a builder and look at floorplans and choose the various finishes and fixtures.  I meant BUILD A HOUSE.  My parents drew up the floorplans themselves.  My dad, who at the time was teaching high school, would come home from teaching each day, eat dinner, and then head out to the hilltop with our Border Collie, Patches, to work on the house all night.  He would then come home and take a shower and a nap for a couple of hours before repeating the process again.  FOR TWO YEARS.  

Weekends involved our whole family on the hilltop pitching in together with whatever friends or extended family made their way down to the cul-de-sac to lend a hand.  I learned the nuts and bolts of building a home.  I learned what trusses were and how to carry them up the hill with my brother.  I learned how to operate a nail gun, screwdriver, and a variety of other power tools.  I learned that I'm a night owl like my father and that spending a night working on a house together is pretty quality father-daughter bonding time.  I learned that I was strong and capable and that my dad is one talented, patient, and dauntless guy.  I know it sounds corny, but I learned about teamwork as I watched my family pitch in and something wonderful start to take shape in front of our very eyes.

My parents, planning to spend their retirement years living on that hilltop, took great care to put their special touch on everything in the house.  They painted and hung tin ceiling tiles in the kitchen.  They made the ceilings ten feet tall on both stories of the house.  When constructing the shower for the master bath, my dad called my mom in and asked her to show him how high she likes to hold her foot up when she shaves her legs - and then he built a tiled shelf into the shower at that level.  I will never forget the way we sanded and sanded the rungs of the banister because my dad didn't want his grandchildren to hurt themselves when that time came.  

The most special touch of all, in my opinion, was that the night before the sheetrock was to be hung, my dad spent the night praying in that house.  He took a permanent marker and wrote scriptures and love notes to each of his children on the boards leading into our rooms.  He sat in closets and stood in between the boards of the framing and prayed.  Call it magical thinking, but that house always felt covered in prayer while we lived there.  It could have been the hospitality of my parents, but I remember friends who spent the night saying that they felt like they were in church when they were at my house.  It was almost as if the prayers had joined the lumber to frame the house, as if we were surrounded by peace and love and joy in every room because the prayers were as much a part of the house as the insulation.  

Although they had planned to spend their lives there, my parents found themselves leaving their dream home after less than two years of living in it because they felt God leading them to a new job and a new town.  It was inconceivable to me that we weren't going to stay there, that it would not be the house I would visit when I came home from college and the place I brought my children for Christmas.  It was inconceivable to my parents, too, but their conviction in the new direction we were being taken allowed them to release their dream of growing old there, of drinking their morning coffee as they watched the deer out their bedroom windows, of sitting on the balcony and watching the sun set over the horizon.  It was heart-wrenching to leave that house, because in some way, it had built each of us as we had built it.

I recently learned that there was a fire on Countryside Bend, and our two-story labor of love was burnt almost to the ground.  As I cried over this news, I thought of the hours we spent together and the work that went into making every detail perfect.  I thought of the pizza we consumed and the Dr. Pepper we drank as we tried to stay awake a few more hours to get a little more done before sunrise.  I thought of the smell of sawdust, the sound of the nail gun, the paint on my old T-shirts and the sight of my mother driving up the hill to deliver yet another meal.  I thought of my father's strong hands and the wondrous way he was able to turn my mother's dream into a reality.  It occurred to me that the flames didn't take any of those memories from me.  The lumber may have burned, but the way that house built our family into something stronger and more solid than ever before - that was untouched by the fire.

And then I thought of the prayers.  The prayers I had always pictured as trapped inside of the walls.  And suddenly an image came to me that provided almost instant healing from the sting of this sad news.  I saw the house burning, but rather than the violent destruction of the flames, I saw something beautiful rising up to the sky.  

It was the prayers, being released from the walls like burnt incense, an offering to the Lord.