What is My Voice?

As a mom I've often said, "Just do what I've said because I'm tired of hearing myself talk!"  Seriously, there have been times...many times...that I can't stand the sound of my own voice.  In those times I can only imagine how my children (or whomever I'm overloading with excessive verbiage) must feel!

As I am working through...or better stated, allowing the Lord to work me over... finding what is in my heart and what that means, I feel the need to purge more and more words.  I'm trying to write as much or more than I talk in the pursuit of two things.  One- to spare those around me from wanting to cover their ears, and two- to find my own voice. 

Sitting across the table from a dear friend yesterday who was sharing some amazing insights she learned at a conference, I realized many things.  Some of the most prevalent were questions I need to ask myself. 

What do I want?  Who am I?  These seem like such self serving questions that I hate to write them, much less actually ask them.  And in asking...ugh, there is the answering.

I find that I'm a mess of jumbled feelings and thoughts when it comes to such self exploration. 

On one hand I love a good personality test.  I answer the predetermined questions and then someone else says, "this is who you are."  On the other hand, I really hate asking myself who I am. I find it much more comfortable to hear what someone else thinks or sees in me than actually saying (or looking) myself.  I almost always agree with the results of such tests, thinking, "yes...that's me to a tee. So glad you saw that!" 

I want to be defined first by who God says I am, but if He created me then there must be some value in seeing myself as myself too...I guess...right?   To know myself...to really know myself seems strange in some way.  I'm not sure why.

Maybe it's fear...
What if I don't like myself?
What if I'm really boring? (I hate boring!)
What if I never figure out what I REALLY want?
What if I actually figure out what I want and fail?

Each one of those is scarier than the one before it. 

Quote after quote I see lately seem to have a common theme... "go for your dreams and fear is okay."  One such quote- "If your dreams don't scare you, they aren't big enough." - seems to sum up the whole lot.

If I jump into this dream thing, then I'll have to conquer some fear.  I'll have to find my voice.  I know I have a voice- a very southern mom kind of voice.  The kind of voice that has lots to say.  So...the next big scary question for the list...
What if I actually find my voice and then get tired of hearing it? 

Imitation and Self-promotion

If imitation is the greatest form of flattery, then self promotion must be the greatest form of...what?

I am seriously trying to figure this one out.  There is something that really bugs me about self promotion.  This thing that gets in my craw comes in many forms.  It can be as simple as telling a story about how you were the best at something, to raising yourself up in a situation, making yourself seem more important than you are, or downright bragging. 

One thing that I can't seem to get past is the never ending links on Facebook.  Everyone has a blog- that's fine...obviously I have one too.  For whatever reason, it bugs me when people post their own blog links to other social media.  I won't say "I will never"- that's a dangerous trap, but so far- I've never felt the urge to post a link of my posts online anywhere.   That seems like self promotion.  It seems to scream- "please, listen to what I have to say, because it is smarter and better than anything you're thinking or saying right now."

Maybe that's why it bugs me so much...it's self promotion with the intent of being imitated.  "C'mon- look at me, I have great things to say, AND you should all want to be just like me." 

Pure imitation is the greatest form of flattery, but asking for someone to imitate you...that is pride.  In the most impure form, it is actually idolatry. 

Let's get real...we all love, at least on some level, to be imitated.  We love being asked for advice, and we really love someone following our advice.  I'm not claiming to be any different...I'm no saint. 

As I've been sitting here on my bed (it's the closest thing to my very slow internet connection)- I've realized that this is not about those self-promoters at all...it's about me and my own pride.

I'm terrified of crossing a line that I don't want to cross.  I've said to God (and others in my life)- one of my greatest fears in ministry is being the one kids follow.  I love that kids love me. I love that kids listen to what I have to say.  I love that kids remember what I teach.  My greatest fear in all of that is that they will follow me- not Jesus. 

Maybe my big problem with self promotion, and the reason I'm so leery to do it is that I'm afraid it will go to my head. 

I think God is calling me to "own" some authority He's given me in others' lives.  I also think the deepest desires of my heart- the ones about being a writer and speaker, the ones about being what my friend calls a good communicator- are being brought to the surface. 

My fear about jumping in feet first has nothing to do with the writing or speaking. It's all jumbled up in this upside down pride issue. The one that tells me it's self promotion; the one that says, you'll cross a line. 

I want to imitate one person only- Jesus.  I don't say that to be 'holy'- I say it because He is worth imitating and any self promoting He did was for the sake of people's lives and the Kingdom.

I have a lot of work to do with the Lord on this one. 
The best I can do right now is give others a break when I think they are self-promoting, and ask the Lord if there is something He wants to teach me through their boldness.

When your laundry basket tells the real story….

I did laundry.  I washed it. I dried it.  I folded it.  After all of that, I actually looked at it.  I realized that my laundry was saying something about my life.  The basket was a little more than half full but it had only two things in it- underwear and pajamas.  Now if I was married and that basket was full of lacy-racy underwear and lingerie, I would say- “Yay, me!”  But I’m not, and it wasn’t.  The pitiful little pile in my laundry basket got me thinking about how my laundry actually says a lot…how it tells a story.

When my children were younger I did laundry every day…seriously…at least one load every.single.darn.day.  The habit started when they were babies, but not because I was a clean freak.  I’m neat but germs are not really something I worry too much about.  The habit didn’t start because I was afraid a stain might set in on their pristine white clothes.  Let’s be real…I have boys- who in their right mind puts white on boys in the first place?! 

The laundry habit- at that point- was about one thing- necessity.  I didn’t have a ton of clothes, my husband didn’t have a ton of clothes, and my boys…you get the point.  The laundry was about staying on top of whether or not everyone had something to put on their bodies when they left the house. 

As my kids got a little older, the habit of doing a load or more every day continued, but for a different reason.  By the time they were in elementary school and on, having enough was not an issue.  We had plenty.  I had more than plenty- my closet looked more like TJMaxx than an exclusive boutique, but none the less, there was plenty.

The laundry habit had become about staying on top of the mess more than anything.  With kids wearing uniforms to school, changing for extracurricular activities, and then changing again into their “comfortable” home clothes, the pile never ended.  My husband’s ever growing pile of work out clothes didn’t help my cause either.  

Somewhere near the end of the boys’ elementary years, they took on the job of doing their own laundry. Both boys were indoctrinated into the fine art of sorting, knowing how to set the water level and temp on the washer, how much detergent to use, and just how long to dry a pair of pants before they shrink. 

I’d given the chore away, but yet I found myself still washing something every day.  It wasn’t their clothes, it wasn’t my husband’s…he was gone from our lives by this point.  And honestly- I didn’t dirty up too much.  I washed whatever I could get my hands on.  This time the laundry job was about control.  I needed to control something. I couldn’t control the fact that my marriage had ended.  I couldn’t control the heartbreaking reality that I was now a single mom of two preteen boys.  I couldn’t control that I had no choice but to sell my dream home.  But I could control the level in my laundry basket and so I did.  No towel, pair of socks, or a single pair of underwear was safe.  I was going to empty the baskets every night.  I couldn’t control them filling up again, but for a few short hours, I was in control…of something. 

Seven years later, I still do laundry…but now only once- maybe twice a week.  I no longer feel the need to control the basket.  Now a skeptic of my view of the basket could say that’s because one boy is off to college, and the other- he does his own.  Some may think that I am so advanced at this point that I dry clean or send my laundry out every week.  Seriously?!  Who am I- Jennifer Anniston?!  (Or-fill in the blank with your favorite celebrity)  I’ve always wondered who does the laundry of the stars.  Anyway…

I’m not advanced.  I don’t even own anything that has to be dry-cleaned!  The laundry basket does tell a story for me.  The story may be a puzzling one at times…like the day with only pajamas and underwear.  (What did I do all week?!)  

Yep, the story has changed over time, and in less than a year it will change again when I send my youngest off to college.  My laundry basket will never be completely empty because somehow that would mean my life is a little empty too.  I say with all the sincerity in my heart- I have a full basket because I have a full life.  That is the story it’s telling now, and it’s my favorite one so far.

Got Milk?
Don’t you hate it when you have the taste for something only to discover that what you’ve just put in your mouth is not it?  You know what I mean…your mind thinks you’re about to take a swig of some sweet iced tea, but you’ve somehow forgotten in the passing 30 seconds after your last sip that you do not have a glass of tea in front  of you.  You have a plain glass of water instead.  What a disappointment.  My taste buds may not be sophisticated enough to know the difference between a Pinot Noir or a Merlot – unless my eyes have also seen the label- but they certainly are not so dumb as to confuse water with sweet tea.

Is it possible that this brain to taste conundrum also happens for us spiritually and emotionally?  After a personal experience this week, I think it is.  Two times in Scripture there is talk of milk vs. solid food (1 Corinthians 3 and Hebrews 5).  Both references seem to come with – dare I say it- a slight bit of sarcasm attached.  Not that the Lord is sarcastic- He is as straight forward as they come, but because both references are corrections to the Church (credited to the Apostle Paul)- there is that hint of “you should know better.” 

While I expected solid food this week, the Lord was quick to remind me that sometimes what I really need is milk.  Was it for correction?  Maybe.  Was it a good reminder?  For sure.

First, let me be honest (this is Straight Talk after all)…
I’ve been complaining lately.  I’ve been complaining a lot lately.  I’ve complained about my job.  I’ve complained about my job.  I’ve complained about my job.  And…I’ve complained about my job.  Yep, there is a theme, and it’s not a good one. 

The complaining has been about the work load, the pay, the idea that I’m underappreciated…you name it, and I had a complaint.  I’ve worn out pages in my journal as well as my friends’ ears.  I know now that the Lord got pretty tired of it all too because He got busy pouring me a big glass of milk.

In the midst of planning a lesson for some children, I was the one who got the lesson.  It was Labor Day weekend, so what better to talk about than work; working with all our heart- working for the Lord, not for men.  (Colossians 3:23) 

This was so easy; it was going to write itself.  I would talk about chores, work, and how we all have things we have to do- some we don’t mind, and others we hate. I would talk about how we’re willing to do some things for free and others only for a price.  I would give great kid-friendly examples.  After all the building up, I would hit them with the verse from Colossians.  To drive it home I’d tell them the story of Nehemiah rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem.  Easy.   

Lesson- written.  Materials- ready.  Then…the night before I was going to teach, as I was reviewing the lesson, the verse, my examples, and the follow up games, God was taking out that gallon of milk and starting to pour.  The more I reviewed, the more I realized this lesson may be for the children, but it was also for me. 

Colossians 3:23 – “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men…”

Every time I read it, the emphasis landed on “Whatever.”  The glass of milk was filling up – quickly.  Whatever you do…whatever you do…whatever you do.  It doesn’t matter if it’s something you like or not. It doesn’t matter if you get paid or not.  It doesn’t matter if you get a trophy or even a simple pat on the back.  Whatever you do…whatever you do…whatever you do.  Milk, milk, milk. 

I swallowed my milk in big gulps, and I actually enjoyed it.  The funny thing is- I don’t like milk.  I actually really despise milk.  (It all goes back to drinking it warm at dinner as a kid- but that’s a different story) 

So, why did something I dislike so much go down so well?  Because my God not only corrects me, He also knows and loves me.  Knowing I’d have a hard time swallowing milk, God put some delicious chocolate syrup in it for me.  God sweetened this correction with a promise. 

Colossians 3:23 continues into verse 24 this way…
“…since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.” 

I got milk and it was good!