gentle reminders on hard days

A beautiful moment, captured on a hard day.

I awoke this morning with sobs in my throat.

We all had a very poor night’s sleep (nightmares for my boy kept him up in the night) and I woke from this deeply stunted slumber more annoyed about having missed a full sleep than I was feeling compassionate toward my child in his fear…a hard observation to come to grips with, even on a goo day.

Then, I remembered about a small change in our schedule that would mean I’d miss the forty-five-minute window of free time I usually have in the morning…and that was it, enough to send me off weeping. And that’s just the honest, un-pretty truth of where I am right now. In burnout, aching for newness of life, still waiting for it to come.

What led me to weep, mostly, was the sense of helplessness that washed over me as I realized that even though I’m doing everything I can to show up + be available for my kids, I still sometimes show up for them as my worst self — like when I feel irritated when I wish I felt compassion. Like feeling dread over starting my day with my littlest one, rather than on my own.

Yes, I am only human. And, yes, I do put a lot of pressure on myself…this is something I’m aware of, and working on. But regardless of all that…showing up as your worst self for your children, just feels bad, no matter how you qualify it. And because we’re human, it’s an unavoidable reality, and that reality can really sting at times.

I’m telling you all of this…why? I guess because I want to try to remember what burnout feels like, as strange as it is to say that. I’m extremely thankful to have the capacity to forget, to experience relief from it, as I do most of the time. This is a miracle of its own, because I will be the first to admit that I am not particularly well-wired to be a stay at home parent. No…the capacity to show up and do this at all, I have to remember, is the work of the Spirit in me. And part of how I get mired in burnout is a deeply rooted tendency toward self-reliance…that unruly, invasive weed which has a way of overrunning my garden at times.

As hard as it is to be confronted with all of this, I welcome the opportunity to root it out, to seek new ways of being: to enter into the beauty of the freedom that I am invited to by Jesus. I think it is helpful to remember the valley places…to familiarize ourselves with the specific qualities of the shadows that pass over us from time to time. Remaining acquainted with that grief makes me wiser to it in future visitations; because I know I will return to this place again. Not only that, but it stokes a fire of compassion in my heart which prepares me to engage in true empathy when I encounter those who are under their own shadow.

I also share for the simple reason that we don’t speak openly about parental burnout enough, which feels nearly too obvious to state. If this is you right now…I know how it can be. Talk to the people who love you about it. I hope that the tide turns swiftly for you, and even if it doesn’t…please, treat kindly and gently with yourself until it does.

My husband, my sisters, my friends all know I’m burnt out. I can’t seem to stop talking about it, much as I’d like to. But these good people love me well, so they listen and say kind + true things to me. Thank God for friends.

One of these dear friends sent me this Dr. Becky episode called “Parenting on Empty”, which was extremely timely and also broadly applicable. If you are someone with your heart set on flourishing…listen to it. You don’t even have to be a parent to benefit from it.

So as I began this day weeping, Dr. Becky’s sage words were fresh on my mind: being burned out doesn’t mean that there is anything wrong with me. It doesn’t mean that I’m doing something wrong, or that I don’t love my kids. I am only human; I am limited, and that is normal. 

Lately, I mostly sense God beneath my feet, as foundation. I wish that I could feel his warmth next to me, or his joy, kindness, peace – anything – in my heart. But as I wait to feel his comforting nearness again…I courageously defy cynicism by saying: his being the rock beneath my feet is enough. Even though it is certainly less than what I wish I had of Him right now. It is enough. And I figure that at least this safe + sturdy foundation is where every crumbling piece of me is landing…I have a sense of being held; contained. I feel that I can trust that no parts of me will go missing, or get lost as I’m coming undone, and that is consoling.

The Spirit gently reminds me: you cannot lose me, because I am the one who found you.

I also feel a bit like a laboring woman, who knows she wants the unfathomable gift of life on the other side of this present agony. But I also want the drugs that mute the pain. I could go on, if I could feel less, I believe. And yet…there is a tiny sliver in my heart of hearts which knows that I can endure, pain and all. It is the gentlest whisper, so ready to be snuffed, trampled, confused, muted by whatever next thing may come.

It occurs to me that perhaps the greatest act of courage available to me in a moment like this does not look very much like courage at all.

It may look like stepping outside. Slowing my breath. Remembering that I know how to drink water – that is something I can do. Believing that this feeling is not final; it doesn’t own me, and I a

I remember, too, that because my heart is a garden, it is subject to winter. Subject to tilling, to toiling…to death. I am so intimidated by the idea of actual gardening. Of cultivating and growing something from a seed…the attention to detail, the slow and arduous work, the trial and error, the hard won fruits of labor…or, worse than that, the possibility of a labor that is fruitless. Perhaps it is this insecurity that drives me all the harder to be a gardener of my soul — I’m set fiercely on the cultivation of my heart, and it’s times like this that I can feel my lack alongside my desire to be whole; both so acute.

Earlier this week I came across this poem that I wrote some months ago and it served as a gentle redirection to my wintering heart. It reminded me that I get to be a work of art in the hands of an insightful Father. It reminded me that it is not my job to strive, but to be. I have known this all along, in my head. Maybe the work happening in me now is something of a head-to-heart transmission…maybe on the other side of this, I will embody more of the essence of this harp-being. I can only hope. 

Have you ever known a harp to strive?

or 

was it made

to make music 

by being

a well-crafted instrument 

of science engulfed in artistry

Is it that deliberate, 

insightful action upon strings in

tension 

make Beauty?