(Foss is a freelance writer from Northern Virginia. This article courtesy of the Arlington Catholic Herald.)
So often those things which frustrate me are products of my own tendency to want to play god in my life. Frequently, I do this without even recognizing it. I have a plan and I barrel ahead with my plan without stopping to consider if that plan is God’s plan for me. When I am met by obstacles to that plan, they vex me. I try to circumvent them and they frustrate me. Rarely, do I stop to consider that the obstacles might be part of a bigger, better plan. They might be God’s plan.
I can hold so tightly to my own plans that I am closed to God. I have often admitted in this space that I am a bit of a proud perfectionist. It has taken six children to teach me that pride will always stand between me and God. To live out my vocation faithfully in the suburban world which God has chosen for me, means that I have to wrestle daily with the imperfect appearance of my life.
I have friends and neighbors whose hair and nails are perfect, whose homes are perfectly decorated, whose wardrobes are perfect for their perfect bodies. I want my life to look like that. My revolving wardrobe frustrates me: the clothes I love, the just-getting-into-just-getting-out-of maternity clothes and the maternity clothes themselves. I have mornings when my shower gets bumped along until noon as I deal with one mini-crisis at a time. My house looks more like something from Homeschooling Today than House Beautiful.
When I am listening closely to the Lord, I know that this is exactly what He wants from me. Over time, perfectionism has given way to a more relaxed attitude towards life. I recognize that my life appears odd and out of control and somehow sad to people who think that perfect appearances and human control are important. Honestly, I never consciously put aside perfectionism; instead, I was forced to give up. I had to recognize that I am outnumbered and it is humanly impossible to keep up the appearance of being perfect. And in my messy house, a loudly snoring three-year-old asleep across my chest, I had a conversation that affirmed for me that this Lent is to be all about giving up.
A friend whose life appears so perfect said, quite matter of factly, “I could never have another baby. I am too much of a perfectionist. One more, and I’d lose control.”
She would. She’d have overwhelmed days, and bad hair days and extreme laundry days. She would not be perfect. She would not be in control. But she would be driven to her knees and she would, in her openness to life, be open to God. His power would be made perfect in her weakness.
He’d meet her there, where she desperately needed Him. He wouldn’t whirl through her house like some sort of spiritual Mr. Clean. He wouldn’t magically erase the last ten pounds of baby weight. But He would bless her with the comfort of knowing that He is in control and He has a better plan.
She would be frustrated some days. She’d feel misunderstood by most of the world. She would look with longing at J. Jill catalogs and decorating magazines. But she would know that she and God had a deal. She’d do things His way and He’d bless her in ways that are beyond the understanding of the woman who closes herself in order to stay in control.
I had grand plans for February. We were going to take some wonderful field trips. We were going to become well-acquainted with the new playground. I was going to do some serious decorating in this new house of mine. Instead, I gave up. I surrendered. I rubbed a lot of backs, gave a lot of baths, wiped a lot of noses, read a lot stories. I don’t like it when my children are sick, but I always find that we are brought closer by the experience of weathering the storm together. It appears that I got nothing accomplished.
My house is dusty and I am sorely in need of a haircut. But my children are feeling better today. And they know I was there every step of the way, day and night. They are better for it and so am I. It felt very out of control at times. I offered more ‘round the clock prayers than a monk. I had plenty of opportunity to listen to God above the noisy breathing of sick babies. And I am certain that this wasn’t my plan for February, but it was a better plan.
