Come to the Table: Enough

It's noon on a typical Saturday... one of those Saturdays that make me wish this wasn't typical.

Saturdays are demanding. And this Saturday in particular is one in the same. The phone is ringing, the little sleigh bells I put on the doors are jingling merrily as guests arrive, and I still don't have a single guide in the outpost to help contain the crazy, to help direct the crowds.

I feel a bit like sitting on the floor behind my desk so no one can see me.

A customer comes upstairs to alert me to the fact that there's no toilet paper in the bathroom (again), just as the first guide rounds the corner, frustrated because he worked hard and didn't get the tip he thought he'd earned, and I've just about had it.



For someone who struggles with people-pleasing as much as I do, this job has been.... stretching. Between conflicts with customers and disappointed (sometimes whiny) staff members, I feel like I'm not making anyone happy. No one at all.

I just don't have enough. 

I know in my head that this feeling isn't unique to this job or to this season of life... we all feel like this from time to time. Whether you're a teacher, parent, computer engineer... I think we all say it on those hard days. 

I don't have enough. 

I yell in my mind at all these people.

What do you want from me? I can't do everything!

And those words, repeated like a mantra, become my war chant. No more mercy, no more grace- I've given all I have to give.

Come to the Table: Water for the Thirsty

I'm sitting at the bar that serves as my work desk, taking a moment to absent-mindedly trace the deep scars in the surface of the wood.

I'm replaying an imaginary conversation in which I respond to a customer's angry ranting online review. It's the same conversation I've been having in my mind and occasionally in my dreams for the past week.

My Trevor says I need to let it go.

I can't.

I just can't seem to release this feeling of indignation, of offense, that the best I could do was still not enough for this customer. Instead, the restless feeling of unresolved conflict winds its way around my thoughts and my heart and my stomach and makes it hard to find the waters of peace. It dries me out- I'm parched and rough, inflexible and brittle. Exposed.

It's a symptom. I know that this fire-in-my-veins restlessness comes from somewhere deeper, somewhere where my identity lies.

And I've spent long enough tracing the dry, old, worn out cattle paths in my mind to know where this trail comes from.

I have an unquenchable thirst for approval. 

Being liked, or needed, or valued by other people drives so many of my decisions, so many of my behaviors. I don't handle it well when they (whoever they are... it really doesn't matter) are unhappy with me.

Come to the Table: Sweetness

My fingers feel the almost painful cold as I dig through the chest freezer in the garage. I'm careful to try not to start an avalanche of frozen food, carefully jigsaw-stacked to fit as much as we can- roasts and chicken, mixed fruit and frozen pizza wedged in so tightly I can barely move them aside to get to what I'm looking for.

I'm pulling out ground beef to thaw for supper sometime this week, and that's when I see it.

Caramel Delight Girl Scout Cookie Ice Cream.

I gasp and quickly recover the container. I didn't know it was in here, and being that I'm typically the one putting groceries away, it's surprising.

And all at once, my fingers don't feel quite so cold and I smile because I know my husband loves me.

The ice cream told me so. 

Come to the Table: Hunger

"Welcome back!" I call out to the group of snow-covered, rosy cheeked adventurers as they burst through the doors of the lodge.

They're talking all at once, smiling broadly, replaying the excursion with breathless excitement and laughter.

Another successful tour.

And I realize that this is already the last tour of the day- and somehow nine hours have sped by with me barely noticing, the din of constant, steady phone calls and credit card payments and waiver forms keeping me too busy to sit, too busy to notice the dark creeping into the sky.

My husband comes in, smelling like snow and two-stroke exhaust, as I return the goggles to their boxes, the forms to their drawer.

"Come eat with me," he says, and I remember the lunch I packed nearly ten hours before, sitting neglected under my desk in the corner.

Come to the Table: The Invitation

Original Image used with permission- thanks to The Accidental Nomad

I'm sitting at a barely big enough kitchen table, the toddler determined to get herself into precarious situations climbing on stools and stretching her chubby little legs to hop from one chair to the other, your boys offering up commentary and asking for second helpings.

It feels a lot like my own childhood, crammed into a little kitchen full of noise and laughter and an occasional reminder to chew with mouths closed. Familiar.

And I realize how much I missed this.

Infertility has stolen so much, touched so many places in my soul that I'm still recognizing just how much its affected me.

It has changed the way I do friendship.

My adult friendships often make me feel unimportant, immature, like I can't relate. I love Bible studies with these women and the opportunities we have to connect over the Word of God, but when it comes to talk of potty training or discipline or pregnancy pains, I have nothing to contribute.

I listen and learn and squirrel away the information for a someday I know may never come. I take in the grace and wisdom of their experiences, but I still feel the pain of the not knowing. Of being "other."

Lent in Leviticus: A Way Out of Debt

A while back, there was a show on TV called "What Would You Do." I think it's my favorite reality TV show. (Well, maybe. I also really like "Dirty Jobs.")

The premise is to see what real-life people would do when presented with a difficult choice. Sort of like "Candid Camera" (remember that?), the people don't know they're meeting actors and being recorded until the end.

The show often makes me cry. (Which often solicits a eye rolls from my husband.)

The latest tear-jerker was when an actress in line at a busy grocery store "forgets" her wallet. With tons of groceries on the counter, she searches her purse in vain, and ultimately presents the person behind her with the challenge- what would you do?

Some people grumble, some choose a different line, and then (this is the one that gets me) some people pull out their own wallets to pay her way.

Sniffle.

Lent in Leviticus: A Way to Be Clean

My now-husband, Trevor, and I were still dating when I learned of a quirk of his.

He likes things clean.

Well, not "things" so much as me.

He likes me clean.

While we were dating, I did an hour-on-a-train, eight-hours-on-a-bus, two-hours-in-a-car routine every time I visited him (thanks, long-distance dating!). Sometimes the bus schedule would align perfectly and I'd get to his apartment at seven in the evening. Wonderful.

And sometimes, I'd get there at two in the morning.



I have memories of the first time the 2 AM arrival happened. Blurry and sleep-deprived memories, but memories all the same.

We got out of his tiny red Geo Metro and ascended the stairs to the dorm-like housing at the Bible Camp where he lived. I almost tripped up the stairs a couple of times. You know that dream-like state of exhaustion where everything is a little like you’re watching it in slow motion? That was it.

He showed me the room where he'd prepared a bed for me for the weekend. I set my backpack down on the worn-out, brown carpeted floor. I was just done. Ready for bed, thank you. Wasn't even gonna brush my teeth.

"Aren't you going to take a shower?" Trevor asked.

"Um, no. I'll take one in the morning. Goodnight…” was my groggy reply.

"But, well, you have... bus germs."

Lent in Leviticus: God Makes a Way to Be with Us

Some of my favorite childhood memories have a common setting:

A sticky tabletop with mismatched, well worn chairs that scraped against the blue-and-tan flowered linoleum floor.

It was a good thing we are all so short of stature, because we wouldn't have been able to fold long legs under that table. It was tight.

I remember my sister falling asleep at the table nearly every night, occasionally falling face-first into her spaghetti, but more often, she would fall off the chair and whap her little chin on the edge of the table.

I remember asking my dad about what baptism means, anyway. I remember beef stroganoff (or, as we called it, "gray stuff"), and the no-singing-at-the-table rule, and family devotions, and reciting lines from movies- laughing hysterically until milk came out of noses, and bumping the table to make the wax drip down the Advent candles.

There must have been fights. Conflict. Tension. I just don't remember any of that.

Somehow, in my memories, the kitchen table is always the center of everything being right in the world. The relationships were never strained. The laughter flowed, and I felt right where I belonged.

Food, shared together, smooths over all those hurts and the non-sharing sister and the parents who are overworked and overtired.

Meals have a way of doing that, don't they? Of bringing people together and making things right.


There's a reason people go to dinner together when they're dating. There's a reason that friendships flourish around pizza parlors and coffee shops.


Food builds relationships. 

Lent in Leviticus: A Way to Be Filled

I was sixteen and still... um... fresh from the suburbs when I took a babysitting job in my new rural hometown.  I spent the summer watching the kids of a hardworking pig farmer.

The mother wasn't really in the picture at the time, and you could tell- the house was missing "womanly touches," like pictures on the walls and coordinating furniture.

But for all the bare walls and outdated fabrics, this dad was doing an amazing job raising his four children. I was just there for the summer, mostly to be sure that the kids ate during the day, didn't pick on the little sister too much, and to drive them to and from baseball practice. The kids were great- it was an easy job.

Making matters even easier, the dad came home as often as he could to check in on his children, driving heavy machinery up to the house on his way to and from the hog barns.

He smelled to high heaven. He was always super sweaty. But his eyes would light up at the sight of his kids playing catch in the front yard.



Once, he came by with a dead hog in the bucket of his skid loader.

"What happened to that pig?" I asked.

He looked at me with amusement before mumbling his reply...

"It quit breathin'."



What my employer was so eloquently saying, although in not so many words, was the fundamental truth that defines farming and agriculture.

We can only do what we can do- the rest is up to God. 

Lent in Leviticus: An Extravagant Substitute

It wasn't all that long ago that I was gainfully (if inconsistently) employed as a substitute teacher.

I'll be completely honest here- being a short-term sub was a mix of being lost in the halls and feeling a little bit like you're drowning.

After about a year, I realized that short-term subbing just isn't for me. There's a lot of anxiety there. You never know when you're going to get called, and when you do, there's so much to learn so quickly.



There was one time when I was called in very last minute and the poor classroom teacher hadn't even had time to get together a lesson plan for me.

I bumbled my way through the day, searching through the papers and folders on the teacher's desk to try to figure out what I was supposed to do.

When the students told me they'd had a pre-test in Science last week, and when I came across a folder full of ready-to-be-given Science tests, I went ahead and gave the assessment.

I felt pretty good about my problem solving and detective skills, until I stumbled across a take-home note that mentioned that the Science test was scheduled the Wednesday of the following week. Whoops.

A substitute teacher is never a really good replacement for the actual classroom teacher.

God Comes to Us: Lent in Leviticus

I kept a journal as a kid. Probably not a super surprising confession for someone who now has a blog.

I think some of my interest in writing down my thoughts came from that “Dear Diary” series (remember those?), and inspired some really stellar “I’m sure this will never be published, but…” entries with flowery language. Some of the entries are really funny, looking back, and some are interesting glimpses into my development- different handwriting, progressing vocabulary.

I think I have about seven different “diaries,” all with blank pages at the end where I gave up on them after a few weeks or a few months and then started fresh. The blue one with the unicorn on the cover is my favorite “volume,” with lots of wonderful descriptions of my family driving me crazy. It’s so funny to look at the big issues of my childhood.

There is one journal, though, that I like to avoid looking back on. 

Ask a Catholic: Lent Style, or What's with the fish on Fridays, anyway?

It all started with a lunchtime conversation about fish.

At Camp, we’d served fish on Friday for one of our retreat groups- because there were a few Catholics in the group, and Lent.

Which led to the questions- why fish? Was that in the Bible? What about the “giving things up” and how come so many people who do give things up for Lent have ulterior motives that have little to do with spiritual growth (losing weight, for example)? And why is Lent such a big deal with Catholics, anyway?

As the closest thing to Catholic at the table- I was baptized both Catholic and Reformed (double-dipped!)- I ineffectually shrugged my shoulders right along with everyone else.

But it did get me thinking.

See, while I’m technically Protestant (we attend an Evangelical Free church), I’ve found lots of wonderful truth and tons of beautiful and meaningful tradition in the Catholic faith.

I don’t agree with everything the Catholic church believes, no. But I do think that as Christians, we can all learn from different Christian denominations- we’re all the body of Christ, and we’ll be hanging out together in Heaven.

Different perspectives are a good thing.

And also, I’m just plain curious. So instead of shrugging my shoulders and moving on, I thought … hey! Why don’t I ask a Catholic?

So I did.

Pure Joy: or Dentists, Martyrs, Lent and Sacrifice

I went to the dentist this month.

Ugh.

I really really dislike going to the dentist.

I have a great dentist, and the hygienists are awesome, too (and fast), and that really helps... but still. Ugh. Between the spit and the gloves in the mouth and the sharp, pointy tools and feeling like I never know when to swallow, I find myself getting tense. I always leave with a headache and stiff neck when I'm done.

But I do it. I go. I sit, I open my mouth.

It's uncomfortable and even sometimes a little painful (stupid pokey sharp things), but I do it.

I do it because I know that in the end, it's worth it- spending an hour at the dentist now will hopefully prevent bigger issues later. I trust these well-educated folks scraping at my teeth, and I know they have my best interest in mind. Going through this uncomfortable time now will keep my teeth healthy for a good long time. It's all about the light at the end of that tunnel.