a case for procrastination

In general, procrastination tends to get a bad rap.  The putting off until "a better time," the "getting to it eventually," the "I'll wait until I can do it really well."  These are phrases that you might hear your perfectionistic child say.  Or words that your rather, um, lackadaisical kid might utter.  Or, perhaps, they are phrases that echo right in your very own head.

And so it is with me.  I have been a list-maker for as long as I can remember.  I carry around my hopeful string of "to-do's" and find myself at the end of the day (week, month…) with only a handful of those items dutifully checked off.  I've yet to figure out if this is in fact a result of being overly optimistic about just how much I can accomplish each day, or disorganization/easy distractibility on my part, or plain old laziness.  Regardless, it is part of my character, and while I don't so much chastise myself about it anymore, I am aware of my tendency to "put off until a better time" those things that perhaps should be done in a more timely fashion.

I should note here that while I am a procrastinator by nature, life has kept my plate fairly full for the last little bit.  I wasn't going to bring up the detail about moving a family of 6 five times in the past 2.5 years, but I decided that it's probably a detail worth mentioning.
 
So now, as my children sleep upstairs and my husband finishes up work several states away before joining us here, I am sitting in our new rental home, surrounded by half-opened cardboard boxes, partly-filled cabinets, haphazardly-placed furniture, and rediscovered toys strewn about…and I write.  Because while that may look like procrastinating to some, it is just goodness, plain and simple, for me.

Because as I reflect, I find myself blown away, yet again, by God's goodness.  After a year (or more) of a lot of discomfort, disappointments, darkness, and seemingly dashed dreams, these past several months have brought me the gift of so much light and renewed hope, and gratitude like I just can't describe.  We have, after those 2.5 years and all those moves, made our way back home––to the place that holds a community and support and opportunities and sense of belonging like no other.  I find myself still awed by the journey that we had to take to finally make our way back here, and I am grateful for all of it, even the hard stuff.

So, back to procrastination (hello, distractibility!).  I've known that we were heading back here since early March.  We secured this rental home in early May.  I chose this location primarily so that our Caroline could be part of the phenomenal elementary school community that Joshua and Madison had enjoyed, thrived in, and loved during our time here a few years ago.  I knew that the older kids' middle school assignment would be okay––not bad, but not terribly remarkable––and I was okay with that.  That year of homeschooling reassured me that these kiddos make the most of every experience, and I trusted that they would do just fine.  And so I gathered all the paperwork for both schools last month when we were in town, and put them in a very safe place so that I could work on them and get our kids enrolled and ready for the new school year.  And that paperwork has remained in that same very safe place for the last several weeks.  Untouched.  Unopened.  Waiting to be filled out "when I had the time."

Admittedly, these last weeks of summer have been even busier than usual.  This last month alone has seen us packing up and moving all of our worldly possessions here to Greenville, driving down for a visit to Chris' parents in south Georgia, driving even further down for a wedding/family reunion in Fort Myers, FL, then a return to Louisiana for Chris' work, a board exam for me, several goodbyes to friends in Baton Rouge, and a return here for the real unpacking and settling down.  So, honestly,  not really so much time to tackle several pages of paperwork and dig up immunization records, birth certificates, proof of residency, etc.  Right?

So anyway.  Once we got the very basics in place here at home (kitchen is functional, everybody has a bed to sleep in), and I finally sat down to complete (okay, start) the enrollment forms, I received a phone call.  As in, literally, I was filling out page 1 of 13, and the phone rang.  The extraordinary school for gifted and talented students in town, a public school that I have heard so much about, called to say that Madison was invited to join the 6th grade class this fall.  She had been wait-listed back in 2nd grade, and I had declined the invitation at that time because we were leaving the state, but (half-jokingly, but more than half-hopefully) asked that she remain on the wait list just in case we eventually made our way back here.  And I honestly had forgotten about it until this spring when we learned that we would, in fact, be returning.  When I called the school then, I was told that she remained on the waiting list and was at #3…and later in the spring she was #2…and a few weeks ago she was still at #2.

And then, on Wednesday of this week, she was in.  Just like that.  A student had moved away, a spot opened up, it was available for her.  Amazing.

When I told her the news, her big beautiful brown eyes opened wide and she jumped up and down.  She hugged me tight, wanted all the details, and rejoiced like she had just won the lottery.  

But wait.  There's more.

As I was speaking with the admissions lady, I shared with her that I was just sitting down to fill out paperwork to enroll both of my middle schoolers in the neighborhood school when she called.  When she inquired about my other middle schooler, I assured her that he was not eligible for admission because we didn't live here in his 2nd grade year, so he obviously hadn't taken the standardized test that they use as criteria for inviting children to the school.  Silly admissions lady––of course I would have inquired about getting Joshua in if he had taken that exam.

Silly me.  Turns out, according to admissions lady, that they do in fact look at scores from later grades, and she did in fact have Joshua's scores from 5th grade right in front of her, and they do in fact have a spot open for an 8th grader.  And so now, inconceivable as it still seems, they are both getting the tremendous opportunity to attend this exceptional school.

And I find myself face-to-face with yet another (another!) experience in which I can do nothing more than stand, sit, kneel, weep in amazement at God's goodness.  His unbelievable, unpredictable, unfathomably perfect timing.

Not because this is the best school in the nation, or even in the city.  But because it feels like the best opportunity and fit and gift for these kids, right here, right now.

It feels like––it is––grace upon grace upon inexpressible grace.

God's perfect timing.  That phrase, that idea, sometimes seems trite, like just another cliche.  That is, until you stand in the light of that timing.  And trust it.  And lean into it.

My husband's key verse through this tumultuous past year: Trust in God, and lean not unto your own understanding.

My understanding is so very limited.  So. Very.  Limited.  Oh, that I could have the eyes to see that truth all the time, and that I would finally learn, once and for all, that trusting is the wise choice, that the self-starter in me must let go, and that leaning on Him is really, truly, where it's at.

Somehow, in His timing, ALL things work together for good.  All the things…they eventually work together.  Thank you, God.

And so, as it turns out, it was good that I hadn't trudged through that mountain of paperwork after all.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart
    and lean not on your own understanding

Proverbs 3:5

like scales––my messy beautiful

                                                                                          source

So.  Sure, it's been close to a year since my last blog post...even though I promised myself and anyone who'd listen that I was going to try to stay consistent in posting.  That alone should be enough for this {only semi-rehabilitated} perfectionist to withdraw, give up, stick to journaling, and just get back to my normal, blog-writing-free life.  But then a few things have happened.  First, I've had some trusted friends ask when I'm going to start writing again.  And I, too, have felt a gentle-but-persistent urge to get back to this wonderful, therapeutic, perspective-giving activity that I so enjoy.  And finally, my absolute favorite blogger posted a few challenging and inspiring essays, and then recently asked those of us with an interest in writing to contribute to her blog.  Friends––all that together is enough to light a little fire under me.  So, here goes.

I've had a hard year.  A really hard year.  The whole take-our-family-to-Africa-for-three-years thing, followed by the come-home-after-only-three-months-because-of-religious-violence thing, well, those were just the beginning of my challenges.  As you might have gathered from my last post, my husband and I were officially not on the same page with regard to the decision to return home.  And that sort of discord, on a decision that huge, is fodder for all sorts of trouble and pain and sorrow and guilt and grief and uncertainty.  And we experienced it all, and then some.

It just didn't make sense.  It didn't make sense that anyone, marching under the flag of religion, would perpetrate deadly violence or violent threats against anyone, but especially other religious people whose very lives were devoted to following God's call.  It didn't make sense that after my dear, earnest, faith-filled husband and I had given up most of what our culture considers successful (great jobs and schools, stability, house, cars, furniture, clothes, 401k, you name it), in exchange for what our faith calls successful (service, sharing our gifts, obedient submission to God's desires)––that it simply didn't work out.  It didn't make a drop of sense that when my best friend, my partner and deepest confidant, my great love––that when he and I were faced with the very same facts and reports, at the same time and in the same setting, we drew wildly different conclusions about what would be the best course of action.  It made even less sense that on returning to the United States, my husband would take a job in the one place that I had explicitly stated that I didn't want to live (and that he simply could not bear to accept a job in the one place that I very much wanted to live).

It was all so messy.  My imperfect, but pretty wonderful, marriage.  Not so wonderful anymore.  For the first time in memory in this relationship, I was feeling things like insecurity, doubt, fear, and profound sadness.  Everything just felt so upside down.  Like when you're a kid and you're hanging on a playground metal bar by your legs, and staring at the world while the blood rushes to your head and your hair hangs down below.  You know that you're looking at all the same things and people and places.  But it all still seems so foreign.  That's what 2013 was like––my amazing, grace-filled life just looked so foreign.  Relationships that had been so rich and important were suddenly so tense and hard.  Activities that had been natural and easy somehow became taxing and exhausting and overwhelming.  Despite glimpses of the lightness and laughter and joy that had characterized my life, more often than not it was just a struggle.  There was a lot of struggle.  But because of our faith, and because we are firm believers in marriage and the covenant that we had entered into, rather than walking away, we walked in obedience.  Instead of giving up because we weren't "feeling it," we stayed the course knowing that love really really really is a choice.  It is a verb.  It is a doing, not just an emotion.  And yes, it stayed messy and hard and almost hopeless for a really long time.

And then somewhere in all of that mess and pain and grief, I allowed myself to stop.  To stop striving for a return to my old life.  To stop convincing myself or my husband that we needed to get quickly through this tough phase of our marriage.  To stop trying to manage and control and plan and force.  And instead I just allowed myself to breathe...and to let go...and to lean in to the life that God has given me here.  I've heard that humiliation can lead to humility.  And perhaps that was the work that needed to happen in me.

Slowly, I started to embrace what I did have, instead of mourning what I didn't.  I began looking for job opportunities for myself, to plug in with our kids' school, to relax into the idea that maybe this was where we were meant to be, perhaps for a season or perhaps for even longer.  And that idea was starting to be okay, because my joy does not come from my circumstances, and my contentment is not a product of what I have.  Those qualities come from my gratitude, my awareness of how great and big and good my God is.  And when I finally allow myself that perspective, I get to see that the grace and gifts that I thought were missing had in fact been right here all along––I was simply too sad to see them.

And it was then, just as I began to embrace the messy, that I so clearly started to see the beautiful standing right there beside it.  It was then that the light and the laughter and the joy started to return.  My marriage––that single most important of all human relations––was starting to heal.  The communication and connection that I so desperately missed were showing up, and better yet, sticking around.  Through a series of happenings that were nothing less than God being present in ways that were almost physically palpable, the mess of 2013 blossomed into the miracles of 2014.  The very hard work that we had been doing in marriage counseling has begun to show fruit, in a peaceful and seasoned and loving way, and we are so very grateful.  Other important relationships are healing as well, but this time with a depth of love and understanding that I find both authentic and comforting.  My husband recently decided to pursue a new field within his medical practice, that of palliative care, in which he will be able to use his tremendous personal and professional gifts to ease suffering in a way that seems almost tailored for him.  And––big bonus––it will allow him much more predictable hours and time with our family.  Then, as he looked for fellowship opportunities within a few hours of our beloved old town of Greenville (where I wanted to return), my husband heard news that a brand new fellowship in palliative care medicine––the first in the state!––had just been approved...30 minutes from where we hoped to live.  He has since been accepted to be that "first fellow" in the program.  Days later, I was offered (seemingly out of the blue) a position with the absolutely wonderful pediatric practice where I had worked previously.

All this has left me feeling a lot like Paul, the disciple-formerly-known-as-Saul, these days.  The book of Acts describes how Saul––thinking that he was doing the right thing all along––gets knocked right off of his horse and struck blind.  Then after a few (certainly long, hard, and seemingly hopeless) days of this blindness, he is approached by a man who prays and places his hands on Saul's eyes, and immediately, we are told, "something like scales fell from Saul's eyes, and he could see again."  Me too, Saul.  Scales that previously blinded me to the truth and beauty of my life; they are gone now.  I have learned so much through my own painful and frightening experiences these past months.  Though I would never have chosen them, they chose me, and taught me things I am so grateful to have learned, and I wouldn't trade that for anything.  I have learned more patience, more compassion, more humility.  When I hear stories of people daring greatly, yet things still not working out as planned, I have a richer empathy for those involved.  When I hear of couples journeying through unpredictably hard times, or of marriages moving toward separation, I am still deeply saddened, but I now understand the pain at a depth that I simply couldn't before.  When I feel the sting of disappointment or disapproval or anger from those closest to me, I am more equipped to understand, and to give grace.  Because when you've been a recipient of such extraordinary grace, you've just got to be a grace giver as well.

The scales are off...for now.  Surely they will grow back in some other area, and I may need to be knocked clear off of my horse again (please God, not anytime soon), but for now, I am better for the hardships and messiness of this last year.

And frankly, I don't have words to adequately capture how magnificent much of these past few weeks have been.  There has still been plenty of hard in the middle of all this wonderful, but I am learning that this life is going to have its share of both, the messy and the beautiful, and that is okay.  I am okay with "both/and"...as long as I pull back far enough to see not only the big picture, but the Hand that holds and guides and comforts each of us through every messy and beautiful moment.







I am honored to note that this essay and I are part of the "Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project" — to learn more and join us, click here.  And to learn about the book, Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, click here.