Joe

For the youngest part of my life, I was not fortunate enough to spend much time with my mom's side of the family. I was blessed to know my great-grandmother and see her fairly frequently, but the rest of the family was sparse. (This was not their fault, but the full family dynamics are not really for this space.) 

So it was strange to me as an adult, as someone well into their 20s, walking into my uncle Joe's house for the first time ever. He was having a family breakfast, which I heard he had been holding for many years, and I had been invited. 

I looked around the big table in his open farmhouse, looking at the faces of family that I barely knew. I looked at a plate piled high with bacon and eggs and biscuits and gravy and whatever else you could ever want for breakfast. I listened to stories being shared, prayers being prayed, memories being made. I was completely overwhelmed by the way this family came together - aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, grandkids, all of them. Every single one welcome. 

When the meal was over and the fellowship was starting to wind down, as well, and folks were starting to trickle to their cars, there wasn't anyone who thought this was something special. There wasn't anyone who was wistful about when the next time would be. There wasn't anyone who didn't fully know and expect that this very same table would be set again the very next week and that this family would come back together. 

Except me. 

That breakfast was magical for me. But what happened next was even more magical. 

My uncle Joe made a special invitation and told me, specifically, that I was welcome for breakfast any time. Any time. 

I remember asking him how I would know when they were going to have breakfast, and he said something to the effect that they had breakfast every day. And if they weren't having breakfast, they'd sure have lunch or dinner. Just come on down, he said. 

There's always a place for you here. 

I was an adult, but I carried the weight of a lot of trauma from my childhood, trauma that told me there may not be a place for me in this world. Trauma that told me that when invitations were offered, they weren't really for me. Trauma that kept me from believing in moments like this, from trusting them. And yet, something in me so wanted to believe Joe's invitation. 

I will tell you that I don't know that I ever went to another family breakfast at Joe's house. I don't think I did. But I thought about it often, and that breakfast - and that genuine invitation - hold a special place in my heart. 

There's something about having a place at the table that just cannot be fully measured or weighed. There's something about just knowing that place is there, that someone's holding it for you, that if you ever decided to just walk in, they'd scooch around and make sure there is room for you. (That's what we call it - scoochin'.) 

I missed an opportunity. I missed hundreds of them by never taking my place at that table again. That's a regret I will have to live with, and I understand how it was nothing but my own insecurities that make that my story. 

But the echoes of that breakfast, the memories of that farm table, the continued whisper of that invitation reminds me to make space at my table for whosoever will come. Whosoever. And the insecurities that kept me from taking my uncle Joe at his word remind me that there are folks in this world who will need to be reminded again and again and again and again until they can fully and wholly believe it: 

There's a place for you at my table. 

Any time.  

Accountability

I struggle to share my goals because I want to keep my motivations pure. I want to be motivated by the things that set me on the path after these goals in the first place, and I don't want the fear of failure or the possibility of shame weighing me down and making me heavier. It can seem so silly to care so much, especially when I know that I care so little, except that I recognize that even the Lord understands this tension - it's the same one Moses used in the wilderness to keep Him from destroying His people. 

At the same time, I absolutely believe in accountability. I believe it's important to have folks in this world who hold you to it, whatever it is. Who hold you to your promises, even the ones you make to yourself. Who hold you to your word, because words are life. Who hold you to your pursuits, because they understand what drove you in the first place. 

I believe in having folks around you who will remind you what you're doing, why you're doing it, and how it's supposed to be making you feel when the going gets tough. I believe it's important to have those voices on the hard days that remind you that even though you feel weak right now, you're doing this because you believe it will make you stronger. 

It kind of goes back to what I said a few weeks ago about having someone who will stand in agreement with you. 

This person will never use shame as a motivator. They'll never remind you that you aren't allowed to fail because someone might get the wrong impression. They'll never mock you to motivate you. They'll never tease your dark side. This person calls out your light and reminds you of everything you'd remind yourself of if you weren't in a funk right now. 

I am fortunate because I am really good at latching onto the things God puts in my heart and motivating myself. I'm good at letting the Spirit nudge me forward and keep me going. I have ways of making notes to myself that encourage me in the ways that I need to be encouraged, of keeping track of things so that my progress keeps me going. Of reminding myself that if I quit now, then I came so far only to come so far...and asking myself what I would tell myself tomorrow if I quit today. 

I have a book where I track certain things. And on the days I don't feel like putting in the work, on the days the discipline is hard, on the days I'm not sure I want to keep going, I recognize that if I don't do it today, then I have to look at that blank space forever. That's enough to get me to do it. 

But I am also thankful for the small group of friends that I have that remind me that I'm growing. That remind me what I'm working toward. That know what's going on and neither push nor pull, but walk along beside me as I go after those things in my heart. 

And that's really the thing. That's the accountability we all need - someone who is walking alongside us on the road God's put us on that keeps us motivated not to quit. That keeps reminding us what's at the end of this road and all the stuff we're going to see and do along the way. That stays excited for the journey even when there's been a rock in my shoe for the past mile and a half. 

We should all be blessed with such folks. 

We should all be such a blessing to others. 

So not everyone knows what I'm working toward in this seasons - my goals, my projects, the "things" I am "doing." But a few folks do. And they keep my heart going.  

Reputation

It seems almost silly to me to admit that I am sometimes motivated by what other persons might think about me. I don't want to share my goals because I don't want to fail and have anyone conclude, erroneously, that I am a failure. I don't want to have to spend my life justifying myself, trying to explain, trying to illuminate the heart that I have that isn't troubled by failure (necessarily), but that embraces a spirit of growth and the challenge of trying again. 

There's this certain tension because on the one hand, I am strong enough to not really care what others think of me and at the same time, there's part of me that absolutely cares what others think of me. 

Then, I realize that I think God can relate. 

This is the exact argument that Moses kept making with God as Israel traveled in the wilderness. God was frustrated with His people. He was trying to do a thing, and they were messing everything up. It looked like things weren't going according to plan. So God kept saying you know what? I'm done. I'm gonna wipe this slate clean and start over. I'm going to build up a generation that won't be so darned rebellious. 

And Moses says...maybe You don't want to do that, God. 

Maybe You don't want to destroy Your people in the wilderness. Maybe You don't want to fail to bring them into the Promised Land. Maybe You don't want to turn Your back on them, even though they've turned their back on You.

Why? 

Because if You do, the world will say You couldn't do it. The world will say You failed. The world will say You aren't as good, as powerful, as loving, as gracious, as merciful, as capable as You claim to be. The world will think less of You if You change Your plans now. 

And all of a sudden, that pressure I feel that the world is watching doesn't seem so silly after all. 

At the end of the day, it's not really about me. I recognize this. I live my life in a bold declaration of faith. I give the glory to God. (I hope.) I make claims about who He is and what He's doing and how my soul comes to life in the goodness of His amazing grace. 

So if I fail, it's not just that the world will think I'm a failure. It's not just that they won't understand that I don't view failure as final. It's that maybe they'll look at my life and not understand that even though this looks like a loss, I still believe in a win. I'm still waiting on God to do it. I'm still actively pursuing it. 

I worry what the world will think of me, but that is - at least in part - because I worry what the world will think of my God, who gets all the glory for my life. (Yes, of course, I am a fallen human and self-centered and do consider myself, too. I'm not pretending that I don't.)

I read these scenes in Exodus, where Moses uses the same argument I'm wrestling with in my own life to convince God that maybe He wants to reconsider, and I think...maybe it's not so silly after all to care what the world thinks about what it sees. 

Maybe...it helps me understand the heart of God a little more. 

Motivated By Shame

Yesterday, I said that I was hesitant to share some of my goals. At first, I thought perhaps it was a fear of failure, but that's not quite it. Not quite. 

The more I thought about what it is that makes sharing my goals feel so burdensome in my soul, the more I came back to two things: 

Motivation and shame. 

The things that I'm doing, I'm doing because they are meaningful to me. Because accomplishing these things helps me to understand something better about myself, to grow in a way that I want to grow, to demonstrate a strength I wasn't sure that I had. I am doing these things because of what my soul gains from having done them, which is often immeasurable and sometimes seems silly, but it is ingrained in my bones in a way that maybe Jeremiah understands best. These things are meaningful to me. 

If I share those goals before their time, before I'm ready, while I'm still putting in the discipline and work to accomplish them, all of a sudden, a second pressure is introduced. 

It's the pressure of having to succeed. 

It's the pressure of knowing that the world is now watching. That someone out there, maybe many someones, is judging my progress. That someone may be waiting on me to fail. That if I do fail, everyone will have a theory as to why. The world will be watching, and if it doesn't work out, I become the scapegoat in my own life - my body is too frail, my will too weak, my discipline lacking, my eyes set on the wrong thing. 

If the world is watching and I don't meet my goal, all of a sudden, not only have I failed, but I am a failure. 

(That's just the way the world judges.) 

And as I sit around and think about the things I'm working toward, I realize that if I keep pushing myself toward them because of the watching world, I am living in fear of failure, rather than excitement about accomplishment. I am living not to win, but to not lose. I am motivated not by all of the good, glorious, sacred, holy things that set me on this path in the first place, but by shame. 

Real or perceived, explained or unexplained, understood or misunderstood, I am working toward my goals now because I don't want those who know about them to ever have reason to think of me as a failure. 

That's not how I want to live. That's not the story I'm writing. 

I know that in my own heart, I'm not afraid to fail. But I don't want to become a failure. I know that a watching world puts its own interpretations on everything and that no amount of my insistence, my persistence, my explanations, my rationales, my whatever will ever convince this world of anything it doesn't already think about me. I know that if the world is watching and I fail, I will spend the rest of my life trying to justify myself, trying to justify this moment, when I know - though the world may torment me into forgetting - that when this whole thing started? It was supposed to be beautiful. 

That's what shame does. It takes away the beautiful. 

That's why I'm hesitant to share my goals before their time. Because I want to keep them beautiful. I want to keep them motivated by the things in my heart that called me to pursue them in the first place. I want pursuing them to make me feel stronger, lighter, better...not heavier. Not weighted down by anything, but free to go after them. 

So I don't always share all my goals. Not too early, anyway.  

Sharing Your Goals

I'm currently, as the kids say, "doing a thing."

But you don't know what that thing is. 

Because I haven't shared it. 

There's something in my spirit that is reluctant to share some of the goals that I have, some of the projects that I'm working on, some of the "things" that I am "doing." I want to share them. They feel worthwhile to me, and meaningful in some way, shape, or form, or I wouldn't be attempting to undertake them. They are important to this season of my life. But something about sharing them feels...wrong. 

It feels weighty. It feels burdensome, as though sharing these goals or projects or "things" might somehow make them heavier to carry. 

At first, I thought that perhaps I was reluctant to share because I know my own history of failure. I know how life gets in the way of the best made plans. I know how the brokenness of this world so often steps in to interfere with even our best intentions and the things that are most meaningful to us. 

I have lived a broken enough life to understand that failure is always an option. Not because I might give up on myself (although, I have before and I might again). Not because I might not be disciplined enough (I might not be). Not because I might not be strong enough (my body is weaker than I like to pretend it is sometimes). All of these are options, even if I'm pretending they wouldn't be. The life I have lived has proven to me that they are. I can't deny or ignore that. 

But the other side of that reality is that I have failed in my life one fewer time than I have gotten back up and tried again. 

It's true. My life is a story of failures. Of falters. Of missed opportunities and times I've let myself (not to mention God and others) down. If you read through the story of my life, it's not perfect. It's not one victory after another after another. I have never been one to only accept challenges I know I can meet. 

Nobody grows that way. 

And my failures...a lot of them have been very public. They aren't secret. I don't think they have to be. 

So no, I'm not afraid of failure. I'm discouraged by it sometimes, but I'm not afraid of it. Because I know that my story is one of getting back up one more time, of trying again, of starting over, of learning a hard lesson, of moving on. Of growing. 

That can't be, then, why I'm hesitant to share some of my goals, my projects, my "things." 

But it didn't take me long to figure out what's really going on here....