A Season for Setting Things Down

I skipped submitting my monthly newspaper column the last time it came around, something I never do. I stared at the empty computer screen and quickly clicked it off; I am in a season of setting things down – things that I love and things that I don’t, things that lift me up and things that leave me empty. One by one, I’ve set these things down, wished them well, and walked away.

Some of these things have been small, others have felt monumental: my deep-seated yearning to be loved, friendships long since dead, the responsibility of foster parenting, one very fulfilling job, clean floors, a vision of what my life was supposed to be, the irrational need to wear mascara in public, my giant expectations, and a July newspaper column. It has been a rough couple of months.

It has also been a blast. When everything else was set down, what remained were four sweet boys, one steadfast dog, and a newly moustachioed husband, things that I carry, yes, but things which also carry me. It’s been a summer of late nights and wild children, sprinkler bouncy houses, sunburns and beachside evenings built just for us. We’ve laughed and we’ve cuddled and I’ve cried and I’ve cried – tears of gratitude and many, many tears of guilt and regret for all the time I wasted juggling things that were never meant for me.

As much as I’d love to claim that my own mental clarity brought me here, I can’t. It was my body that drew the curtain on this circus act. Driving home one night in early June, my left arm went numb and chest tightened. I couldn’t catch a breath. Heartrate climbing, hands vibrating off the steering wheel, I pulled into my driveway and slammed the car in park, shouting to my husband through the open window. I thought I was having a heart attack.

The EMS crew that arrived assured me I wasn’t. Still trembling, entirely embarrassed and confused, I was helped into the house by my husband, then promptly fell asleep. I slept like I had died, out cold until the alarm clock buzzed me back to life, reminding me of all the things that had pushed me toward what I assume was my first (and hopefully, only) panic attack. I laid in bed that morning counting all the balls still suspended in the air.

I thought about the people I loved who I so desperately wanted to love me back. I thought about all the things I did to try to earn that love, to try to show them and everybody else how worthy I was of it. How will my children learn that love is not earned by all the things that we do, but by who we inherently are if I don’t show them this myself? Their infinite worth cannot be built; it just is. No grand gestures or lengthy to-do lists required. All that trying felt nothing like loving, so I set it down.

I thought about the child in foster care that I knew I could no longer provide a home for. I pictured his face and felt the warmth and weight of his body as I rocked him to sleep at the end of an exhausting day. I knew what that day looked like because I had lived 500 of them already with him. I knew what my “yes” to holding this child would mean for the rest of our family. So, I picked up my phone and said “no.” It was the hardest call I’ve ever made.

I thought about the miles I spent running back and forth to a job that was bigger than what I had to offer. When ten hours opened up in my week, I filled it with thirty hours of work because I don’t like to fail and I’ve never been great with boundaries. So, I set that down, too.

I went through all of the shiny visions of success I assumed would welcome me into this stage of middle age, what I was supposed to be, how I was supposed to look. The expectations I had clung to all these years needed to be let go. They had been holding me hostage for too long, keeping me from the joy quite literally bouncing all around me. I threw my expectations aside. I have done this before, and I will have to do it again as my lofty ideals always find their way back in.

And one small outlet I’ve committed myself to, one monthly local newspaper column that requires only a quick prayer and a few hours, I set that down for a moment, as well, to see if its absence really mattered to me. It did. When so much of my existence at this age hinges upon my family, it feels good to have something that just belongs to me. So far, it is the only thing I’ve picked back up, as my arms are so very full carrying this pack of growing boys.

In a world where more is always more, I am now working toward less. I am hoping my children can learn this alongside me as they watch their mother put down some of the things that no longer serve her to hold those things she values the very most even tighter – four sweet boys, one steadfast dog, one newly mustachioed husband (middle age does a number on all of us), and a few words one Thursday a month. And though these words always feel like they just belong to me, the prayer I offer each time I sit to write is that someone on the other side will feel like they belong to them, too. Maybe this month, I can even save them an ambulance bill.

Ashley, Woman of a Certain Grace