House on the Rock

Disclaimer: this is an adapted version of a previous blog post written on my no-longer-active former site. It is a wimpy attempt at the “new era of blogging, baby.” Sorry if you’ve read it already – I promise it’s been tweaked.

I seldom find myself more insecure than the moments I’m exploring Pinterest. The DIY doom-scrolling triggers more feelings of inadequacy than Facebook and Instagram combined. I’m coming to the blogsite today after not one, but two botched wooden canvases. For some reason, I still haven’t come to terms with reality that I’m not all that crafty. I really can’t paint. My calligraphy looks okay on a chalkboard but the second it is put on a canvas or an easel, it’s elementary. And I get paint everywhere. And I get furious.

So I move on from painting, and then I think, “maybe I’ll redecorate our house!” I quickly find I’m worse at that than painting, and my garage-sale pink poufs can attest. All this time of saying I would “refurbish”, and yet every single one of our guests still traces the zebra-print pattern because I never figured out how where to even buy the right fabric, let alone attach it to the pouf. 

And then, what seems like the best option 3, I begin to cook. I have pinned every recipe in the book: soups, salads, casserole, marinades and margaritas. And now, worst of all, sourdough. And every single time, I end up deciding between air-fryer chicken nuggets or ordering out once again. I preface almost every meal served with “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” So we douse it in sauce, prayerful that Sweet Baby Ray might cover what Joe once deemed the “burnt and yet raw” phenomenon that is my skillet chicken.

If I don’t think about it for too long, I’m usually able to move on pretty quickly. Of course, I give up on all attempts to “save the sourdough,” turning our outdoor hose to the highest jet setting so that the missile-like water might have a shot at scraping off the sticky, sour slime. I happily order Chipotle, convinced that’s what everyone wanted anyway. But there are times when so many things go wrong that I really begin to get weighed down. 

My friend, Dara, and I went through a book a couple summers ago called Humble Roots. The author, Hannah Anderson, claims that our pride is the root of so much anxiety in life because we hyper-elevate our perceptions of ourselves and then, basically, freak out when we don’t meet our own expectations. We have ourselves convinced that enough planning, enough organization, and enough craftiness can mend our brokenness. Then, when that isn’t working, we reap insecurity. Anxiety. Anger. Pride convinces us that we must do and be more than we are able. And when we try, we find ourselves feeling “thin, sort of stretched . . . like butter that has been scraped over too much bread.” Or, perhaps, like my sourdough.

Comparison is the thief of joy, but so are craft projects. That is, of course, if you’re finding all your worth in being crafty. Cooking can become devastating if you’re trying to elevate your cooking to an identity-level investment. It’s the times when I am convinced that I need to do and be everything that I become crushed by the weight of my own expectations. I expect myself to be the spice-sprinkling housewife with crafty Halloween cookies, the most encouraging teacher, the fittest pregnant person, and someone that everyone likes. If one single area falls short, I writhe in self-pity.

I always thought the solution would be to A) get better or B) quit. Anderson poses a third option:

“Instead of comparing what you have with other people (either more or less), humility teaches you to compare what you have now with what you had when you entered this world. You entered this world with nothing. You didn’t even have clothing on. Your very existence is a gift and everything that you have or have ever had is a gift as well.”

So apparently it has nothing to do with self-improvement or self-pity. Instead, it is remembering the humble state of nakedness with which I entered the world — a helpless child, rendered completely incapable of my very breath without the gracious hand of God — and then celebrating that I have life in my lungs, communion with God, and an eternal existence in Heavenly glory. This, not painting classes, is the restorer of the joy that comparison robbed.

And I love how she concludes — 

“When we are consumed with God’s glory, we forget to worry about our own. When our eyes are fixed on Him as the source of all goodness and truth and beauty, we accept that we are not. When we are enamored by His worth and majesty, we can stop being so enamored with ourselves. And fascinatingly, when we seek God’s glory, we’ll be able to appreciate it in the people around us. Instead of seeing them as threats to our own glory, we will see them as beautiful reflections of His.”

Deeply convicting and immensely hopeful. To know that I don’t have to be the chef, the crafter, the homemaker and the hero of every story is not only a burden off my shoulders, but it points me to the master of ALL creation. The one who paints every sunrise perfectly, who planted sweetness into every berry, and the one who sustains every breath of life on Earth. Maybe it’s time I relish that reality, and I’ll stop being so weighed down by these paintings.