I have scribbled, in a blue sharpie pen, a note to myself. It's posted on my once-organized cork board and goes like this:
I wrote it down around midnight last week, after a fit of "I-can't-do-it-all-and-I'm-freaking-out." Neal and I talked late that night--about my dissatisfaction with what I felt I could do (and mostly, not do) as a mom, a wife, a house-manager, a creative person, and as a leader in ministry.
I felt like my output was all just...okay. And, as all mothers know, okay does not keep the Guilt Boogie Monsters away at night.
Usually, with this onslaught of feeling overwhelmed, I determine that I'm doing too much and pare down my tasks to a more manageable docket. This time, that strategy would not do because I honestly believe that everything I'm doing is necessary and valuable and has its rightful niche in my life.
This time, it's not that I'm doing too much, it's that I have to grow up to the much that I'm doing.
So I'm stealing Neal's business books--the boring, read-it-in-two-sittings-because-business-men-wrote-them-and-know-better-than-to-waste-your-time-with-description-and-adjectives-and-interesting-writing kinds of books. And I'm trying to implement some of their strategies.
Getting crap done quick (the unimportant, every-day, repetitive stuff).
And I'm asking God to grow me up. To mature me to the level at which I need to exist.
To love well. To serve well. To be well.