The other day, one of my daughters complained to my husband that she’s so tired of everyone always asking her if something is wrong.
Yep. She’s my daughter.
I don’t know what to do about us. It seems nothing is ever good enough. On the one hand, I am quiet and hard to read. On the other, I’ve been told that I wear my emotions all over my face more than anyone. On the one hand, I have many interests and try my darndest to pursue them wholeheartedly. On the other, any time I do anything that people think is worthwhile, they all try to pressure me to do more of that thing, rather than just appreciate the thing for what it is. More, more, more. I just seem to never be enough.
It is true that I didn’t finish my post high school education. And I’ve never really honed any one skill. And dang it, while I have all these ideas floating around up there all the time, I never really get to a good two thirds of them. And trying to articulate them to anyone else? Fat chance. And don’t even get me started on how many ways I’ve been a less than ideal mother/wife/friend/employee. Sho ’nuff.
It’s never enough. It really never is.
Which is why I’ve been letting the less, less, less of Lent penetrate deeper than ever before this year. As I prepare for our Maundy Thursday service tonight, I am more aware of my emptiness and I am more shaken by what I know is coming. The betrayal, the stripping bare of the beautiful altar, the crying out of the choir, the lights going out, the door slamming. And all will be black for three days.
I feel like it’s my heart that’s been stripped bare.
Waiting for the more, more, more.