Busy?

I've been thinking a lot lately about the basis on which people are considered successful. What is success, anyway, and who decides whether or not you're successful? Is success a certain status quo or social standing? Is it defined by money, popularity or accomplishment? 


As I've been pondering this I've surprised myself with my conclusion: in our current society I think what defines success much of the time is actually busyness. People are really, really busy these days. 


Warren and I have been talking about the family we hope to have someday and the patterns we want to set in our marriage right now that will effect our family forever. One of the things we want to be deliberate about is not to be busy. We don't want to sign up for every activity, every sport, every committee, every volunteer opportunity, every church event. We want to serve our community and love people but we first want to serve and love our family by giving the majority of our time to each other and our children.


My life before marriage was very, very busy. Along with having a normal life I traveled 35 weeks a year, which meant packing and unpacking for days before and after a trip. I'm a novelist, which takes hundreds, if not thousands of hours of energy and time put into my books. I've written songs and gotten into horses. I try to be careful in taking time to be an aunt, a sister, a daughter and a friend. I've cleaned houses for extra cash, babysat, and helped others with their finances as a ministry. I've been the financial manager for Simple Grace Ministries for many years, which included paying bills, making deposits, executing a debt reduction plan, following guidelines for 501(c)3 donation receipting, reconciling, balancing, fundraising, reporting...the list goes on and on. Last year, amidst all of this I also planned our wedding. There was literally never a waking (or often sleeping) moment when I couldn't write a list a page long of things that absolutely had to be done.


You can imagine what an adjustment it was to get married, have all of my income provided by my husband, move to a two bedroom apartment and stop traveling! Even though its very different and there are some times I miss being on the road and with my parents and siblings, I love my new married life. I'm learning...slowly...that it's okay to not be so busy.


Here at our new home I clean and cook and sew a lot. I write and I still manage Simple Grace's finances. I buy groceries, mail letters, pay bills, decorate, do chores and help Warren advertise the horses we currently have for sale. However, none of this causes stress. Warren loves it when I get to take a nap while he's at work (he's the most self-sacrificing person I know), and he likes me to work on my book or find a new creation to bake. One day last week I'd had an unusually hectic day which involved unexpected company, delayed errand-running and a rainstorm while I was trying to wash the car. When Warren came home from work I had no idea what I was making for supper and I hadn't straightened the house. I felt like he had done his job at work that day and I hadn't accomplished anything. However, he promptly told me what he always tells me...his expectation for me is to enjoy being a wife who doesn't have to earn a living, can relax, should sleep if I need it, and is the delight of my husband just because I'm his wife. O ya, I forgot. I don't have to be busy. Busyness doesn't equal success.


It may take a long time to change my definition of success. Several years from now I may wake up in the morning and not instinctively begin making a mental list of everything that needs to be done, as if not washing the sheets one more day will cause a catastrophic tragedy in the universe. If I were married to any less of a man than Warren Jennings I'm rather sure this renewed definition would never actually happen. Being delighted in just because I exist and not because I accomplish is the most outstanding, Jesus-reflecting experience I've ever had. 


I want to be a successful person. According to my husband I'm an extremely successful person. Does that mean my life is full of busyness? No. My life is productive but its not busy. In fact, its just the opposite because I'm learning something that goes against popular belief:


Busyness doesn't equal success.

God loves me

"God loves me" is such a common phrase it's almost a cliche'...until you think about it. God loves me. God whole-heartedly, unconditionally, selflessly, completely, passionately loves me. 


That's not a cliche', that's astonishing.


Enough said.

Mrs.

I was signing up for an e-mail mailing list online today and it asked for my title. I've been married 4 1/2 months but it was the first time I got to click "Mrs." 


I'm so blessed to be Mrs.


Thanks, God.

He's always thinking!

My husband is very innovative and always looking for ways to improve things that no one has thought of or tried before. Last night was a prime example. Just as he was falling asleep (okay, maybe he was already asleep) his inventive brain had a breakthrough.

Warren, sleepily: "I love Salty." (our stud)

Me: "O ya?"

Warren: "Ya. His colts are so cowy. The only way he would throw colts that are more cowy is if we bred him to a cow."

Me: "Sure enough."

< a few moments of silence >

Warren: "I think I'll get me a longhorn cow and breed Salty to it."

Me, giggling: "Okay, lover."

The cookbook dilemma

All my cookbook books are brand new. I open the pages and they stick together because the paper has never been touched. Sometimes I want to put on an apron and get out every book and make the recipes until I stain the pages. Mom's recipe books were ripped and spilled on and the page that had the favorite cookie recipe was torn out and stored loose. You knew how good a recipe was and could choose what you were going to make based on how stained the page was on the recipe you wanted to try. 


Up until I got married I didn't know cookbooks originally came with clean, crisp pages. When I open my books I feel like I'm receiving directions from a stranger and I'm not sure I can trust them. I need some recipes that have earned the right to micromanage my baking. I'm having stained cookbook withdrawal.


It's time to spill something.

Love that cowboy!

Of knives and diapers

Getting married has revealed a lot of things to me that I didn't know before, but one of the most surprising ones is how dangerous I am with knives. I have a real issue with them. One of our friends very generously gave us a top-of-the-line knife set for our wedding and I've come to the conclusion that Mom didn't keep her knives sharp while I was growing up. Dad always told us kids that if we were going to get injured to make sure to protect our hands so we could still play our instruments, and I'm thinking just to make sure our fingers stayed intact, Mom purposefully kept her knives rather dull. In any case, sharp knives were new to me upon receiving our exceptional set.  


The first time I cut myself was while dropping the chef knife, which is long enough to slice my upper arm about three inches above my elbow when I'm holding it in my hand (I know...this maneuver takes talent). I had done this five minutes before Warren got home from work and when he came in and saw me holding a bloody paper towel on my arm he quickly went to doctoring it. We had only been married a month, so I was unaware what "doctoring" meant to my groom. He came out of our spare bedroom with medical tape and a diaper. In a few minutes I had the diaper plastered to my arm and it was so bulky I could hardly move. Apparently diapers work well on horse wounds, and thus of course my husband keeps them on hand. It was a little embarrassing when the wound healed and now is a scar that's barely visible. That either tells you that diapers have superior healing powers or the cut was very small to start with (don't tell anyone but the second option is actually the truth).  


I've cut myself at least once a week since this episode, and each time I do Warren threatens to take the knife set away in order to spare my fingers. He has yet to come through on this threat (this may be a sign that he likes my cooking), but yesterday took the cake. I cut myself again. It really hurt, and I couldn't help but take a picture of the wound and text it to Warren. He came in for lunch a few minutes later to find my bleeding finger wrapped in a bandaid. He presently announced, "That's it!" and went to the knife block, asking which knife had done it in order to confiscate it. I told him which weapon was to blame: the paring knife. No, not the sharp paring knife in our knife set...the little, dull red one we got for free when ordering some other kitchen utensils. Warren looked at me with those smiling eyes of his and then started laughing. Apparently if I can cut myself with that knife, it's a lost cause altogether. 


This morning my knife block is still full and my red paring knife is on the counter. Warren suggested I use butter knives if I want to avoid cutting myself, although I'm not sure that would make a difference. It's okay--I'm coming to grips with reality. It's taken awhile but I'm now resigned to a future of sliced up fingers and the infamous burden of diaper-wearing.