This Christmas, my mom bought me a little book called “The Best Moment of the Day.” It’s a journal, with a few lines for every day where you are supposed to write the best moment of your day.

So far, here are a few of my favorite moments this month:

• This year has been busy, with my husband doing his masters in a condensed, one-year program and me starting to work full-time. I usually put the kids down at night, and instead of delegating them to their separate beds, we all have been climbing into the guest bed at night. Me in the middle, one kid under each arm. It’s the best, definitely the best moment of many days. We’ll all drift off together and then I’ll sneak out to do more work or watch a few episodes of Frasier on Netflix.
• A long, hot bath at the end of the work day.
• The second cup of coffee on a Saturday morning.
• My husband reading a devotion to my kids at night.

None of my moments have anything to do with anything that big. None have been connected to money or success or recognition. When I think about my life, so much of my time has been devoted chasing things or accomplishments or goals. This exercise is making me realize that most of what I really want…satisfaction, contentment, joy…I already have, waiting for me in little moments throughout the day.

All of my moments, once hunted down, have made me realize that gratitude is a practice that changes my attitude and my outlook. Focusing on the good makes more good come to light. Focusing on the good chases a lot of the bad away: a sour attitude, discontent, fear. So much of the bad that I think exists actually evaporates when I put my attention on the good.

God tells us to be thankful and grateful again and again, not just because it’s the respect and recognition that he deserves and demands, but because he knows that this practice is good for our lives. He knows how we’re wired. He knows what will satisfy us and heal us and soothe us.

Gratefulness puts me in my place. When I’m saying thank you, I’m acknowledging that God is the giver, I’m the receiver. God is working things out, I’m the one that benefits. God is in control, I am not. God is the father, I am the child.

Life in this world shouts the opposite of all this. I’m going against the grain when I elevate small moments, acknowledge God as the giver, and give over my needs to him. I’m going against the grain when I’m not pushing or controlling or striving.

Giving thanks, nurturing gratefulness, practicing contentment…all of these things turn the world upside down and actually make it right side up. Instead of feeling on the short end all the time, I realize that I’m on the receiving end of grace and bounty and beauty. I realize that there are not enough little books in the world to write down the best moments of my days.

In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.

I Thessalonians 5:18

I’ve been circling around the idea of gentleness for two months now. It’s one of those ideas that just keeps popping up in my head, jumping out in sermons I’ve heard and leaping off the page in books, showing up in conversations and now becoming something that I’m looking for around the corners of my life.

It started in December when this verse got stuck in my head, “Let your gentleness be evident to all” (Philippian 4:5). Who knows why verses get stuck in our heads, circling around in there and then making their way into our lives, but for me, it’s because I’ve felt the opposite of gentle lately.

I know gentle people, and I’ve never considered myself one of them. I don’t think I’ve ever been described as gentle. Type A, goal-oriented, driven, responsible, a woman who knows what she wants, one who chomps at the bit, but not gentle. It’s something I realize that I need for myself, so I’ve tagged it as my New Year’s resolution.

I want evidence of gentleness in my life.

Gentleness to me is an attitude, one that displays a faith that trusts and accepts, that holds things lightly. Gentleness does not grind her teeth, push more than what’s necessary into the day. Gentleness knows that there is enough.

Gentleness is boundaries and balance, the knowledge of the right time. Flexibility, pliability, a search for the long-term answers instead of the short-term fix. Gentleness is not push or pull, but a quiet determination coupled with a steady patience. Gentleness holds out for the right time and the right thing.

Gentleness forgives and leaves the past in the past, the future right where it is. Gentleness does not freak out. Gentleness minds its own business, stays calm, assumes the best. Gentleness handles people with care.

For everything, it seems, there is a gentle approach: slow words, open ears, choosing the path that leads to peace.

You can only have gentleness when you have faith. It doesn’t come from me or my striving. It comes from the Spirit in me, the one that calls out “Father, help me,” the one that falls on knees in front of His grace, that stops to marvel at his timing and knowledge and love.

Gentleness is a lofty goal, but something God wants from us because it’s good for us, so I’ve been laying down with my children each night, praying the prayer my parents taught me to pray, the first prayer I could say all by myself:

Jesus Savior, wash away,

All that I’ve done wrong today.

Help me every day to be,

Good and gentle, more like thee.

 

 

 

 

 

This week has been one of those weeks that I wish I had more time for resolutions, to-do lists, life in general. I want to do everything right now, attack seven different things at the same time. My brain has been buzzing all week, jumping from one thing to another, leaving monstrous to-do lists in its wake.

How am I going to do all the things I want to do? My list from work. My list from home. My list of resolutions. My list of responsibilities. All the people I’d love to spend more time with. And all the things I wish I could do to relax: nap, read, write more.

I want to do a million things, but I only have 24 hours.

 

The problem is I’m not trusting the fact that God has given me enough time, all the time that he knows I need. In response, I haven’t used much of that time with him.

This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten to this place. I’m in familiar territory here with my to-do lists and manic goal-setting, pretending to think it’s possible to stuff a week’s worth of work into one day. I get this way at the beginning of new calendar years, at the start of new school years, around my birthday, after vacation, after I read an inspiring book, when I’ve had an ah-ha moment, when I start a new project. I leap right in and forget that I’m only human.

It’s not that leaping and goal-setting are bad, it’s just that I’ve forgotten how to prioritize (and, along the way, misplaced my sense of reality).

Please tell me I’m not the only one.

Now, more than ever, with the world at our fingertips, opportunity around every corner, and all kinds of glittering entertainment at our beck and call, it’s really hard to focus. It’s hard to pick out the things that are important, to make time for the one thing needful.

I think the only way to do this is to sit down with Jesus every day so that he can teach us what the needful things are. Right now when I hear his words, “come to me all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest,” I think about bringing my armloads of dreams and hopes and resolutions, my crumpled bits of writing notes, my scattered brain full of running to-do lists and laying it all at his feet. Setting it all down.

Every day I need to hear him say, “Your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you” (Matthew 6:32-33).

Every day I need his words to shine into the dark, harried corners of my life, bringing me back to Him, trusting him with the days ahead, keeping me sane and focused at just the hour at hand.

When I do, I find that my path is littered with opportunities, all the ones that he wants me to have for the day: to enjoy the hot shower, to find a missing Lego, to listen to a friend’s story, to pick up a piece of trash, to type out the article, to quietly say no so that I have time to pray, to fall asleep next to my quickly growing children, to walk more gently through the day.

 

 

It’s that time of year.

Christmas is past, the ball has dropped, and now we’re all taking our enthusiastic, wobbly first steps into our New Year’s resolutions. We want to exercise more, eat healthier, be more adventurous, bury the hatchet, try that new sushi place down the street, jump out of a plane. Okay, maybe not jump out of a plane.

My list is lengthy. Some resolutions are fresh, some are repeat offenders. One of those repeat offenders is writing this blog. A few nudges from friends and past readers coupled with this quote I stumbled over made me acknowledge, that yes, writing is still on my mind and it’s not that big of a risk anyway. After a lot of starting and stopping over the past twelve years, it’s okay to start again.

One of the reasons I got hooked on yoga three years ago was the idea that doing yoga isn’t something we accomplish; it’s something we practice. When falling flat on your butt in the middle of a crowded room of lithe, beautiful bodies, this was a particularly comforting thought. Everyone agrees here that we’re all just practicing, and falling is definitely part of practicing. This idea gave me the courage to come back to the mat and to the class of lithe, beautiful bodies again and again.

I realized that this idea of practicing could be applied to many other challenges in my life, especially to writing. I’m practicing. It’s okay to fail or trip or fall off the wagon. The important part is to keep practicing.

We’re all just practicing in so many ways: parenting, directing communications, being a good friend, wife-ing. We try, we fail, we try again.

Perhaps what appeals to me the most about the idea of practicing is that it insists that perfection is not the goal. As a recovering perfectionist, realizing this was, well, a revelation.

Perfectionism is not the goal; practice is the goal.

Practice is something I can do. I can show up. I can try. I can make it a part of my everyday life. I can do that. And I can forgive myself when I don’t, because that’s part of practicing.

Friends, practicing is extending grace to ourselves. It’s about pursuing something we love and forgiving ourselves when we fall down. I can do that. And you can, too.

Whatever you’re facing this new year, whatever your resolution, I hope you face it as a practice. I hope you know that it’s okay to fall on your face in front of all the lithe, beautiful people in the great yoga class of the world. The important part is to extend grace and keep practicing. It’s more about all the days you showed up then about the one day you hit the right number on the scale or hold the galley of your first book or visit the place you finally saved up enough money to visit.

Practicing is so much better than perfection, because it is real. It’s where our lives are enriched. It’s where we learn. And it’s where our hopes become a living, breathing part of our everyday lives.

Happy New Year!

 

I hope that writing here on 31 Feet a few times a week or month becomes a practice for me. As I’ve been thinking about starting again the past two months, I’ve thought about what I’d like to write about here. I’d like to write what I’m practicing in my relationship with God, my husband, my children, my friends, and as a resident of this life. I hope it makes me more thoughtful. I hope it helps me sift through the overwhelming amount of choices and information I face every day to get down to the sometimes rough, but always beautiful simple truths of God and this life. I hope it makes me see clearer, with the eyes of faith, as I originally set out to do on this blog.