Different Kind of Free

About 11  years ago, I read “Homecoming” by Cynthia Voigt. And part of it stood out so much to me, that for the past 11 years, I’ve been waking up with the exact same first thought:

“It’s still true.”

It’s a simple sentence, really. James Tillerman, one of the main characters from the book, was abandoned by his mother, along with his three siblings, and when he woke up, it was the first thought that stuck him: “It’s still true. It’s still true that she’s gone.” So, morning after morning, that’s what he said.

For me, that sentence is like an all-purpose summary of life. It could express happiness or despair or commitment or excitement or resignation or contentment or a million other things. And, over the years, for me, it’s carried a little of everything.

But today, I made a list of all the things I’m most thankful are still true:

• It’s still true that I’m loved.
• It’s still true that God orders all things — for our good and His glory.
• It’s still true that I’m in France.
• It’s still true that Courtney is the best friend I could ever ask for.
• It’s still true that “the boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have an goodly inheritance”. (Ps 16:6)
• It’s still true that God is God and I am not.
• It’s still true that even the difficult situations are changing me into someone better.
• It’s still true that God doesn’t treat me as my sins deserve.
• It’s still true that He’s not finished with me yet.
• It’s still true that He’s not finished with any of us yet.

What’s still true for you this morning? What are the happy things?  And what are the things that break your heart?  When the second list gets so long you can’t think properly, take some time to add to the first.  The only reason to stare at the second is to figure out if there’s an area of your heart or life that needs to be fully surrendered to Jesus. And if there is something, do it!

Oh, friend, it’s worth it. So, so worth it.  It’s still true that He changes lives. And it’s still true that He loves you more than anything. ANYTHING.

But if it’s something beyond your control, trust that He sent it — and meant it — for a reason so good, so perfect, that a few years from now, you’re going to look back and see how it all made sense and be absolutely thankful.

“If your son asks for bread, what father will give him a stone? If you, then, though you are sinful, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!” [Mt 7]

You are loved.  It’s still true.

View from the top of La montagne Sainte Victoire, overlooking Le Tholonet.

We’re already more than halfway through an unrelenting Provencal summer (think mid-90-degree, stagnating temperatures and no fans or A/C) and I realized I haven’t updated this blog since spring. May, June, July, (and now, almost August too!)…. they slipped away so fast! I’m just disappointed in myself for not making the time. It’s been a whirlwind in every sense.

May was a month of epic highs and lows: I was still seeing my tutor regularly, progressing in French, getting into town here and there, meeting up with old friends and making some new ones, learning vast quantities of new things about international life, myself, others, and how small my horizons still were (is there ever a point where we just “arrive”? Eh. I’m thinking maybe not.).  Then, in mid-May, God worked a vast number of things together so I would be able to leave my first family and find a new one. Cue: family search!!  I talked with probably 10 or 15 prospective families in total, but was quickly able to narrow down the possibilities. During the first week or so of the search, I met with a family living  in the suburbs of Aix in a small village called Le Tholonet. When I left their home after the interview, they basically got a 9 out of 10 on my list (which brought them instantly to the top). I was ELATED and pret-ty sure they were the ones.

The month ended with a fun train trip to Cannes (during the week of THE film festival, but we just went to enjoy the sights), and a weekend stay in Nice (which was, well, nice. Har de har har. I wish I had a penny for each time someone said, “You went to Nice? Cool! How was it?” to which I responded with a blithely unintelligent, “Ooh! It was NICE!”  Heyyyy, it wasn’t on purpose!!  Je suis Américain. It’s a default descriptor. ;) ) And then finally, 5 fun days in Toulouse (“TOULOOOOUSE, FOR THE WIN!!!!” I was moderately obnoxious on this point…. But it seemed funny at the time. Heh.)

Here’s Nice: (or, well, one street of it)

Here’s Toulouse at the Pont-Neuf: (it was daytime there too, occasionally….)  ;)

On June 1st, I packed my entire life this side of the Atlantic — one big, luggy suitcase, a rolling carry-on, a cardboard box, and a cotton grocery sack for my tennis shoes and laptop — and left my first home. I boarded a bus bound for Aix, not exactly sure of the next step, but certain that there could only be better days ahead. The day started out cold and blowing and miserable, with rain pouring down like nobody’s business. I dressed in heavy layers, knee-high boots, and a hat. As the bus groaned itself Aix-ward, I watched the rain stream down the windows and prayed it would stop by the time I had to unload everything and haul it through the city.

Be careful what you pray for. When we stopped in Aix, the sun was shining in all its south-of-France fury. Wheeee!

A friend met me at the bus stop and helped me drag my belongings a kilometer or two to their place and told me that if it came right down to it, I could have a bed and a place to keep my things until I figured out what was next in my plan (I was also considering a 1-or-2-week volunteering stint at some organic farms across some of the southern regions of France, among other things, none of which actually worked out in the end.). Thanks, Jesus, for generous-hearted friends!

Unfortunately, my suitcase was ancient: borrowed from my parents, who may or may not have owned it for the past 30-odd years (kidding! Maybe….) and had none of those nifty wheels or the extendable handle that makes travel less of a figurative dance through purgatory. My friend pushed the suitcase (which weighed about 56 pounds — HEAVY, but mostly just UNWIELDY) on all four, rattly little wheels until one-by-one, they melted (yes, MELTED) and fell off. I hauled the box and the bag on top of my little carry-on suitcase and huffed and puffed and sweated my way down the steaming, broken-up sidewalks until I had blisters on both hands and was pretty sure if I took one step further, I’d have to make good on that “in case of death, your body will be shipped back to your country of origin” promise I had on a piece of paper, stuffed in some folder somewhere.

Finally, some blessed, blessed kid on a scooter saw our sweaty, red, death-march expressions and stopped and asked if we needed help and we said, “Oh, yes please” which is really the only way we managed to get everything to the house without summarily dying. Thanks, whoever-you-were! You were a lifesaver. Like, literally.

Home sweet home (at least, for a few weeks):

On June 13th, my new family came to the Villa (above) to pick me up. We drove to a beach in Marseille for the day. No bathing suit for me! I’d kind of spaced that morning, I think, from all I had to prepare. But as I waded up to my waist in the freezing, freezing Mediterranean and watched my skirt float up around me, and as I pushed two sandy, tanned little bodies through the water on their surf boards, I knew I was finally in the right place.  And you know what they say…. sometimes you just know that you know that you know…. ;)  It was a good feeling.  Like I finally belonged somewhere for real.

I quickly settled into a routine. The schedule was always the same; my expectations, clear. I basically was expected to take care of everything concerning the kids: laundry, ironing, cooking their meals, grocery shopping, if necessary, cleaning their room in particular (the house, in general), packing their school bags, picking them up and dropping them off at school or the centre aere…. anything they wanted or needed was basically my business. We even managed to sneak in some English practice on the side (since they only speak/understand French and Italian) by playing some English memory games and reading Dr. Seuss books.

July…. more of the wonderful, wonderful same.  I can’t tell you how blessed I feel to be here: living in this old stone house at the base of La montagne Sainte-Victoire: donkeys braying in the front yard, olive trees begrudgingly bearing their harvest in the back…. The language barrier was (and maybe still is) and a bit of struggle here and there, but when I don’t have an experienced French-speaker in my audience (well, besides the kids), I think we communicate really well. I’m slowly picking it up!

Romeo (5) and Cesar (4) are both very, VERY active, demonstrative kids who know their own minds…. and how to keep you on your toes! ;) But it’s good! I feel stretched by the difficult moments and totally warm and fuzzy and sappy during those moments when I get a great big bear hug or kisses before bed. It kind of makes it all worth it!

I don’t know if this melts your heart like it melts mine, but…. **happy sigh**

The only difficult thing this summer has really been the absence of, well, people in my life. Church closes down for the summer (it won’t resume until September 11th) and some days, I just feel a little like I got stranded on my own, scorching little planet. ;) Well, better days are ahead! I’m really looking forward to the rentrée of church and arrival of more students and interns. It’ll be good to officially start up my studies again too! I’ve tried to do some in my own spare time, but it’s not always easy without accountability!

August…. I was blessed to spend two weeks this month in Germany, visiting a friend and their family. I haven’t had time to really sort through all the pictures yet, though, so I’ll have to do a separate post about it later, I think.

But anyway, here I am, back in France! Surviving, occasionally thriving, hoping to outlast the heat, and living with expectancy for all God has in store for the remaining months ahead!

Thanks so much for reading this, but thanks especially for your prayers! I love and miss you all more than you know.

À bientôt!
Jenn

I wrote this letter for a friend of mine who is struggling right now.  Since it’s not possible for me to send it, I am posting it here instead.

*    *    *    *

Dear Friend,

You are loved.  Have I told you that lately?  I don’t think I have.  I’m sorry.

I’m also sorry for all the times you’ve had to feel alone, like there wasn’t a place for you anymore or that no one cared.  Life gets busy and hard and we misunderstand each other and forget to listen, and shut people out without thinking.  We make a lot of mistakes.  I’m sorry you had to bear the weight of so many of them.

I’m sorry, too, that we weren’t there to help you find your footing or see when and where you needed us most.  I hope you can forgive us.

Did you know that you are beautiful? I don’t just mean that in the careless way most people do when they say it to someone. You ARE beautiful – in a way you can’t help – or hide. You are vibrant and lively. Your eyes and your smile engage people; you make them feel loved and cared about. That alone sets you apart.

But you’re also funny.  And smart.  And talented.  You think deeply about things and you love fiercely.  Injustice stirs indignation in your heart and you don’t just stand passively by, waiting for someone else to do something; you act.  You care for the ones who are forgotten and left out.  You add something to the world that no one else ever could.   You are….you.  No one else.  And that is wonderful.

You’re in a lot of pain right now and that knowledge twists my heart into a hundred knots. I wish I could understand and help you.  For now, I just want you to know: There’s nothing you need to make up for.  Nothing.  There are no stories—no feelings—in your heart so dark that they are better handled by hiding or isolating yourself instead of sharing.  There is no problem too big or too irreparable for you to cry alone about, or shoulder by yourself…. Or be ashamed of.

You’re treasured and loved by the One who made the earth with its limitless mountains and its depthless seas. How could He create every species of animal, insect, tree, plant….all the continents and oceans; cities and weather: storms, lightning, rainbows….and not be even slightly concerned about you?  The fact is, He cares more about you—JUST you—than about anything else in that list.

You matter.

Deeply.

Before you were born, God knew you.  He knew what color your eyes would be and when you would speak your first word.  He knew your talents, the sound of your voice, and the way your mind would work.  He lovingly designed each of these things, gave them to you, and said that they were good.

You are beautiful to Him.

He knew you would grow up and face difficulty and pain and confusion, but He also promised that He wouldn’t leave you alone in the middle of it.

When was the last time you felt real joy–the kind that lasts?  Jesus is full of compassion and it breaks His heart to see you hurting and confused.  Cry out to Him.  Tell Him exactly what you’re thinking and feeling right now, even if it’s sometimes hard to know where to start.  He will help you.

When He wrote You that long, long love letter, remember what he said?  He said He was Your Father.  And He asked you if a loving father would ever give his kids a stone if they were hungry and asked Him for bread.

Do you know what He meant when He said that?  He was saying that if we ask Him for a good thing—like His Spirit, to live in us and help us—why would He refuse to give it to us?  He promised He would never withhold any good thing from His children, if we are are living in obedience.

When we yield to His Spirit in us, the darkness is slowly eaten away by the light.  It’s not an easy process, surrendering to the light—in fact, it can be quite painful at times—but it is a necessary process, and there is SO much joy on the other side of it.

Are you willing to fight to get there?

You won’t be alone.  Please, never believe the lie that you are.  There are SO many people around you who would do anything in the world to make sure you are happy and safe.  But you have to let them in so they know how.  I know it’s not very easy to open up at first, but if you are willing to take that first difficult step, I think you will be amazed at the understanding and love you find.

Remember: God knows what He’s doing—He has a specific purpose for you and for your life—and He WILL see you through to the end.  He is real and He listens.  Talk to Him and see.

Finally: Forgive, forgive, forgive, forgive….and then, with His help, move forward.

Change is coming.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has gone; the new has come.” (II Corinthians 5:17)

You are loved.

With all my heart,
Jenn

This past week, I read Crazy Love by Francis Chan. Excellent book. Probably one of the best I’ve read in a couple of years.  But the coincidence that I would turn the last page AND be smack in the center of one of the largest cities in France just couldn’t be ignored.

That realization — and the responsibility that came along with it — tore my day apart.  It’d been a long time I felt so convicted.

Chan basically ends the book by challenging Christians to lay down their lives for others.  If that means downsizing to a smaller house, using public transportation instead of owning a car, tithing 50% on faith, buying someone a simple meal when you may not have enough for your own, or moving to another continent, so be it: regardless of your situation, God will provide.

So, as I finished the book, I was sitting alone at the top of a hill, in a grassy park.  Earlier, I’d watched a screaming couple break up with each other with drama and hysterics. They walked away separately without looking back.  Later, parents wandered by, pushing children in prams, balloons trailing behind. Students rushed past with backpacks and books, always late.  Around lunchtime, groups of people began to arrive with wrapped baguette sandwiches and boxed salads: forming circles in the grass and kicking off their shoes. In the distance, football games broke out with shouts and laughter.

I sat and watched everyone. Listened. Only heard one conversation in English and it was brief. It’s amazing how those stand out to me, though, in the midst of all the words I don’t understand.

So many people. So much bustle. So many needs. So little Jesus.

I closed the book, filled with inspiration.  I was going to go out and find needs — needs don’t have a language barrier — and I was going to meet those needs if I died trying.

I wrote in my journal: God guide me. I’m filled with conviction, but no wisdom. Show me what is wise. What do you want me to do for these people today? Keep me from foolishness; give me discernment. Speak through my words; use my actions for Your glory and my sanctification.  I’m going out on faith — please let  it be for something of eternal value.  Show me the needs.

I got up, gathered my things, and hurried out of the park to find the nearest bus stop that would take me back into the Center.  There were two people waiting for the same bus.  I watched them nervously.  Were they the ones Jesus wanted me to help?  But….I don’t speak French!

Satan really started to dig his heels in as I stood there.  Somehow, in the shade of the downtown streets, the conviction didn’t burn as deeply as it did on the hillside at the park.  I could feel the passion shrinking as I shifted my backpack from shoulder to shoulder and strained my eyes into the distance, watching for my bus.  I didn’t talk to them.

I got on the bus. Swiped my card. Avoided eye contact with people. Suddenly felt embarrassed by my blind enthusiasm. Who was I fooling?  I listened to conversations in French, watched people talking from behind designer sunglasses, wondered what I had to offer that they didn’t have.

Well, besides Jesus.

Wait. What?

What do any of us TRULY need….besides Him?

Yep.

I got off the bus near one of my favorite bakeries.  In halting French, I ordered a bag filled to the brim with croissants and pain au chocolat — my favorite guilty indulgence on school days.  When I left, I had exactly 27 cents left in my wallet.

I hit the streets.

A word about the streets: this is Aix-en-Provence. The south of France. The streets are beautiful. Narrow and cobbled: occasioned by a whimsical, pooled fountain.  Old, charming: lined with Romanesque buildings and Cistercian architecture.   This city was founded in 123 B.C. Yes, B.C. Even aimless walks through the city have the potential to be awe-inspiring.

But for all their beauty, the streets have low places.  In shadowed alleys, sheltered store-fronts, and on dirty front stoops: beggars sit. Every city has them. But that doesn’t make them all the same. They’re all people: so different.  Individuals with individual stories and needs and hurts and desires.

I set out to find them. The bag was heavy in my hand and my racing thoughts gave me a sort of breathless energy.  I knew Jesus was going to use me to change lives today.

I walked.

And walked.

For almost two hours.

Finally, I ducked into a tiny cafe, threw my backpack and the bakery bag onto a table and wearily climbed a stool.  Got out my journal. Wrote:  So much for helping anyone. I bought a huge bag of pain au chocolat and croissants. I ate some. Walked. Walked. Walked. And walked. Now I’m here to buy a drink. Who put all of the hungry people away?  If this is a joke, it’s not funny.  What am I missing?  Did I forget something?  Is this the wrong thing to do?  Is this God’s way of keeping me safe?  I don’t want to be safe if it means I can’t help people.  Jesus, I told you I was willing: don’t You need me today?

I finished my drink. Gathered my bags. Checked my watch. Started the sun-streamed trek back to the Gare Routière (the main bus station here in Aix): my heart: heavy as heavy could be.

Then I saw her.  She was sitting against a tree, along the Avenue des Belges. Her clothes were ragged and most of her teeth were gone. Her feet were bare and she sat on a pile of dirty cloths. In one hand, she held a sign, but I couldn’t read it.  I almost walked past because I suddenly realized what I would look like to everyone else:  A pushover. Naive. Foolish. People like this woman are often specifically ignored because their motives are second-guessed: i.e., maybe someone else sent them here to help them make a little extra money on the side. Maybe they’re drug addicts.  Maybe they’re really not that poor….

But my question is: does the back-story really matter?  At the end of the day, when you’re  in your warm house, with comfy clothes and a table in front of you, full of food, does it really matter if you gave a little out of your plenty?  Even here.  I don’t have a salary: just pocket money, but I am never in need.  I am rich.  And when I stand before Jesus, I’m pretty sure He won’t care whether or not I thought the need wasn’t real or that someone else would eventually meet it.  I’m pretty sure I’d like to tell Him I did exactly what He would do in that situation.

I took one last look around at the people hurrying past, decided not to care what they thought, and got down on my knees in front of the woman.  She looked surprised.  I looked straight into her eyes. They were blue and amazingly clear. I put down my bag and picked up both her hands and held them in mine.  I said (in super-poor French), “I don’t speak French very well. But you are loved. This is for you. It’s small, I’m sorry. I want to do more. God loves you. Bless you.”  I tucked the bakery bag into the blankets beside her, next to some dried-up orange peels, then rose to my feet. Her eyes were filling with tears. She pointed at the sky, then crossed her hands over her heart, saying over and over, “Merci, merci, merci beaucoup, ma belle fille. Merci. Dieu vous bénisse. (God bless you.)”

I had to catch the bus. I took a few steps backwards, maintaining eye contact until I had to force myself to turn.  I don’t know what her sign said.  I don’t know what her name is.  I don’t even know if she really needed that bag of food.  But I think Jesus led me to her on purpose.  If not for her, then maybe for me.  Maybe to realize my own selfishness and insufficiency: the tight-fisted way I’ve been living: meeting only my own needs, counting every euro, and only giving when I’ve been guilted or asked.

I need to give more.  Care more.  Notice more.  Do more than give out of my comparative plenty a couple days a week.  Give, give, sacrifice, give.  Give until it comes naturally.  Give until keeping anything extra for myself makes me stay awake at night.  Give until I truly am His hands and feet.

This week, I challenge you to ask Jesus to show you the excess in your life — and how you can use it to bless someone who has less.  And then, ask Him to show you the areas where you’re not as sure you have enough: give there too.  Give recklessly.  Give with abandon.  Give like you’re going to get it all back, but doubled instead.  There is no need, no want in Him.  “Thy Jesus can repay….”

He may not do it in the way you expect Him to, but be assured that He will do it.  He is so faithful.

Much love to you all, friends. Thanks for reading.

These are the things I love most about the people who shaped my world and lovingly, persistently sanded off my rough edges:

My dad’s integrity: the way he can set anyone at ease and make entire roomfuls of people laugh. He has the truest of all true servant hearts. He would (and does – daily) gladly lay down his life for his family. Also, he’s good at everything. And I do mean everything. Regardless: he can build it, fix it, sing it, play it, cook it, understand it, talk about it, sell it, write a poem about it, draw a picture of it, make a pathetically hilarious pun about it, pray about it, teach about it…. The list goes on.

My mom’s straight-forward wisdom: and her uncompromising dedication to the truth. She cares more about what God thinks than what other people think. She raised and educated 7 children with love and grace and not much sleep. ;) She spends her life making other people’s better: more God-focused — never counting her personal expenses. If I need prayer or love or encouragement or advice, I always dial her number first.

Courtney’s loyalty and patience. She loves me more than I’ve EVER loved anyone in my entire life. She’s seen me through the lowest of lows and the highest of highs. She’s objectively listened to me rail and sob and question my way through dark days, and she’s always given a God-toward (and never sugar-coated) answer. I don’t deserve a sister like her.

Beth’s crazy sense of humor. The way she consistently walks around with a dictionary and a thesaurus and another huge, equally-intimidating book (think something between Vanity Fair and War & Peace)…. ay.

Steve’s exuberance. When he cares about something, he’ll throw his LIFE into making it work. He’s clever, inventive, and about as original as they come. And what a writer he’s becoming! Oh my word.

Daniel’s made-up words: his eclectic interests, his laboratory full of random mixtures and dubious potions (haha!), his sincere concern for truth and right, and his all-consuming love for chickens. (Yes, chickens.)

Mike’s super funny facial expressions: his dedicated hard-working-ness, his cute desire to serve and please everyone around him, and his tender heart. (Also, the way he so carefully adds to little Jonathan’s vocabulary.) ;)

Jonathan’s precocious intelligence, his big, bright brown eyes, his raucous, raucous singing (especially when he sings the Welsh National Anthem – whaaaa?), and the way he has an answer for everything — even though he’s only two and a half.

Family, I love you!!

All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:
I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:
I talk of love – a scholar’s parrot may talk Greek –
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.

For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.

~C.S. Lewis~

Today is not even halfway over and already it’s been full of lessons and challenges. I’ve often said that the discouraging thing about the sanctification process is that there is never a leveling out place: a plateau to pause, take a breath, take a nap, take a vacation, just….STOP. Not even for a moment.

It’s also the beautiful thing. Every day that we press on—placing one tired foot in front of the other; time and again….and again and again and again—we are becoming more like Christ.

The Christian life is a journey—a journey that must be continued every waking moment of our lives.  Sometimes it’s a wonderfully peaceful stroll through rich pastures, beside clear waters; under a blue sky without a hint of rain. And sometimes, the way is weary: the ground, rocky, and the storms, tempestuous.

Today began as a rocky day—a straight uphill climb—but, now, as I’m reaching the top, I can see that the climb wasn’t so far or so steep after all. It just looked that way from the bottom.

From the time they woke, the children were just a little too hyper, a little too needy; the house, just a little too messy; the floor, just a little too unscrubbed. Me, just a little too tired. The schedule, just a little too overwhelming.

Nothing to put a definite finger on, nothing with an absolute diagnosis or cure: just a feeling of absolute shortcoming.  The feeling  that I’m not doing enough—that I’m not keeping up with everything.

Every time I turn around, there’s another dish to be washed, another nappy to change, another little nose to wipe.

Kids don’t comprehend  or abide by the word “convenient”. The diapers always seem to be stinky at exactly the same moment the phone must be answered or the bread is burning in the oven. The naps are over just as the floor has been neatly scrubbed and a good book beckons from the coffee table. Some days, I look over my daily Bible reading plan and sigh: a deep, longing sigh. I am so behind these days.

Is my continual pursuit of perfection the reason for this feeling of inadequacy? Must the dishes always be washed and must the children always eat lunch at the exact same time each afternoon? Must the socks always match, and must the floors and windows always be sparkling?

These questions are instrumental in what I call “dividing the wheat from the chaff”. That is: determining which things are absolutely non-negotiable, and which things can be rearranged or done away with altogether for peace and clarity of mind.

Today, before I could get very far, I stopped myself.

STOP. BREATHE. THINK. LOOK AROUND YOU.

What are you doing, Jenn?

Then I did something uncharacteristic. I left the breakfast dishes in the sink—just walked away from them like that, without looking back—and I bundled all three little ones onto the sofa with me. There, sprawled across my lap, snuggled against my arm, twisting my hair between their fingers, they listened as I read “Green Eggs and Ham”, “The Cat in the Hat”, and another silly book about Christmas. We laughed together and, in those short 45 minutes, a bond had formed that no clean house or washed dishes could ever replace.

So, as to the wheat and the chaff: I’m slowly learning that people—not jobs—are the non-expendables. If I have to choose between a perfect house and children who know they are loved, I want to say that I will always choose the children.

30 years from now, this house may not even be standing. But these children will be raising their own children and I want them to be sitting on their own sofas, early some weekday morning, reading books aloud, instead of alone, scrubbing dishes in the kitchen.

Stay constant on that road. Keep your gait steady and your purpose clear by holding today—with all its struggles and shortcomings and backlogs of work—up to the light.

Then decide how you will divide the wheat from the chaff as you take each careful, struggling step forward.