The Whole Story

About a week ago Olive turned four. It seems like just yesterday I was googling “lasting effects of swaddling” because I was obsessively panicked nervous that we were doing some sort of lasting damage by swaddling our 5 month old baby. She really did seem so old at the time…I landed on an article about an 11 year old boy who wrapped himself in a bed sheet each night to mimic the soothing effects of swaddling. That falls in the category of unhelpful information.

I was really excited when I woke up on Wednesday morning because I just couldn’t wait to celebrate Olive. I had a birthday treat with pink candles, a present, a cute banana snowman made with love, ready for her when she woke up and came down the stairs.

She was so excited about all of it and so was I! After school, Gammy came over and showered her with some new frilly skirts and some long-sleeved shirts (Gammy will win this battle of dressing appropriately for the season) which she adored.

I should stop here—our day sounds perfect. You might be under the impression that our whole day was magical, full of unicorns and rainbows. You could begin to believe that because your day hadn’t gone like that, your day was subpar. And then you could go one step farther and believe that you and your life are subpar.

Photos and stories can be deceiving. They are often an edited version—the version I want others to see—of real life. There is nothing wrong with sharing good news, small victories, and fun outings with others. But when the highlights are all I am willing to share with others, it’s not the whole story, And some might call that a lie. Maybe a white lie. We are portraying a self, a life, that is not whole. I’m not saying to throw up your problems on everyone everytime you are asked “how’s it going?” please don’t mistake this for someone actually caring how you’re doing—it’s just a typical American greeting usually said by a speed walker. I am saying that being honest and sharing the whole story with those around us is liberating and life-giving.

Through personal experience and a slight obsession with psychology, I have learned that I don’t know the whole story. Pretty much ever. That is really important to recognize both when someone’s life looks awesome and when it doesn’t. It helps me have more grace, which I can ALWAYS use; it challenges me to be transparent in my own life; and it lessens the amount of times I compare my life to theirs.

Comparing my life to anyone else’s is a waste of time because I don’t know their story, but I definitely know mine. So I end up comparing all of my “worsts” with all of their “bests.” Instead of feeling inspired or encouraged by others' successes, I can feel discouraged because I believe I don’t measure up. Or, instead of feeling compassion or understanding in others’ failures, I am judgmental and boast of my successes.

The Bible talks about us all being a part of the body of Christ and that it takes each part to function properly. I’ve heard it plenty of times, but I’m not sure when I’m actually ever going to believe it. I just keep thinking that somehow I can morph the body part that I’ve been assigned. Like maybe if I try hard enough, I can change from a hand to an eye, metaphorically speaking of course. Any time I begin to compare my life to another, I will end up believing a lie. In one instance, an eye might look at a hand and say ‘I can see so much better than that hand! I’m amazing!’  Conversely, the eye might think ‘I can’t pick up anything like that hand can! I’m so lame!’ Neither comparison contains truth, because there is nothing to compare—they have completely different skill sets, functions, looks. 

The other day I read several stories of teenagers who had started their own non-profit organizations. I am pretty sure these stories were meant to be inspirational, but I felt less than inspired after reading them. I felt like a failure because I hadn't done anything like that and I am twice their age! But then I was reminded that we all make up the Body. I can try to force myself to be a different body part, but I will never succeed. Ever. I can do the best with the abilities I have, or I can do mediocre or maybe even awful work trying to be someone else. Truth be told, I have no desire to start my own non-profit. My chest is literally tightening just at the thought. However, I do have a desire to serve and support someone else who has started a non-profit. Even if they are half my age.

Accepting this--that we all have different roles--is new for me. For a long time I didn’t accept who I was or the life I was living. I grew up believing certain attributes, abilities, personalities were better than others. I wasted a lot of time trying to be someone I wasn’t. Lately, I have come to actually love some certain qualities about myself that I used to be ashamed of. This can be read as: FREEDOM. I feel compelled to tell the whole story, my whole story, to stop the comparison cycle that results in wasted time. When I know who I am and who I am not, I can be present in my life.

Let’s fast forward to the rest of the birthday evening. Olive had requested sushi for her dinner—we were not going to argue with that. In my mind, it was going to be so much fun. Here is how that was not true:

I had a feeling—motherly intuition if you will—that things were about to get hairy. My first clue was my hunger level. When I am hungry, my whole body triples in weight and I can’t move. My eyes glaze over and all of my conversation contributions become grunt-like sounds. My second clue was Alan’s hunger level. When he gets hungry, he is irrational and likes to pick fights. For example, if the girls were touching something they shouldn’t be, his response would be to swiftly remove them while telling them that they can never eat cheese again. It just makes no sense.

It took about 3 seconds after we were seated for the real fun to start. Olive decided that the best seat for her was under the table. Clementine followed of course and then became frantic because she couldn’t figure out how to crawl out. After performing no less than four under-the-table rescues on Clementine, who was screeching about being stuck, we declared that there would be no more “me, myself time” as the girls call it, under the table. Fine. Clementine’s next idea was to resemble an intoxicated person on the booth benches, and continue to fall and wail at the top of her lungs. Repeatedly. About the 3^rd time this happened, after she had been warned she might get hurt if she kept doing it, she did a flip of sorts and got herself stuck, with just one little arm sticking up, waving around for help. This happened at the same time the waitress was trying to take our order. When she saw the little arm flailing around, she peeked under the table and said in her sweetest, I don’t have any children of my own voice, “Aw, are you okay?” Alan and I just looked up at her with blank faces and muttered through gritted teeth, “she’s fine.” I may have even rolled my eyes. It wasn’t good.

The night may or may not have concluded with a lecture about how there are kids in the world who are thirsty and when they cry to their mommy for water, there isn’t any to give them, so waiting 3 minutes til we get to the car to get your water bottle isn’t really a big deal at all and the foot stomping can stop immediately. Happy 4^th Birthday, Olive.

Did a little piece of you just smile, knowing that someone else has experienced this? It’s okay, smile away. That’s what honesty does—it gets us out of our funks of perfectionism, shame, and apathy and builds unity and trust and hope. It allows us to stop wishing we were someone else and start living.

I hope you can begin to do this in your own life—this telling the whole story, your story, so that you can live fully in the moment, in the life God has given you.


- M