It Is Finished

I don’t know about you, but almost none of the work I pour myself into ever feels finished. And let’s face it, modern (post-modern?) life seems to be all about work. Oh, we tell ourselves that every gain in technology is also a gain for our free time, and therefore a boost to our leisure. But is that true? I would say that evidence to the contrary is far more abundant than evidence that supports this widely held belief. Kind of like the somewhat related  belief that more is better. Does anyone still give any credence to that old chestnut? In truth, more is simply more. More choices. More money. More square footage. More belongings. More friends. More family. More work. More demands. More headaches. More rat race. More to lose. More. I would venture to say that maybe the only more that may be better, at least to me, is more free time. Well, that and more sleep. And the MORE Gathering for Women. And absolutely more quiet time with God. But more is not what I’m here to discuss. I digress. 

My work is never finished. I’m never done. And, as previously mentioned, developments in technology haven’t helped to move me any closer to finished. From the time I rise until the time I hit the pillow, I am working, and, mostly, not finishing that work. I will grant you that I am in a very specific and also very hard season of life and work. It’s the season of motherhood. And I got a (very) late start. My days begin early and end late. The work to which I put my hands, mind, and body, is both varied and monotonous, but always highly demanding. And never finished. I may wash a sink full of dirty dishes but they’ll never actually be done. I may expend many minutes each day picking up food that my daughter drops or spills or smashes into the carpet, but that she will recreate that work for me again and again is a certainty. Laundry? Bah ha ha ha ha! Never finished. You know what else in motherhood is never finished? Paperwork. Oh there are just mountains of paperwork. So much more than a non-parent will ever comprehend. By the time my daughter was four, the amount and bulk of records and paperwork I had on her was almost half of that of my own records. What? Yes. The paperwork of parenthood is staggering. It is also never finished. Not only is it hard to finish a particular form, since frequent interruption of all thought and activity is certain, but finishing one form just means that you’ll soon be graduating to the next stack of paperwork for your child. What about thoughts or sentences? In my house, with my highly verbal and strong-willed child, my thoughts and sentences are only finished when she’s not home or asleep. Not finished. 

Believe me when I say that I could enumerate the many ways that motherhood insures I will not soon finish much of anything. To do so would belabor my point and would also sound like ingratitude. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to go there. Motherhood is a very full place. And God has designed it in such a way as to infuse it abundantly with grace, awe, and wonder. Motherhood is an awesome mystery. There is plenty of (tired and frequently shabby) beauty in motherhood. And joy. But it’s a hard slog. Easily the hardest thing a person will ever do. You see what I did there?

For some moms the not finishing can be particularly hard to bear. God gave each of us unique temperaments, attitudes, and personalities. But there are those of us, and we know who we are, who are more apt to struggle with incompletion. You might call us Type A personalities. But you’ll know us by our focus, our diligence, our propensity to feel stress and emotional overwhelm, and our need to finish what we start. Oh yes. We are finishers. Or at least we strive to be. And we think we have ourselves pretty pulled together. On the whole we don’t procrastinate. We employ lists so that we can keep track of and cross off the things we need to do. We tend to set our alarms and abide by them. We are seldom late. We are efficient perfectionists and planners. We are busy, thank you very much. So very busy. We love solving problems and consider ourselves good at it. That means we don’t like to depend on others or to ask for help. It also means that managing to be still in the midst of a problem or trial is counter to our vary natures. We are frequently guilty of walking toward a purpose, rather than purposing to walk. We tend toward incredible inflexiblity in our thinking, and therefore struggle to understand the choices that others make, and the roads that others take. All of this can mean that we are proudly self-sufficient, and, at times, stunningly unmerciful of others who fall short of that which we mistakenly assume everyone is capable.

Before I was a mother, I thought I had it all together. I was a hard worker. I was diligent. And I was proud. So very proud. I was proud of always being on time. I was proud of being able to efficiently direct meetings so as not to waste others time. I was proud to be able to work independently and with minimal mistakes. I was certain of my own abilities to do a lot of things. This was especially true in the sphere of employment. At home I was proud that I knew how to cook, bake, preserve, and clean. I was proud that I’d learned how to make many things from scratch, and enjoyed using my hands to create things, from start to finish. Handmade soap. Handmade paper. Handmade cards. Handmade crochets and knits. Sewn quilts and napkins. I had these two hands that God gave me and I was able. And I finished what I started. Or so I thought. Oh yeah, and I was proud. Only I didn’t think I was. 

For the last five years, God has been walking me through places where things are very seldom finished. He’s taking me into places I never would have willingly gone. I am a parent. My child is gifted, but she also has special needs. She challenges me on almost everything all day long. She frankly flies in the face of all of my previously unexamined assumptions about what it means to have a meaningful life. She forces me to look into my own eyes and notice that I’m a mess inside. All of my best laid plans and efforts to manage and contain the things going on around me don’t really have a chance. These are my long-held ideas and beliefs. They are my mental constructs. They are not reality. They are not truth. And, as much as it pains me to say this, these qualities of mine, over which I felt such pride, are not much needed. And that hurts my pride. Which feels bad, but is actually good. All the ways I thought I was prepared, I’m not. And all of the ways I need to be prepared, I am likewise not. In this newer reality I am nearly always late, no matter where I go. Things that used to take no time at all take all day. Plans that I enjoy making and treasure contemplating fall through. Much of my work is for nought. But that’s just it. When I don’t try to partner with God the work is just mine. And if parenthood has taught me anything, it’s that I don’t know nearly as much as I thought about nearly everything. I am being humbled repeatedly nearly every day.  

I think that God wants me to completely let go of the idea of my work being finished. I think He also wants me to let go of the idea that anything is actually “my work.” I think he’s inviting me to see that it is His work, and ultimately “our work” if I’m willing to come to Him and invite Him into the mess of motherhood and life more broadly. God, His Holy Spirit, and His fully human-fully God son Jesus, are the only ones Who have ever and will ever be able to say with authority, that Their work is finished. I am fooling myself and, worse still, inviting myself into endless disappointment, if I persist in thinking that the work is mine and that I can finish it. Only God can do that. 

So what if I can’t seem to finish much of anything? Motherhood has been my unmaking, but if God’s promises are true, and I know they are, motherhood will also be my remaking.

What kind of unfinished work are you wrestling with in your life? How would it make you feel to loosen your grip on that work and just give it to God?