What "I'm Too Busy" Means & Why You Should Stop Rolling Your Eyes

I told my family at Christmas, all twenty of us sitting in a circle in my parents’ living room, “2019 will be the year I learn to rest.” Other people were sharing their dedication to try harder in their marriages, to be better at forgiveness, to say hard things to people they loved. In this moment of intense vulnerability, I said the thing about rest and immediately felt self conscious.

I’d shared it because rest was/is the great struggle of my life. Because even on vacation at Christmas I felt empty and tired and torn ten ways. Because I knew I was striving for something that probably didn’t matter much and that this striving could very well ruin me. The pace and the reaching and the crushing weight of my planner, all of it felt like an avalanche, an avalanche I couldn’t stop running toward.

So I said the thing about rest.

But I wonder what they heard. I wonder if they thought I was weak. I wonder if they thought I was bragging.

Today, everyone is “busy.” It’s a defining feature of the modern life. When I tell people I can’t do something or go somewhere because I have other obligations or because I’m trying to cut back on commitments, they say pointedly, “Everyone is busy.” When I tell people I’m trying to learn to rest they laugh and say, “Tell me when you’ve got it figured out.” Busy-ness, blinding, life-crushing busy-ness is perfectly acceptable, expected even.

If you can’t handle it, you’d better hurry up and learn how.

Thing is, I do know how. I’m better than most people at juggling obligations and getting things done. I’ve been a go-getter, achiever, hustler for decades. I know how it works. And I know how it hurts.

In kindergarten I gave myself stress migraines by assigning myself so much imaginary homework I couldn’t get it all done.

In high school my list of clubs, accomplishments, and awards in single-spaced eight point font required a second page.

In one semester of college I took 19 hours of classes, worked a twenty hour a week job, wrote an honors thesis, played intramural sports, played a part in a musical, and served as a youth minister’s wife. That’s right around the time when my colon stopped working properly.

I know how to be busy, very busy.

It’s easy. And it’s been so hard.

I realized pretty early in my journey to rest that some people took my desire to be less busy for bragging about being busy, as if my confession of striving, over-committing, and reaching for achievement as a marker of my worth was more boast than admission of guilt. Here I am sharing what I see as the biggest area of sin in my life and people on the other side of the computer screen are rolling their eyes. So sorry you’re so wanted and accomplished, Jennifer.

I get it.

I can be tempted to roll my eyes when a hot guy confesses to sleeping with lots of attractive women. Or when a stay at home mom confesses to obsessing over keeping her house clean. Or when someone who seems to have it all together confesses to pride.

We want to say, That must be so hard for you… having women falling at your feet, having a gorgeous, spotless house, thinking you’re better than everyone else.

You hear that sarcasm dripping? That’s jealousy, and it’s what happens when we forget how terrible and devastating sin is, when we start to think some sins (especially the sins that seem like locked doors to us) would be fun.

They’re not.

To me, when I look at the lists of random things I’ve “accomplished” I don’t see something to desire. I see years and years of self-abuse. Years of pushing myself too hard. Years of trying to prove something. Years of reaching for the affirmation I already had in Christ.

Some people mean to brag when they say they’re too busy. But even then they’re accidentally confessing, letting you in on something unhealthy inside them. Cramming our lives with too much going, too much trying, and too much reaching is always a sign of brokenness.

Maybe you’re self-reliant. Maybe you’re closed off from the blessing of community. Maybe you don’t think God loves you unless you prove your love for Him. Maybe you want people to be impressed by you. Maybe you’re afraid of being still, afraid to be alone in the quiet with your thoughts. Maybe you’re afraid of not having enough and can’t stop working to accumulate. Whatever it is, excessive busy-ness grows from and is fueled by a lack of trust in God. It’s bad, and it comes with a host of slaying consequences.

This isn’t a post about how to be less busy or how to rest. I’m working through that, seeking solutions, letting God reshape my heart. I’ll take any recommendations you want to throw my way, and I’ll take all the prayers. This is a real struggle for me, and I’m taking it seriously.

This is also not a post bashing industry. I’m a fan of hard work. I think it’s holy. I’m happy to have been used by God to do things that matter.

Instead, this post is just a simple reminder:

When someone says “I’m too busy,” it’s not a brag. It’s a flare.

Don’t roll your eyes. Help.

Planet Fitness, Messy Humans, and Why Most Rules Are Good

I work out at Planet Fitness. I don't work out particularly often or exceptionally rigorously, but I do work out on occasion when the cold isn't so cold and the tasks don't tie me to the desk. 

Today was one of those days when I drove to Planet Fitness, got out of the car, and walked directly to the one thing I always do at Planet Fitness. If you've never been to this particular brand of gym you won't know that every location includes a section devoted exclusively to "The PF 30-Minute Express Circuit." It's a set of weight machines and cardio exercises you alternate between for a period of thirty minutes. On the wall you'll find a long list of instructions on how to do this properly. There's a red and green light system to help you know how long to do each activity. Machines and boxes for step exercises are numbered for orderly execution of the circuit. 

Every time I do this circuit, I follow the rules precisely. 

And every time I'm there, following the rules precisely, someone else comes in and messes everything up.

Some people decide they just want to use one machine for twenty minutes (which means I don't get to use that machine when it's my turn). Other people decide they'll go in whatever order they choose (which means I may miss three or four machines). Some people stand super close to the machines and use free weights (putting those machines out of commission). 

The circuit only works if everyone using it follows the rules.

Since no one ever does, every time I go to the gym I'm viscerally reminded of the depravity of humanity. 

Follow the rules, people!! There's a reason for the rules!

If you know me, you may find this posture amusing, because I am not exactly a rules person. Just this week I engaged in three or four public rants on the stupidity of city residential housing restrictions. I'm a libertarian who won't register as a libertarian because I don't like boxes. I wear white jeans whenever in the course of the year I decide I want to, and I wear black with navy. I don't like unnecessary rules. But I do like the kinds of rules that, when followed, create peace and dispel chaos. 

Like circuit training rules. Or God's rules. 

I'm reading in Exodus right now about how to make restitution when your bull boars you neighbor's bull, how not to cook goat, and how to make amends when you mistreat your slave. Sometimes when I read these sections of scripture my eyes glaze over. Today though I was thinking of how helpful these rules must have been to the early Israelites and how hard it is to maintain peace with your brother without rules. 

King David will say of the law of Moses, this law about bulls and slave treatment and bride prices, "I run in the path of Your commands." He's able to run, because law simplifies life.* When we follow the rules, we avoid chaos and disruption.

I have this friend who recently got in trouble with the law. She's been making good choices since then, but every few weeks that past mistake births some new set of disastrous consequences. Every other day she's tripping over her prior disobedience, her schedule, plans and desires spilling on the ground like marbles, rolling out of reach.

That's how it goes, isn't it? Disobedience sows disorder. 

Sometimes disorder isn't the worst thing. Some rule-breaking honors what's true and good. Some disorder upturns systems or power structures that require upturning. 

But some rule-breaking, most, messes everything up. And not just for us. When we break the rules we mess things up for everybody. 

This happens in marriage when one spouse commits to submission and the other won't. When one spouse is faithful and the other isn't. When one spouse is vulnerable and the other refuses. Both are punished.

This happens in a family when a child disobeys his parents and gets expelled from school or arrested and now the parents are paying court fees and reconfiguring work schedules and trying to explain to their friends what's happening. 

This happens in church life when two hundred people offer grace and three loud people extend hate and those three voices are the only ones anyone hears. 

This happens on Facebook when people are discussing something civilly and someone jumps in to be a jerk and suddenly everyone is brought down. 

Everyone is affected by anyone's disobedience.

Rules exist for the purpose of harmony. 

I needed to hear that today. I needed the reminder that God doesn't arbitrarily assign things to right and wrong columns to test our loyalty or self discipline. God has reasons for rules, one of the prime ones being peace among His people.

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*Maybe you're thinking, Law simplifies life for David--the male who's not a slave or a bride being purchased. And you're not entirely wrong. Still, the law does uplift people at the bottom of power structures. And when the law is followed women and slaves in this time period receive much better treatment than outside the law

Christmas Eve Eve and Choosing Joy

My brother and I sat on a burgundy couch, me in black tights and patent leather shoes, him looking like a little man in a little red tie. The way I remember it the couch was in the middle of a large room, and people walked past us and around us and behind us, heads down. I've been to the place since and know the room was small and the couch was against a wall. I must have felt small that night. Maybe I wanted to feel small, to disappear. 

My grandmother had died three days earlier, and this was her visitation. She was a well-loved teacher and coach, an elder's wife, the mom of four kids, grandmother to six. People came from all over to honor her. I loved her. I drew pictures to decorate her hospital room. I helped her pick out a wig after chemo. It was a hard night, especially so in its close proximity to Christmas. My brother and I were seven and eight, two children sadder than we'd ever been, sad because we'd lost our grandmother. And just a little sadder because she'd died at Christmas. 

I remember my dad coming to sit beside my brother and I. We felt better with him close. And then I remember him leaning over, a twinkle in his not-prone-to-twinkling eyes, and saying, "You know what tonight is, don't you?" We shook our heads. What was tonight? Obviously it was visitation night, a night for sadness and tears and adults doing adults things and kids sitting quietly in itchy clothes. "Tonight's Christmas Eve Eve," he said, and my brother and I perked up at the excitement tucked into the syllables of a day with a name. He continued, "On Christmas Eve Eve, every child gets to open one present." Our eyes widened and our mouths surprised us with smiles. We made it through the next hour imagining the wrapped presents under our tree, picking just the right one.

Later that night I would sit in our small living room holding a Barbie Doll, laughing with my parents, happy, safe and loved. The next morning we would bury my grandmother.

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My stomach is rumbling. I'm eyeing my kids and their cookies and feeling like maybe I should eat one. I won't because I'm fasting from breakfast for Advent. I've already done a terrible job with this fast. Last week I forgot about it altogether. This week I happily attended a breakfast Christmas party. I'm trying to end strong. Today is Christmas Eve Eve--just today and tomorrow to go. 

I'm fasting as a way to embrace the hunger I have for the coming Christ, the ache I feel in this fallen world not yet made new. The fasting reminds me that something's coming, and it's okay if I don't always feel full. 

Honestly, though, this longing is easy to feel. So often I'm burdened by this ache, weighed down by failed relationships, failed projects, failed attempts to do and be better. Just this week I've thought ten times, Would you please go on ahead and come back, Jesus?  

I'm a minister, a writer, a depressive, and a girl who lost her grandmother, brother and first baby at Christmastime. I probably don't need the reminder that things aren't as they should be. 

I do, however, need the reminder that Christmas Eve Eve brings.

That night at my grandmother's visitation my dad started a tradition, one my family faithfully followed every year after. For almost thirty years we've been opening presents two days before Christmas. The rules are rigid: one present per person, parents pick the present, and anyone can choose to wait until Christmas if the waiting makes you happy. Christmas Eve Eve might very well be my favorite day of the year, full as it is of unexpected delight. It's not like Christmas, something you do because everyone else does it, something agreed upon by society and systematized. It's something special exactly because it's arbitrary. My dad just made it up. He looked at his two kids, buried in sadness, and he decided what they needed most was a steroid shot of joy. 

Christmas Eve Eve is a day when we Mayses celebrate in the face of sadness. A day when we choose joy no matter what.

Joy doesn't come easy for me. It's not my default setting. But that doesn't mean I'm not joyful. It means I have to work at joy. It means I have to choose it. 

Choosing joy looks like lifting my eyes above my circumstances. It looks like remembering what matters. It looks like smiling on purpose. Like connecting with people you love. Like focusing your eyes on what you've been given and not what's been taken away. Choosing joy sometimes looks like intentional silliness, like riding your scooter in shorts on a forty degree day, and sometimes it looks like excess, like baking and giving away twelve dozen cookies when you definitely don't have time for it--oh well. 

Choosing joy rarely makes logical sense (even as it makes all the sense in the world). Joy banks on a reality we can't see and can't ignore. Joy finds it's root in faith and hope, the knowledge that what's wrong isn't nearly as important or lasting as what's being made right.

This morning I called my parents to wish them a "Happy Christmas Eve Eve." We smiled and laughed and watched their grandkids open the best presents under the tree. Why not? Justin and I opened a football, just like the football I bought my dad every year at Christmas after my brother died because my dad bought it every year for my brother before he died (because every year we accidentally threw it down the gutter in front of our house).

Every gift opened lit a candle inside us. 

We hung up about a half hour ago and still I'm smiling. Smiling because of love, connection, hope, and obstinate delight.

Joy isn't always easy. Not even at Christmas. But it's possible if we'll choose it.