CHAPTER 10: IDEALISM:
FINDING JOY IN THE MIDST
OF IMPERFECTION

My friend speaks through an apologetic laugh: “I just can’t stop thinking that while we sit here, every minute ten thousand gallons of oil are spilling into the ocean. Killing fish, destroying reefs . . .” She tapers off into a sigh, tries to bury it in a laugh. “Sorry. We were talking about books and here I am, Debbie Downer. I just wish they’d hurry and get that pipeline plugged up.”

She changes the topic, and I go along. But I am not fooled. I see the strain in her eyes, hear the tautness in her voice, sense the sorrow streaming just beneath the surface, almost like the sludge that’s spilling into the ocean she loves. In the silence I hear the words she doesn’t say: How can I do life—drink coffee, make small talk—while this disaster continues? And I know exactly what she means.

You might be an idealist if . . .

  1. Life rarely lives up to your expectations.
  2. You often feel disappointed by circumstances, other people, or yourself.
  3. You struggle to shake one bad thing in an otherwise great day.
  4. You often feel let down by other people.
  5. You are rarely satisfied with your own work, performance, or character.
  6. You have “splinter thoughts” that won’t go away: one small, negative thought gets under your skin—irritating, distracting, tormenting—and you can’t let it go.
  7. You often begin sentences by saying, “Well, it would have been great, but . . .”

Joy and grief, oil and water—surely they can never marry. Doesn’t life have to be flawless before joy is possible? We sensitive, big-feeling types struggle with stubborn idealism, and we have already discussed the need to guard against cynicism. But it’s more than just disillusionment we wrestle with: it’s discouragement. Frustration. Stolen joy. We have difficulty accepting imperfections in life, in relationships, and in ourselves. Life stymies our expectations with its confusing, plot-twisting, gut-wrenching turns. Every day is an infuriating, intoxicating mix of heartache and hilarity and holy mess. And sensitive souls struggle to process the mix.

If you ask a big feeler how their day was, they might say something like, “Everything would have been great, but then there was this one thing . . .” We struggle to move past the One Imperfect Thing—it feels dishonest. As long as there are hard things—even one hard thing—how can we allow ourselves to be happy? If life is not all delight all day long, it’s a disappointing disaster. The same holds true for our spiritual life: if we aren’t sinless saints, we’re wretched souls condemned to hell. There’s no middle ground.

Is it possible to adjust our perspective and expectations so that we not only avoid cynicism but also find peace and happiness even when life is imperfect? And if so, how? Let’s begin by looking at the big picture with a wide lens. Whatever kind of feeler you are, we all have times when we need to adjust our expectations in order to cope with life’s complexities. First we’ll seek strategies for hanging on to joy and peace when the world is a mess, and then we’ll zoom in to talk about dealing with imperfections in our own character and relationships.

JOY IN ONE HAND, GRIEF IN THE OTHER

What is an idealist to do with this messy world we live in? Every time a bomb falls, a child gets cancer, or a tornado strikes, your joy takes a hit. Even if you try to move forward, go on with your day, it’s there—a splinter in your mind. As long as this Horrible Thing is happening out there, how can I be happy in my little life? I have no right to joy when others are suffering!

The Bible acknowledges the complex emotional dance we so often fumble through, that feeling of misalignment that comes when our desires are out of sync with reality: “Even in laughter the heart may ache, and rejoicing may end in grief” (Proverbs 14:13). How grateful I am for this honesty! I, too, have struggled to laugh in the middle of heartache, to rejoice knowing grief lurks just around the corner.

Jesus’ Example

No one knew more about the sorrows of life, the brokenness of this sin-saturated world, than Jesus, the man of sorrows. He who had walked heaven end to end, who rejoiced as God called the first star to shine and the new earth to spin, who once joined in the angels’ song—oh, he knew perfection. He had tasted perfection—he had breathed it, authored it, even taken on human form to model perfect love here on earth—but his reception by his own creation was far from perfect. Far from what he deserved. He was in the world—this world he had called forth from the void and nurtured from dust—and the world knew him not.[1]

And yet Jesus found joy even here on this fractured planet, this place where cancer kills and oil spills, where boyfriends lie and babies die. Here in this darkness, he shone light, he enjoyed light—more, he was light. He made room to celebrate and be celebrated.

Let’s drop into a scene that occurred shortly before Jesus’ death. Although at first glance this interaction has little to do with idealism, it can help us address it in a roundabout way.

Jesus’ impending suffering haunts his thoughts, an ever-present specter, but to the end his disciples, future-blind, carry on as if they have all the time in the world: eating dinner, swapping stories, arguing over which of them is the greatest.

Shortly before the Last Supper, they all go to dinner at the home of a man named Simon the Leper. A woman honors Jesus with a gift of astounding generosity. She pours a jar of perfume—worth a year’s wages for a day laborer, most likely a family heirloom—onto his head.

Some at the dinner are appalled: “What a waste!” they grumble. “This perfume could have been sold and the money donated—it could have fed a poor family for weeks.”

But Jesus’ response is extraordinary (and here I quote the NIV word for word): “Why are you bothering this woman? She has done a beautiful thing to me. The poor you will always have with you, but you will not always have me. When she poured this perfume on my body, she did it to prepare me for burial. Truly I tell you, wherever this gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.”[2]

Consider these words: The poor you will always have with you. It’s a strange line coming from Jesus, isn’t it? We half-expect Jesus to take a different path—a path that would seem more righteous. We unconsciously anticipate the scene going more like this:

The disciples object. The woman shrinks back. Jesus says, “Yes, brothers, of course you’re right. We shouldn’t waste precious resources on lavish gestures—and certainly not on ourselves.” He extends a kind but mildly reproving smile to the woman. “I so appreciate your intent, but your generosity is misdirected. I’d rather you not waste such an expensive gift on me. Give it to those who really need it.”

But here Jesus—huge-hearted Jesus, not-so-rich-himself Jesus, always-elbow-deep-in-comforting-the-needy Jesus—was essentially saying, “The world’s poverty problem isn’t going anywhere. Inequality will remain until I return and make things new. Even so, we don’t have to allow our every interaction to be darkened by it. Yes, there are poor people in the world—no one knows this better than I do—and one day I will return and set things right. But until then, we can still celebrate moments of beauty. We can—and sometimes should—give gifts beyond reason. We should love past ‘responsible.’”

In this tender scene, Jesus acknowledged the ever-present nature of suffering—not just the suffering of the poor, but his own impending agony—and then set it aside for a few precious hours. He was able to receive love and honor and an over-the-top gift with gratitude and grace.

This scene helps idealists like us because it allows us to take a step back and see the big picture—the eternal picture. It shows us that we can enjoy life even in the presence of heartache and hurt. No, we don’t turn a blind eye to pain; no, we don’t ignore it, but it doesn’t have to dominate our every meal, our every conversation, our every thought. We can make friends, give gifts, tell jokes, and savor joy, even as pain marches on.

REWRITING THE HAPPY RULES

But what about when heartache and imperfection are not a world away, not “out there,” nameless and faceless—but are right here? In our own lives, with our own people? Let’s set aside large-scale suffering for a moment to talk about disappointments in daily life, because let’s be honest: our days aren’t always polluted by Big Philosophical Questions and Pains. Sometimes we’re plagued by small things, trifling troubles—the “little foxes that ruin the vineyards” (Song of Songs 2:15).

I can’t tell you how many times my happy train has been derailed by One Bad Thing—one kind-of-stupid, shouldn’t-be-earth-shattering thing. The day may be going swimmingly, my expectations are high (way higher than they should be, of course), and bam. One snippy word, one off-kilter interaction, one awkward exchange, and down starts the spiral. It’s like a nail in the tire of my joy ride, leaking the happy out till the car sits lopsided on the side of the road. Down goes the day. And if the One Bad Thing involves my feeling like I sinned in some way—oh, heaven help us all. The guilt hangs around like an itchy tag on the back of my shirt—always there, always irritating, always just out of reach.

If you’re a sensitive type, you know what I mean. It only takes one thing to set us off. A single thing goes awry, and we struggle to let it go. The whole conversation, the whole day, the whole vacation—even our whole life, if we are having a particularly dramatic moment—is now ruined. Or if not ruined, it’s at least cast in shadow. No wonder we look at our peppy, carefree friends with envy and awe: How do they do it? How do they stay joyful in the face of imperfection?

These next words have come after years—decades, actually—of pillow pounding and prayer wrestling. I do not write them lightly, because they aren’t easy to accept, and they are even more difficult to put into practice. But here’s the truth: we must learn to be happy even when we are sad. Even when our life, our day, our relationships, and even our own hearts, are imperfect.

We all have unconscious “rules for happiness” in the back of our minds:

If we want to claim joy in the midst of this messy life, we have to rewrite our own rules for happiness, the rules by which we limit ourselves (not to mention God). If you search your heart, you may find that you unconsciously adhere to some happiness rules that sound something like this:

But what if the when you’re waiting for never comes? Will you postpone joy indefinitely? What if you rewrote your rules for happiness like this:

We have to stop waiting for perfect before we allow ourselves to be happy. If we wait for a perfect day to be happy, we may never experience another happy day in life!

Scripture gives us another alternative: to embrace a kind of joy that defies our circumstances.

Though the fig tree does not bud

and there are no grapes on the vines,

though the olive crop fails

and the fields produce no food,

though there are no sheep in the pen

and no cattle in the stalls,

yet I will rejoice in the  Lord,

I will be joyful in God my Savior.

HABAKKUK 3:17-18

THE POWER OF A DO-OVER

Remember do-overs from your playground days? Was the ball fair or foul? Nobody knows? Do-over! Somebody trips during dodgeball and gets hit while they’re down and they don’t think it was fair and now they’re crying? Do-over! Jesus says we need to become like little children—and I suspect their resilience is one admirable trait he had in mind. Why can’t grown-ups also apply the do-over principle? After years of self-torment over imperfect days, imperfect interactions, and an imperfect me, I’ve learned to embrace do-overs in my life and relationships.

If we can teach ourselves to capture the little “off” moments and deal with them—apologize as needed, rectify what we can as fast as we can—and then move forward with a clean slate, what a different life we can lead! A freed-up life. A life that doesn’t have to be perfect in order to be enjoyed.

What does this look like in the real world? Here is a classic example from my own marriage. My husband and I don’t argue very often, but when we do, it often goes something like this. (Yes, our primary topic of argument is usually calendars—I can’t decide if I am embarrassed or proud of that fact.)

***

Kevin walks into the kitchen and spies me locked in a staring contest with my computer screen. “Could we sit down and talk through our week?”

I look up, squinting. My eyes are pointed at my husband, but they’re still seeing all the adverbs I need to delete. “Huh?”

Kevin waves his calendar in the air and gestures toward the couch. He points at me, then points at himself, and mimes sitting down.

“Now?” My eyes focus, home in on his thin black calendar. I glare at it, envisioning all the boxes and lines on its pages—all the time commitments and to-dos they represent. I feel a burst of adrenaline. It’s fight or flight time—I choose flight. My brain offers up a half-dozen desperate escape routes: I have a deadline. I have emails to send. I feel the measles coming on.

Kevin nods. “Now would be great.”

I grip my ergonomic mouse tight, as if it can save me. “Why now? I have five million things—”

“Exactly! If we don’t do it now, the week will start flying and we’ll be sprinting in different directions, each doing our five million things. It’ll only take ten minutes, I promise.”

I snort. “Ten minutes? Yeah, right. You always say that, then we always end up sitting there for an hour.” I drill him with my you know I’m right stare.

“Fifteen minutes. And you can drink coffee.” Kevin flashes a wheedling sideways grin, the one little boys give their mothers to say, I’m so cute, don’t you want to let me have my way?

I shake my head, flash him a look that says, I’m on to you—you may be cute, but that smile doesn’t work on me. “I know how this goes. One minute we’re talking about this Thursday; the next you’re making me map out the entire year. I don’t want to start planning Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’s February.”

“Who said anything about Thanksgiving and Christmas? We just need to talk through this week.” He looks down and mumbles to his socks, “And maybe the next month or two. And maybe Thanksgiving for two minutes.”

“Aha!” I crow, triumphant. “You are trying to trick me. You and your evil calendars and your nefarious need to obsessively plan life three years in advance. I don’t even know what I’m making for dinner tonight. If you make me think about all the things we have to do next month, let alone next fall, my brain will explode. Actually explode. Like, brain matter all over the kitchen.” I make an exploding sound and wiggle my fingers around my head.

Now it’s Kevin’s turn to make the your-efforts-at-cuteness-are-lost-on-me face. “Elizabeth, we have to plan things. Calendars are not evil; they’re a part of life.”

“Not my life. Not if I don’t want them to be. And certainly not right now while I’m trying to write. I have adverbs to delete! Passive voice to flip around! Besides, Jesus never had a calendar.” These last words come out sharper than I intended—I meant to make a joke.

Irritation irons Kevin’s smile out flat. He starts backing away, palms up. “Fine. Forget I brought it up.”

Regret rises. Within seconds, I’m cowering beneath a towering tsunami of impending guilt. I bury my face in my hands and groan. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be mean.”

Kevin grunts, “It’s fine.” But he doesn’t sound fine; he sounds hurt.

The tsunami drags me under, rolls me around. “Ugh, no, it’s not fine. I snapped at you, and I’m sorry.”

Kevin sighs, sounding less hurt, more like himself: “It is fine. I know you hate calendars. And I shouldn’t have sneaked up on you when you were writing.”

I sniff. “Now I can’t even think about the calendar. I feel like I ruined our whole day.” In the tsunami’s wake, a dark cloud of guilt has mushroomed and parked over my head.

“How about we have a do-over? Pretend that whole conversation never happened and try it again?”

I shrug.

Kevin gives a playful smile and backs across the room, as if rewinding himself. At the doorway, he starts walking forward again. “My lovely wife, my sweet and flexible and always pleasant and organized wife, pardon the heinous interruption. I know you are engaged in a battle with adverbs, but could you please consider taking a break so we can sit down and talk through our week?”

Begrudgingly, I smile. The guilt cloud thins. Kevin gives his calendar a little shake, holding it out and waving his other hand around it like one of those game show models trying to make cheap prizes look appealing. A laugh escapes my mouth even as I roll my eyes. The cloud evaporates to misty remnants. “Yes. Give me a minute to grab a cup of coffee, and I’ll come sit with you.”

Kevin smiles. “What a wonderful person you are! Why, you are so wonderful, I’ll even warm up your coffee for you!” He mumbles the last words in a rush: “Especially if you take two minutes to look ahead to holiday plans.” He gives a hopeful, toothy grin.

I stand up and flash him a don’t-push-it look. “Do-over or no do-over, I’m still not talking about Thanksgiving. It’s February.”

“Can we at least plan Easter? Father’s Day?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Mother’s Day?”

I shake my head and sock him in the shoulder. “I’ll look ahead three weeks. That’s it. Brain matter all over the kitchen, remember.” Another exploding sound.

Kevin smiles. “I had to try.”

***

Welcome to our marriage. Kevin and I introduced do-overs to our relationship years ago, and what a life-saver—and a joy-saver—they have been! As someone who struggles to release guilt and negativity, I find that the do-over provides a fresh start when I’ve been less than who I want to be. It helps me give myself permission to let go and move forward, forgiving myself and others. It reminds me that a day is composed of twenty-four hours, and a few bad minutes don’t need to taint the rest of the day.

Do-overs may be a modern word borrowed from the playground, but they are a biblical concept. God is the original author of do-overs:

Forget the former things;

do not dwell on the past.

See, I am doing a new thing!

Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?

I am making a way in the wilderness

and streams in the wasteland. . . .

to give drink to my people, my chosen,

the people I formed for myself

that they may proclaim my praise.

ISAIAH 43:18-19, 20-21

My fellow idealist, if you struggle to release negative moments and move forward, give do-overs a try. It’s true that some things can’t be taken back—some words leave a permanent mark, and some actions result in painful consequences. But in some situations, do-overs can help us get unstuck; they can help us reframe a situation.

Try them in your walk with God. If you sin, ask him for forgiveness and a fresh start, then trust that in his kindness, he will grant your request.

Try them in your friendships. If you have an awkward moment, apologize quickly and ask your friend to let you rephrase and try again.

Try them in your dating relationship or marriage. You may not argue about calendars like my husband and I do, but if you do, do-overs may save the day while you save the dates.

Try them in your parenting. Oh, what a blessing do-overs are in dealing with children! Kevin and I use them all the time with our four kids. They allow us to offer our kids swift grace, with no time spent in the doghouse. (And do-overs go both ways: they allow our kids to offer us grace too!) They allow our family to be imperfect and messy, even as we seek to grow in righteousness.

As much as perfection on earth is mere fantasy, it will be a daily reality in heaven. (And God’s people said, “Amen!”) But until heaven, we idealists have to find ways to cope with our imperfect circumstances and our imperfect faith lived alongside imperfect people packed onto an imperfect planet. Like Jesus, we have to look past heartache to live and love in the present. Like God, we need to love even when we’ve been disappointed. At times, we may even need to rewind and redo—and let others rewind and redo. Because if we don’t get it perfect the first time—well, practice makes perfect.

FEELING YOUR WAY FORWARD

Prayer Prompt

Seventy years are given to us!

Some even live to eighty.

But even the best years are filled with pain and trouble;

soon they disappear, and we fly away. . . .

Satisfy us each morning with your unfailing love,

so we may sing for joy to the end of our lives.

Give us gladness in proportion to our former misery!

Replace the evil years with good.

Let us, your servants, see you work again;

let our children see your glory.

PSALM 90:10, 14-16, NLT

Journal Prompts

  1. Fill in the blank with some of the “happiness rules” you have made for yourself:
    • I can finally be happy when . . .
    • Life will be peaceful when . . .
    • My life will be good when . . .

    Now try reframing those sentences:

    • I can be joyful even though . . . because . . .
    • God can give me peace even while . . . because . . .
    • My life is already good in spite of . . . because . . .
  2. In what relationship or setting could you give do-overs a try? How might do-overs change things for you?
  3. Habakkuk 3:18 says, “I will rejoice in the LORD”; Paul tells us the same thing in Philippians 4:4: “Rejoice in the Lord always.” What does it mean to rejoice “in the Lord”? How can we find joy in God even when life isn’t at its most joyful—or isn’t joyful at all?