My Story

IT WAS DARK AND we were in the car outside of an ice cream shop. Tears were fresh on my cheeks. My sister-in-law, Renee, and I had set out to pick up some milk, but more was to come out of that trip than picking up a few gallons of dairy products.

I was crying because my heart hurt deeply; the feelings of not being a good enough wife were eating me up, and I didn’t know what to do. I told my sister-in-law that I thought my husband, Jesse, would rather be married to someone else, someone better, who was good at cleaning. “I have this friend,” I said through my tears, “who gets up early, is efficient, and is so good at cleaning and getting things done. I’m sure Jesse wishes I was like her. I’m such a failure.”

As Renee began to speak life-giving truth to me, my mind raced, trying to rewind the events that had brought me to this point of brokenness and disappointment in myself.

An Inclination toward Messy . . . Plus Babies and Aprons

Nearly all of my childhood, after my parents divorced, I lived with my dad and stepmom. My stepmom cleaned everything except my room; I never even washed a dish. In fact, I didn’t do my own laundry until I was fourteen and living with my mom.

Under my dad’s roof, I was expected to keep my room fairly clean. If I let it get too messy, I would find a note from him on my bed saying something like, “YOU MAY NOT GO TO YOUNG LIFE OR DO ANYTHING UNTIL THIS ROOM IS CLEAN. Love, Dad.” He rarely came down hard on me, but he did want me to take care of my room. When I moved in with my mom, it was a whole new ball game. I could keep my room in whatever state I liked; my mom didn’t care about it at all. I had freedom! I don’t think I was terribly messy, but I didn’t put much stock in tidy surroundings.

Once I got to college, my true colors really came out. I roomed with a gal who was extremely neat, and it became clear immediately that I wasn’t. I remember her actually taking tape and creating a line midway across the top of the vanity between her side and mine so my mess wouldn’t creep over to her organized side. She was mostly gracious, but I’m pretty sure I drove her crazy.

The next place I lived, I had another roommate who kept things spotless, and again, I had to work hard to do my part. Finally, my junior year, I moved in with a gal who was just like me, if not worse. Our one-bedroom apartment always looked like a bomb had gone off in it.

One morning while we were still in our beds, we heard the front door to our apartment open. We looked at each other, and then my roomie threw the covers over her head thinking that it would be a cue for the unexpected visitor to go away. I started to get my defensive hackles up when all of a sudden we heard, “Ahhh . . . ohhh . . . uhhh . . . groan.” What in the world?

I opened our bedroom door to find our landlady bleeding on the bathroom floor, in a pile of our mess. She had tripped over our clutter in the hallway, veered off, and hit her head on the bathroom sink. Talk about embarrassing! She was there for some sort of routine maintenance check, which apparently we had been advised of in a mailed notice that was most certainly in the papers strewn all over the floor. If I had known of the upcoming visit by actually reading the paper, I would have cleaned up a bit. Really.

Of course, the upside for my roomie and me was the assurance that if someone did decide to break into the apartment, the intruder would probably end up in a bloody heap before doing any harm.

Fast-forward to my first year of marriage. Jesse and I lived in the small apartment that my messy roomie and I had shared—she had moved out and I stayed. I tried to keep it nice for my husband. My biggest issue was papers and junk that all ended up on the dining room table. And I always had a messy kitchen. But still, in my opinion, it wasn’t too terrible. My husband and I were stretching into our new lives together, learning about each other, and just enjoying the freedom that marriage brings. It wasn’t until I got pregnant that things got ugly really fast.

Along with the surprising and exciting news that I was pregnant, I also got incredibly sick. I threw up from morning to night, had terrible headaches from not getting enough food, and one evening ended up becoming so dehydrated that I was taken to the hospital and hooked up to an IV. I couldn’t go to work, and I was in bed most of the day hitting myself in the head with the palms of my hands (like that helped), wishing for a narcotic to knock me out for three months. No such narcotic arrived. When I would feel hungry or get a craving, I had just enough strength to half-crawl to the kitchen, eat a few bites, throw up, and go back to bed.

Jesse was a senior in college at the time, and when he would come home from class, the apartment was littered with bowls and cups that I had brought out but not put back in the kitchen. The place was a wreck, and I’m sure the smell wasn’t too pleasant. My husband was carrying a full course load plus an internship with a police department so he not only had to study for his classes, but many times he was pulling overnight third-shift hours required for the internship. He was exhausted and overloaded, and I was exhausted and sick.

He resented me for not taking the dishes to the kitchen, and I resented him for not understanding how terrible I felt with my pregnancy. Just the thought of moving made me queasy. He thought I was exaggerating, and I thought he was not supportive. Our marriage went through a really rough time during the initial months of my first pregnancy.

Unfortunately, my next two pregnancies weren’t any better. I was nauseous all the time, the house was a wreck, and the bitterness between us was becoming worse. It was awful.

I would try to establish a routine, but of course as soon as I did, I would have another baby, or one of my children would go through a change (teething, crawling, etc.) that wrecked my routine. Or I was just exhausted from getting up at night, nursing, and caring for three little ones. I struggled with motivation, fatigue, laziness, lack of self-discipline, and constant feelings of failure and guilt. I sincerely wanted to be a good wife and homemaker, but I felt that I was failing miserably.

So I tried harder.

I read everything on cleaning and being a good wife and mother. I perused the Internet for tips and tricks, and read all about biblical womanhood. Oh yes, I would be that woman, that biblical, godly woman who cared for her home, her husband, and her children no matter what; all my energies would go toward the goal of making my home a haven. I even invested in pretty aprons.

But then I ended up in the car outside the ice cream shop.

What Went Wrong?

My heart was in the right place, and I had good ideals. I wanted to care for my home and my family, but those ideals weren’t translating into my everyday life. I knew I needed God to intervene.

But there was pain before there was peace.

That night in the car, I just felt weighed down. I had convinced myself I couldn’t change, so why bother? I bared my soul to my sister-in-law: “Jesse would be happier with someone other than me. My kids deserve a better mother, one who can at least keep the house clean.” I began to feel that my worth as a person was reflected in windows that sparkled and floors that glistened.

“Has Jesse ever said that he wants a different wife?” my sister-in-law asked.

“Well, no,” I admitted.

She looked me right in the eyes and said, “No one has the authority to tell you who you are. Not your husband, not anyone. Only God has the authority to tell you who you are.”

And just like a hammer crashing into a glass window, she shattered the lie that my worth was determined by my cleaning abilities.

It slowly sank in. I don’t define who I am, cleaning doesn’t define who I am, my husband doesn’t define who I am, certain ideas of biblical womanhood don’t define who I am [although I didn’t realize that last one until later]; only God can tell me who I am. I wasn’t exactly sure who that was yet (that’s been a process), but I knew that I would no longer equate my identity with cleaning.

I would be free from that burden.

It took a while to break clean of the habit of defining myself that way. From time to time, I still reverted to feelings of worthlessness, but God put a stop to that in October 2010.

I don’t know how or why or what the circumstance was, but somehow this revelation went straight to my heart from the Holy Spirit.

I am clay, and clay cannot mold itself.

No matter how much I try or strive or work hard at becoming better or good enough, I can’t do it. Only He can work with this clay woman. So I throw my hands up and submit, trusting His work in my life.

No More Striving

O LORD, You are our Father,

We are the clay, and You our potter;

And all of us are the work of Your hand.

ISAIAH 64:8

As the verse says, we all are clay.

It’s humbling to realize that there are some issues in our lives we can’t change on our own, the ones that we can’t seem to overcome no matter how hard we try; we must consciously be willing to let the Holy Spirit step in. But it’s important to recognize that how we live every day—the choices we make—should be done with discernment, listening to the Father through His Word and the Holy Spirit. It’s how we grow up and mature. And who does the maturing? Who sanctifies us, matures us to be more like Jesus?

I will not presume to speak of anything except what Christ has accomplished through me.   ROMANS 15:18

Christ also loved the church and gave Himself up for her, so that He might sanctify her, having cleansed her by the washing of water with the word, that He might present to Himself the church in all her glory, having no spot or wrinkle or any such thing; but that she would be holy and blameless.   EPHESIANS 5:25-27

Now may the God of peace Himself sanctify you entirely.   1 THESSALONIANS 5:23

We should always give thanks to God for you . . . because God has chosen you from the beginning for salvation through sanctification by the Spirit and faith in the truth.   2 THESSALONIANS 2:13

To those who . . . are chosen according to the foreknowledge of God the Father, by the sanctifying work of the Spirit.   1 PETER 1:1-2

Christ’s death on the cross and His resurrection began our sanctification, and it is the Holy Spirit in us who continues the work that works out our salvation! It is the treasure that was given to us when we believed. He does the work; He matures us. What a freeing revelation that we can’t do it, but that the Holy Spirit can, in His power and strength.

Christ did the work on the cross. The Holy Spirit continues the work in our lives. Our job? To surrender to Him and walk faithfully one day at a time.

Surrendering in Real Life

How does this surrender and belief that the Holy Spirit is doing the work in me play out in everyday life? What does it look like practically?

For me, it’s like this:

I live.

I get up, I work, I enjoy, I trust. I still live on this earth and I am able to walk through this life with great freedom. I am in God’s will right now, in this moment, and so I’m no longer worried about every step I take. I am doing what the Bible calls “walking by faith.”

We walk by faith, not by sight.

2 CORINTHIANS 5:7

I watch for evidence of God around me, and I listen to Him through His Word. I go forward with my days, knowing that He will direct my steps. I can’t really go wrong if I’m walking by faith, and if I do, I know He will use it for His good plan.

The biggest part of living out of faith and belief in the work of the Spirit is that I do not focus on my ability or inability to do this or that. I do what I can as I can.

I wash my sheets. I do the dishes. When I don’t do the laundry or the dishes, I don’t allow the lie I’m no good to interfere. Instead, I remember that I am human. Which means I’m going to mess up and fail, but I’m not a failure. I’m literally a work in progress. And I accept that.

I accept that some days I will get lazy and make big mistakes and fall. But I will go to the throne of grace and receive the truth that I am still a new creation in Christ. I am new because of Christ, not by anything I can do or did do. I am because He is.

So I walk, I fall; I walk, I fall; and all along I am available for Him to mold.

I believe in His work on my good days and my worst days.

So whether the dishes or laundry get done or not, I am secure in the fact that I am who God says I am.

I want to work hard and take care of my family and my home, and I’m doing so every day, knowing I am free and I am loved.

As you read this book, I want you to take whatever fears, failures, insecurities, and any other issues that are balled up like a fist inside you, and place them in your hand. Now open your hand and release them to God, letting Him take them and show you a new way.

You are so loved. I can’t wait for you to see how He shows you that over and over during the next few weeks.