Control

“Sometimes we need to plunge our minds into the ocean of God’s sovereignty. We need to feel the weight of it, like deep and heavy water pressing in against every pore, the deeper we go. A billion rivers of providence pour into this ocean. And God himself gathers up all his countless deeds — from eternity to eternity — and pours them into the currents of his infallible revelation. He speaks, and explains, and promises, and makes his awesome, sovereign providence the place we feel most reverent, most secure, most free.” – John Piper

Have I written about this cat? She deserves a separate post (with some photos). She is a gorgeous, four month-old ragdoll kitten who follows us around the house like a devoted puppy. She purrs like a maniac if we get within a foot of her, tolerates awkward petting from toddlers, lets us clip her nails, likes being held, and has fur like a rabbit’s.

But I guess I had forgotten that well, kittens are a bit of work. Not-quite but sort-of-like having another kid to take care of and train. I sometimes find myself getting mad at her for occasional poor behavior, and I feel terrible. It’s not good for the kids to observe, and it’s not always fair to the cat. Even though I’m supposed to love the cat unconditionally, secretly I’d like her to be perfect all the time.

That got me to thinking how much this desire to control others, to control outcomes, can be at the heart of my frustrations or anxieties. Desire to have a perfect cat; to control my kids being able to nap at the usual time each day, how they act and are perceived at school, how neat the house is, how many errands I can get done, and more.

Control is a huge thing here. People want to control their kids getting into colleges, their health being perfect, their work being productive. There is a sense that we should be able to optimize our lives—increase lifespans through particular diets, increase “success” by hiring college counselors, increase productivity by outsourcing tasks. I think that sense of optimization is so strong here because there is both a good amount of unspoken pressure—financially, to afford being able to live here; achievement-wise, because often achieving parents expect their kids to do the same—combined with a cultural emphasis on grassroots innovation. In an area this talent- and resource-rich, one ought to be able to figure out how to optimize conditions to achieve the right outcomes. Even our kids having unstructured play time must be something we deliberately schedule after being convinced by evidence-based research.

But in the end we can only control so much, and it seems to me the kind of fear that’s pervasive here is the fear of not being able to control outcomes, seeping out as a sort of pervasive anxiety. Someone has their kid in five activities—should I be putting mine in more? Someone is eating all-organic or no-sugar—am I losing out if I don’t do that? Someone just left a big company to join a start-up—am I getting in on the right opportunities?

Sometimes I need to refocus a bit on God’s sovereignty. Because that is the truth that shatters the illusion of control: to remember that everything belongs to God, that all occurs as he wills and nothing can occur that he does not will. That there is no global issue nor smallest detail of my day that is beyond his purview. And this is no stranger sovereign, but a God that has shown his love for me beyond any other, and has promised that all works for my eternal good. To plunge my mind into that is to be more reverent, more secure, more free. Freedom from anxiety or fear; free to enjoy the unpredictable; free to love people, and cats, for who they are.

I Miss Parking Lots and Plastic Bags

I’m starting to get used to some things here. I compost instead of using the sink disposal. I don’t look up the daily weather report. I put sunscreen on the kids every morning. I remember to bring a cardigan for evenings out. I (mostly) remember to factor in time-of-day-traffic when going places. I have had coffee at Philz and Peet’s. I buy a lot of organic (mostly because I can’t find non-organic). I automatically check the bike lane before backing out of my driveway or making a turn. I remember to ask about allergies and dietary restrictions. It’s not as strange hearing multiple foreign languages spoken most places, and Mandarin everywhere. I even wore tights outside once (closest thing to yoga pants I own).

But sometimes when I go out, I still say to myself, man. I miss parking lots and plastic bags.

Suburbs are supposed to have parking lots. Your biggest problem is supposed to be, “can I snag the spot closest to the cart returns?” or “which of these fifty open spots is closest to the entrance?” not, “which lot three blocks away has an opening?” or “how many times should I circle around hoping a street-side spot opens up?”

There needs to be a word in between a suburb and a city, because that’s what this place is. This place is like if you took a regular suburb full of old houses, set rules preventing it from turning into an actual city with high-rises, then poured in a bazillion people, and more who probably want to move in. The main streets are narrow. There’s always traffic. Our elementary school of 600 students has ten parking spots out front. Costco is constantly crowded. There are shacks that cost more than mansions, sitting next to actual mansions on renovated lots. The parking lots that do exist are small, squeezed full of one-way lanes with spots on a slant. I look along my street and feel like I could be in a normal suburb—then I look across the street at Philz with the line going out the door and people talking about start-ups at the tables outside, and the tiny parking lot in front—and think, not so much.

And I’m an evil person, but I miss plastic bags. Plastic bags seem to be outlawed here. You can get them, but you have to pay extra and everyone glares at you as you walk out. I’m constantly forgetting to bring along reusable bags. So I’m usually juggling items by hand out to the trunk, or stuffing them one at a time into the storage area under the stroller.

Apparently plastic bags are terrible. They kill all kinds of wildlife when animals ingest plastic particles; they are made using non-renewable resources like oil; they are some of the most commonly littered items and can clog up drainage systems; they are hugely difficult to recycle and end up taking forever to decompose in landfills. I should have educated myself and stopped using them anyway; instead I am being forced into it by the government, which seems to happen a lot here.

In general, I’m starting to fit in more here, but I’m aware it’s a huge bubble. As Dave said today when flying out, the rest of the country is a lot more white, obese, and poor. They’re not all skinny Asians with terminal degrees and disposable incomes. I say that without judgment on either side; only with a strange sense that my world no longer reflects the reality that is most of this country. Where people probably use plastic bags and have parking lots.

Recognizing and Preventing Burnout

Somewhere in the past few months any time I had for myself during the day evaporated. Between Eric dropping his nap (yet still remaining grumpy and clingy) and the younger two occasionally striking from naps too, that formerly-reliable midday break has disappeared to leave long eleven-hour marathons in its stead. That, combined with losing my parents’ regular help with the kids, has made it easy to burn out.

The thing about burnout is that it’s so insidious for me. One minute it all seems fine: I’m managing four kids, all the laundry and meals for six and mopping, the school runs and lunch-packing and lessons at home—the next minute I’ve lost my patience, I’m blowing up at small things, I’m feeling suffocated. Why is that?

First, I don’t think I’ve ever really learned how to prevent or recognize burnout. Our culture, and particularly Silicon Valley, emphasizes productivity, being able to “do it all.” As Emma Seppala at Stanford puts it, overextension is simply a way of life. And I’ve always personally been what others would probably term an over-achiever: my modus operandi is pretty much to sink or swim, to work harder and get it done sooner. In high school, that was taking seven AP courses while doing a varsity sport and competitive piano. In college, that was finishing my major my first two years. In medical training, that was picking the hardest surgical rotation and residency. Those things didn’t make me the healthiest person, but eventually the cramming for tests, the terrible call shifts would end—but of course childcare never does. So when I approach motherhood in that same task-oriented, all-out way, without pacing or strategies for self-care, I inevitably burn out.

Secondly, I think burnout by nature is insidious. It’s not the same as being stressed. Stress is too much—too much pressure, too many tasks—but burn out is about not enough—being all used up or dried out. Stress often leads to anxiety or hyperactivity; burnout leads to depression and detachment. We tend to recognize being stressed out, but it’s harder to recognize burnout, particularly because it’s not a threshold we step over as much as a continuum we progress along.

What are the signs of burnout? There are different definitions out there, but I think for me, it boils down to five basic things:

1. Exhaustion: chronic physical and/or emotional fatigue and lack of energy. “I’m tired all the time”

2. Lack of motivation: losing interest and feel disconnected. “I don’t care anymore”

3. Cynicism and dread: loss of enjoyment, seeing the worst and assuming the worst. “Every day is a bad day”

4. Resentment and irritability: displacement frustration on others, angry outbursts, feeling isolated. “It’s his fault; no one understands me”

5. Helplessness: feeling suffocated, like you can’t get out. “I feel trapped”

As a mom, for example, burnout usually means I’m so chronically sleep-deprived that I don’t even realize how much of how I feel is due to being tired. And it’s a bad cycle, because when I start getting burned out, the first way I tend to get more time for myself is to stay up later, but this only leads to more exhaustion and burnout the next day. I start to lose interest in doing whatever is most edifying for my kids; I just count down the hours until they go to bed. I start to dread all the chores and caregiving I have to do each day, rather than enjoying the kids. I start to think resentfully about Dave: I criticize him in my head when he doesn’t see a need at home and handle it exactly the way I would, or I’m secretly happy a kid is tantruming when he’s around because I want him to see how hard my days are. I find myself getting angry at the kids for small things. I experience moments of distinct suffocation, when I feel like I just need to get away.

How do I prevent burnout? Again, there’s probably lots of advice out there, but I think for me it boils down to these five things:

1. Permission and pacing: recognizing how important taking care of myself is, and deciding it is worth investing resources of time and money into it. Realizing prevention is only possible if I incorporate regular breaks into my life.

2. Community: connecting regularly with someone I trust; discussing and strategizing with them.

3. Hobby: recovering the me that isn’t just a mom—it might be the me that writes, or makes music, or reads, or hikes to a view. Doing those things to remember who I am.

4. Physical care: diet, exercise, sleep. Incredibly difficult without intentionality.

5. Spiritual space: not just a one-minute Bible-read, but time to worship, to listen, to dwell and be fully present with God.

Figuring out what all that practically looks like will probably differ from person to person or from season to season. I’ve been gathering some ideas lately, and processing through what mental roadblocks I have to getting help and incorporating regular breaks. But the first step is to recognize where I am on the continuum, because well, I’m in it for the long haul here. The kids’ needs will change from stage to stage, both individually and in combination, but they will always be there.

The Golden Rule

We are studying Romans in BSF this year: two weeks in, and we are reading the second half of chapter one in the bay area, a completely different experience somehow than how I’m sure it would feel if we were still in Virginia. Someone told me about a fifteen year-old boy, who was not a Christian but had enjoyed going through the study of John previously. After he listened to the lecture on Romans chapter one, he didn’t think he could come back. “I think everyone should be who they want to be,” he said.

Somehow, he put into words exactly what I feel is the golden tenant here. Everyone should be who they want to be. It’s right if it’s right for you. You should not only support, but celebrate the choices others make about their lifestyle and gender; if you don’t, you are ignorant at best, prejudiced and evil at worst. It is self-determinism enlarged into a near-religion, and it leaves me with a sense of dissonance. On one hand, I do want to love and understand those who are marginalized because of any choice they make or feeling they have; on the other hand, I think it is something else to say I cannot consider those choices wrong, to say self-deterministic and relativistic values should be raised to the level of absolutism and taught as such to my children.

What would the gospel have to say to this statement?

I think part of the statement is saying, “you can’t say there is an absolute right or wrong”—and the Bible would say, well, there is absolute truth; there is right and wrong, but it is not just born of arbitrary or personal opinion, but of God, who created us and knows what we are meant for far better than we do. Part of the statement is saying “you can’t limit someone’s freedom; you can’t impose right or wrong upon others”—but the more you love someone, the more you care what they choose. It is not freedom in determining our own moral standards that leads to being fully human; it is understanding who we are, and following those constraints, that leads to true freedom.

In the end, I don’t always follow because I understand why it is right or wrong; I do it because I love God. And the more I follow God in ways that are hard, the more I realize that he is about something bigger than just the moral surface. He is unearthing deeper things in me to work on. He is showing me in a fuller way about himself; his designs are ultimately to reveal himself and his nature to me, because to know Him is more important than anything else I am about in life.

It’s difficult figuring out how to navigate these cultural waters, but perhaps unlike other more Christian-friendly places we have lived in, it’s impossible not to engage, to consider with some gravity why I believe what I do, how completely I believe it, and how it should be lived out in my life, which in the end is a good thing.