Last Sunday I was sitting in church and listening to the
speaker talk about the farm animals that she and her children raised. This
lovely woman spoke about the relationship that she and her children had
developed with their various animals and how hard it was for them to have to
give the animals away when their circumstances changed. As I listened, I
thought of a blog I follow about an amazing woman who also raises animals and
adores them, nurturing and caring for those animals the way I imagine a “true
shepherd” would.
Our family owns two betta fish. Sometimes our fish go for a
couple of days before they get fed. It is often months before I finally accept
that we really need to clean their tank. I cannot imagine raising anything more
complicated than a tomato plant, and trust me—I’m not very good at that either.
I sat in the meeting, listening to that talk, and despairing
at my utter ineptness at that “womanly virtue of nurturing.” Thinking about how
terrified I am to be having another child soon, another body who depends on me
so fully. Thinking how I’m not ready to figure out how to do even more
nurturing. I felt smaller and smaller. Here was this woman who loved not only
her two teenage sons (who each have their own difficulties) but also all these
animals too—she had so much love! She’s probably a good visiting teacher and
volunteers for the PTA and stuff too. This is a pretty common reaction for me.
I am easily overwhelmed by the caring attitudes and selfless service that other
women put in to their various responsibilities. I barely manage my immediate
family, and sometimes I don’t even do that very well.
So as I was sitting, shrinking in my seat down to almost
nothing, I suddenly felt pulled out of it by a simple thought: “So what?”
Did it really matter to my personal life that this woman was
wonderful at taking care of her animals, when I wouldn’t be? Did it mean I was
a terrible person? While the guilt-ridden, insecure portion of me said, “Yes,”
a better side said, “No.” She was doing her own life, and I was doing mine.
There was no point in comparing our different abilities and strengths.
A voice inside reminded me of the parable of the talents.
Nowhere in this parable does the master say, “Hey, you only have one talent, so
you’re not nearly as cool as my other servant who has five.” All he says is, “Do your best with what you have.” One
talent to start with, five talents, fifteen—they’re all the same in his eyes.
It doesn’t even matter where you end up; the person who had four talents in the
end received the same reward as the one who had ten. What matters is that you
increase them.
I could still sit up straight even though I had miles to go
before I could even dream of being her kind of cool. In fact, I could sit up
straight even if I would never be her
kind of cool. I could be my own person and celebrate victories like that day I
gave my kid a snack and a hug instead of yelling at her. It really would be
okay if I never, ever, ever want to raise sheep.*
This came as a great comfort to me in the area of
motherhood—since I’m pretty sure I’ve only got about half a talent at the whole
loving others thing. But hey, if I end up with three-quarters, I’d say I’m
doing pretty well.
