Strength, Indeed

On fruitfulness and who defines it

It’s quiet enough this morning to steep a full French press of herbs without interruption (nettle, gota kola, and lemongrass), even though the engine of my mind is already competing with the buzzing in my ears. So I find the extra large mug (“The Lord is my strength”), pour, and sink into the small armchair rocker in my bedroom.

The lesson from Tabletalk today is about the unfruitful fig tree, and I have time to ponder it while sipping tea and flipping pages in my Bible. “Am I fruitful?” I wonder. And then, “According to whom?” And then, “How will I know?”

It was easy as a child, for kindly affection was granted or withheld depending upon my appearance, interests, or performance. If my face was clear and my report card stellar, I could avoid frowns and at the same time increase my allowance. My teachers loved me, for my math columns were straight and I turned in my homework. Just tell me how to be or look, and in return for my obedience, give me affirmation.

Except that didn’t always work. Because anything contrary in what I thought, believed, and wanted would seep out like water finding any crack whatsoever. I remember once mentioning in passing it would be nice to keep a few chickens, and the response I got made it obvious it was a dirty and stupid idea. It also didn’t work if I tried to “just be myself” because the “myself” I was (and face it, continue to be in many ways) was too outspoken, stubborn, and loyal beyond where loyalty should end.

The first real crack in that pile of expectations was right before I got married. I was talking with a family member about the teaching profession, the one I was heading right into, and how I never, not once, ever wavered from that childhood dream of becoming one. And how I never, not once, considered doing anything else. And how I just marched through every grade doing everything I was Expected to do, went to university as I was Expected to do, and here I was about to embark on a career and life I was Expected to do. But I didn’t even know of the options to do otherwise—were there any?

I was firmly and promptly put into place for the foolishness of even thinking such things, for isn’t my future husband depending upon me to provide for our household so that he could attend to his own post graduate work? I had a good twenty minute inner fire, but of course acquiecsed to logic and did what I was Expected to do.

So, naturally this morning, I raised the questions. I am not a fig tree, and cannot bear anything so obvious as figs. I suppose with that reasoning I am a woman and have birthed children, but that cannot be the meaning.

I recall lying on the table getting stuck with tiny red pins by my acupuncturist. She felt my pulse and told me I am like an engine raring to go without an outlet. That’s how I feel: restless, able, willing. Yet unmoving. A mind that is full of ideas, plans, goals and dreams. Yet a body that is sluggish, pressed, and tired. So tired. Maybe from getting pressed? So difficult to know the chicken from the egg.

I sip my tea and wonder if it was the moving-starting-over-moving-starting-over see-saw I’ve been on for the last decade. I wonder if it is fear (of failure? of not pleasing people? of—as odd as it may sound—fantastically succeeding? And what would “success” even look like? And again, according to who?). I close everything up as I hear children stirring, and wonder if all this philosophical meandering has any purpose in it whatsoever except to make my head crazy, and end with praying to the Lord to not only lead me, but to give me the grace to see where my steps are supposed to be, just for today. I see the irony—asking God what I’m Expected to do—but I do so with the understanding that His affection is unearned, so I am free to ask and have peace in doing so.

I get up and rinse out my mug. As I’m picking out my clothes for the day (easy blue linen pants with a short sleeved black cotton tee), I hunger for blueberry-lime jam and fresh lemon curd. I picture time in the kitchen today, perhaps later a tea time of scones and sunshine and dirt under my nails besides. I have no Expectation for the day (a gift in and of itself), not from myself nor—at the moment anyway—from anyone else. Instead I will plant my feet into the home and people I love best, and trust God to bear the fruit He desires to see. Be my outlet, Lord, my vision, my strength indeed.