Think about the last time you had a hard day. Picture that you come home, just wanting the day to end and to go to sleep, sulking the night away. When you step through the door, your dog comes racing around the corner to see you and members of your family come to soothe you.
You may have noticed that the number of families that have regular mealtimes together is in decline. Some estimates say that in the past twenty years, the frequency of family dinners has dropped 33 percent. The Atlantic reported that “the average American eats one in every five meals in the car, one in four Americans eats at least one fast food meal every single day, and the majority of American families report eating a single meal together less than five days a week.” 1
On the corner of my cluttered desk, almost to the back, sits a wrinkled sticky note with five simple words on it. On days when I feel confident and motivated, these words offer that little extra “atta girl” and make me smile. On days when I’m feeling overwhelmed, misunderstood, or just plain not enough—which have been a lot of days lately—these words are my lifeline. They keep me cooking that dinner I don’t want to cook. They keep me loving those who are hard to love. They keep me going, honestly, anchored in the knowledge that my best is good enough. It’s good enough for Jesus. Therefore, it should be good enough for me.
In the throes of comparison, I lost sight of my ‘little’ love offering that goes a long way. Her comment went something like this: “Well…every night, they gather as a family, and everybody reads for an hour. Even the parents.” What landed on my heart was this: You’re not doing it right. If you want your kids to succeed, you should do what they’re doing. I retreated, shamed for my ‘less than’ attempts to educate our sons.
My husband and I have climbed from our pickup to watch a red combine cross a cornfield between steep Palouse hills, a swath of stubble in its wake. When he spots us, a farmer friend slows the mighty machine, climbs from the cab, and waves. We wade to him through nine-foot stalks to talk moisture readings and earthworms, crop size and his newborn baby boy. He wrenches a fat cob from a standing stalk, strips the husk, and rubs dried kernels of seed corn into his palm.