I sing because I'm happy... I sing because I'm free...

I used to think I knew what it meant to be Christian.  Being a Christian meant doing all of the right things.  In high school, it meant obeying my parents, not lying, and not partying.  In college, it meant pouring myself into my studies and into serving in the Catholic college outreach program in which I was heavily involved, and now as a wife and mother it means oh so many things!  It means praying every day.  It means going to daily Mass unless I have a good excuse (which is like everyday...).  It means keeping the house clean all of the time.  It means never having too many dishes undone.  It means a perfect meal and clean kitchen when my husband walks in the door.  It means packing my husband's lunch every day.  It means being loving all of the time.  What else does it mean?  What else do I have to do to make myself feel good?  And when I don't do all of these things (I don't.  Only like half of them), then aren't I not as good of a woman as Sally Joe down the street?  Can I really think that I had a successful day if my husband came home to a messy house?  So my heart is heavily burdened so often because to me, being a Christan means being perfect.  And I'm not.

Knowledge of the mind and knowledge of the heart are so different.  I know that I am God's daughter.  I know that my husband is more disturbed by my unhappiness and insecurity than by the inconvenience of stepping over toys to get to the kitchen.  I know that my worth does not depend on what I have accomplished, but somehow, my heart misses these important truths and I continue to dig myself into holes of despair that take begging Clayton for more reassurance, hours of alone time, and eating ice-cream to get myself out of.  That is not what Christianity is supposed to be, and that is not God's call for my life.  Absolutely not.

Throughout my two and a half years of marriage, it seems as though God is chipping away at the blinding pride that held me up for so long, as long as I was doing the right thing.  Now as a wife and mother, that pride continues to shrivel. Domesticity does not come naturally to me, and I sometimes want to scream at God for putting me in a position to fail.  When I, as a philosophy and English major, am good at other things, like contemplating the meaning of the universe or writing about what Steinbeck was saying in The Grapes of Wrath, I wonder why can't I just do that?  (I am not saying I'd rather do that than take care of my family!  I am only saying it would make me feel good about myself!).  God has brought me low, and it seems like I am understanding, finally, at least beginning to understand, what it really means to be a Christian.  The head knowledge of salvation is working its way more deeply into my heart. 

I don't think that being a Christian means doing all of the right things.  I think we do the right things because we are Christian.  Being a Christian means freedom.  I have recently had Audrey Assad's words "I sing because I'm happy.  I sing because I'm free" in my head and on my tongue  often throughout the day.  I sing because I'm happy.  I sing because I'm free.  Christ has set us free.  Our worth and our happiness do not come from having it together.  Of course we need to do our best with the vocation He has called us to, but that's it.  God has me here, in this day, in this hour, with all of the tasks and habits I have done well and all that I need to grow in.  His mercy is here.  His freedom is now.  All I have to do is get up off this comfy chair, sing, rejoice, and fold the laundry, and vacuum, and take care of the baby, and get lunch ready, and then do the dishes, and... rejoice!