Dear one, if you are stuck in the doldrums—and may I say that I love you and you are not alone—let me offer up some of the labors that pulled me through, one teeny moment at a time.
First, I made a list of everything I was behind on. Unfinished tasks are a cloud of doom over my head. The emotional energy they steal from me is unbearable. So I wrote them down to get a handle on them rather than leave them floating around unnamed, unmanaged, unidentified. It was ironic, because each line item could be accomplished in minutes at best, a day at worst: mail these things, return this, make those appointments, answer these e-mails (deliver me, Lord), scan over that contract, send in money for that school thing (this times a zillion, free public school my eye), pick up that stuff, return that phone call, finish writing that article. Overdue responsibilities contribute heavily to my shame spiral, and writing them down and slowly crossing them off was an instant boon, literally. Unbelievable the weight that rolls off when the Behind Pile starts to shrink.
Second, the house. For the love of Oprah, the house. I am one of those annoying people who requires tidiness and declutterfication. Oh, to peacefully live in chaos among the piles instead of, hypothetically, barking at the humans who live with me and begrudging everyone for being such slobs. But nope. That is not my lot in life. A cluttered, disorganized house has a direct correlation to my cluttered, disorganized mind.
So, brace yourselves, we launched another chore chart. (I know. Matter of time. I am drawn to systems but struggle to maintain them.) But this one was simple and repetitive: Everyone had one chore a day, and it was the same every week. This was not for pay, because the reward was getting to live in my house for free. The kids had done these tasks before but with no regularity and primarily after I turned into a lunatic. Now we had formalized it somewhat, and the house-maintaining was more consistent. Not allowing our abode to slip into entropy was mentally healing. The chart may be imperfect, but even loose structure restores order to my inner turmoil. Simply creating a plan provides some dignity, which is a powerful combatant to the doldrums.
Third, parenting. Obviously my five kids are perfect and make straight As and speak loving words to each other constantly, but clearly their classmates had poorly influenced them, because they turned into maniacs. This surely had nothing to do with their mother’s two-month doldrum disorder, because children are never the thermometer simply displaying the temperature of their parents. I’m sure their digression was just a coincidence.
So anyway, this thing happened where the kids were horrible and fighting and I went to my room to cry about these terrible children God stuck me with, and He immediately brought to mind six—six—lovely moments my kids had engineered that very day and I heard, “You are only noticing the bad moments and ignoring the good ones.”
God never coddles me when I want Him to. It’s infuriating.
So we started the Brag Board. (It’s just a chalkboard, but can we give a quick shout-out to the Chalkboard Paint People for completely rebranding and becoming the darling of Pinterest? I mean, there were chalkboards on Little House on the Prairie. They aren’t new is all I’m saying.) Anytime we catch someone being kind, helpful, gracious, or awesome, we write it down, big or small. It has to be about someone else, because my offspring would write: It was so incredible how I unloaded the dishwasher.
Funny thing: I’m not positive they’ve had more shining moments lately than before, but I’m sure noticing them now. Evidently we will see exactly what we’re looking for. Does this mean I’ve had to follow a kid or two around, searching for one tiny good thing to say? Yep. But catching children in their goodness totally beats reprimanding them only in their struggles, and the Brag Board pulled the whole family up a few degrees.
Finally, I made a list of all the practices that make me feel healthy. Not surprisingly, I noticed most were absent in my doldrums: cooking, reading good books, limiting screen time, eating well, date nights, taking walks, scheduling time with a counselor, being outside, praying, changing out of my pajamas (this is a thing for work-at-homes), spending time with my friends. All ordinary, nothing new or dramatic. These are mainly bits and pieces that fit in the gaps of life. I simply committed some time back to my staples, maybe just one a day.
None of these were executed immediately. Over a few weeks, I slowly implemented healthier practices, one at a time. It was not revolutionary to sit down with Alan Bradley’s latest novel (“Whenever I’m a little blue I think about cyanide, which so perfectly reflects my mood.”—Flavia), nor was the world righted after the first entry on the Brag Board. The chore chart didn’t solve the crisis, and neither did catching up on e-mails.
But all together, over weeks, just doing the work, bit by bit, digging deep for diligence and grace and best practices, the doldrums receded. These measures make us healthy and whole, because we stop succumbing to disorder and shame. It’s not fancy or quick work, unfortunately, but it is effective.
If you feel stuck today, can I suggest approaching the doldrums in a reasonable way, one tiny element at a time? Alone, none are monumental, but together they lay small paver stones out of the mire, forging a path back to health, back to vibrancy. It will be imperfect with incremental steps forward and back, but God can use your brave movement to soothe the shame of stagnation and restore peace to the chaos.
How about an easy little recipe to get you started? I am not even kidding when I say that making a delicious dish with your hands and enjoying it with your mouth is really something. It is a small rung to higher ground. Do not say to yourself, This is one more thing I can’t pull off, but rather, This is one easy thing I can accomplish in fifteen minutes. This is guaranteed to improve your spirits, if only in the consumption.
A few months ago, we were invited to Willie and Korie Robertson’s house for a long weekend (Korie and I traveled to Ethiopia together to raise money for vulnerable families through Help One Now, and we bonded during our daily traumatic van marathons—see chapter 3). Korie’s aunt hosts enormous Sunday lunches after church, and we finagled an invite. There I was, putting a bunch of southern food on my plate, and oh fine, I guess I’ll throw this salad on here to be nice.
Jen eats bite of salad
*Jen’s life is changed*
JEN: Um, who made this salad? What is this salad?
KORIE: Oh, that’s Aunt Carol’s Crunchy Salad. We make her bring it to every meal.
JEN: Which one is Aunt Carol?
(Conversation gets sidetracked)
JEN: Uh-huh. Yeah. Anyway, who is Aunt Carol?
(Some random pointing in the other room)
JEN: Which one?
(Some vague describing)
(Conversation moves on)
(Jen gets up and goes into the other room)