Well Done

Well done is how I liked my steak as a teenager.  I remember my father trying to convince me that pink juice filling the plate as I pierced a bite with my fork was good.  I ran upstairs crying and vowed vegetarianism for a while.  Then settled on well done.  Now that I'm "grown up," I like medium well.  My father approves.

I went to two high school graduations last week.  Both talked of past achievement and future potential, but the second spoke of more than hope in a successful life on earth.  The ultimate goal, said the commencement speaker, is the approval of an eternal God and heavenly Father with the words:  

"Well done, my good and faithful servant." 

Last week, I had another episode with anxiety.  It was triggered by dwelling on summer:  the stress of caring for three boys mostly on my own.  Cleaning house and packing for a two-week trip and this entirely on my own.  Granted, I put additional pressure on myself with unreasonable expectations.  I guess I was hoping for

       "Incredibly, nearly inconceivably, done, my capable and self-reliant servant."

I went through the motions of the next few days--striving above all for peace.  I made it through my prior engagements. Then my husband kept the two younger boys at his mother's while D and I headed home to hang out with my dad for a couple of days while my mother was away.  

The time alone with Daddy and D was the most therapeutic quality time I've had recently.  We went fishing Friday afternoon--just for a few hours. (Time with my daddy:  one thousand gifts #123) But it was all I needed to find inner calm, to feel the anxiety subside.  The waves of anguish settle.  As we drove down the rutted road in the woods, crickets whizzing and whirring, truck bouncing over washed-out, red clay tracks worn through the high grass, my face relaxed, my mind retreated to my childhood when such trips meant camp-outs, bonfires, fish fests, exploring woods, dock fishing and boat rides.  

Out on the water, we used the trolling motor so there was little wave--our tracks erased just feet after the boat cut its path in the smooth surface of the muddy pond more shallow than in my memory.  The trick of youth--when an hour seems an afternoon and a few feet, a towering giant.  The trees lining the shore's circumference were verdant; their vibrant and variant hues created a covering that promised seclusion.  Towering hardwoods and rocket-shaped firs with brush over-hanging here and there blocked out the rest of the world so that we were all there was for a time:  my dad, my eldest son, and me.

Dad rigged the breambuster and baited its hook and I cast.  Striving for a spot close to shore, but not too close to get weeds on my line; close to the stump, but not close enough to entangle in the underwater branches; far enough ahead so that we could continue trolling without having to wrench my body around to hold the pole.  And there it was:  "Great job, Ginny."  "That's a perfect one!"  "You've hit just the right spot."  "That's it! That's where you had the bite last time."  With each cast, I heard words that soaked my heart with pure praise, filled my soul with uncomplicated love, and strengthened my self-worth with simple respect.  I was a child again just wanting to please Daddy and basking in the warmth of his care and friendship.

I only caught one fish and it was the smallest bream I have ever seen--seriously the fat, pink worm at the edge of its mouth was longer than the fish.  But the joy--from the catch with my son laughing at me and my father laughing with me--and my father's encouragement as I cast again and again to what really amounted to just feeding the fish erased all the hurt, disappointment, overwhelming pressure, and defeating self-talk that caused my downward spiral.  I had felt paralyzed just a few days earlier as time moved on--without me.

But now I was in time, a time expanded, a time where I asked my dad for the old stories of his childhood as we left the woods and headed home.  I heard about the blue school bus that was the rolling store in my dad's youth:  taking bulk goods like flour and sugar to the folks who lived outside of town who couldn't make it to my grandfather's general store.  I heard about the chicken coop attached under the bus for the people who could only afford to barter a chicken for corn meal or the occasional candy.  "Was there an icebox?" I asked, imagining a big block of ice to keep items cool until delivery.  No, nobody refrigerated back then, was his reply.  And again time expanded:  I could see my dad, a young boy eager to tag-along for a day's delivery from morning until sundown, selling and trading to home after home and farm after farm.

I know, as a Christian, my ultimate goal is to hear "Well done, my good and faithful servant."  But for now, as a forty-year-old mother of three boys who can't seem to shake the stress, all I needed to hear were Dad's words: "That's it, Ginny" and  "Great job!" and "Perfect, just perfect!"