When John and I followed our dream of planting a church, and moved to New Mexico without a job, or an address, it didn't occur to me that things would not go well. It did occur to John, thankfully, and he articulated to himself what success would look like, and by default, failure. 

 

We lived those three years hovering below the poverty line, though that did not derail our sense of purpose. Our kids played with cardboard boxes, and John stacked books in lieu of a chair for his desk. After we had not met the criteria he spelled out, he asked the bishop for his job back. 

 

I am more likely to keep doing things that don't work, which came in handy when I had five children whose capacity to trash the living room out stripped my ability to tidy up. Or slogged on the conveyor belt of providing meals for children who may or may not like peanut butter today. 

 

Knowing what success looks like can help turn the tide. I have heard people who have faced enormous losses, respond with gratitude. 

 

"We are together. Our family is safe. We can rebuild." 

 

Being Benjamin's mother has invited me to a clearer sense of what comprises a meaningful life. The metrics meander from what society may put forth, and for a while that distracted me. 

 

The other day someone stopped in, and I was chagrined by the state of the living room. They did not seem to notice, but there really was no place to sit on the couch, with the current quilt smiling at me and the spread of songbooks from my efforts to choose songs for Sunday. Yet after they left, I realized that having a perfect living room was never my objective. Making music and quilts it. 

 

When loved ones are weighed down with the dismantling of their hopes, I can fall into despair. Yet my promise to them, and to God, is that I will continue to give love and support. 

 

Which brings the potential for success back into my lap, rather than washes it away.