My humanity is insufficient for what I expect of myself. I can understand that other people have limits; it’s just that mine are negotiable. Surely, if something matters enough, I should be able to find whatever it requires somewhere deep inside me.
I mean, I like going above and beyond. It gives me a sense of pride. You might give everything your responsibilities require, but I give everything I have, and more, because I’ve broken the code on giving 110%. I just take an advance on tomorrow.
Of course, then tomorrow shows up with less to give, and I need to find another 110% somewhere. But that’s just a problem with my stamina. So I work on my stamina by only saying no when, and only when, I’m physically incapable of saying yes. Until then, I will accept no limits!
Of course, I don’t really believe that I have unlimited power, but I still feel guilty for not having it. I know I’m human, but I’ve just spent my entire life trying to prove I’m not. I’m not sure when I started thinking that having something left meant I hadn’t given enough, but I did. Logically, I know I start with a finite supply, but can’t love and determination make it infinite? Please?
The reality is that I don’t like being someone who cares deeply but can’t make everything better for everyone I care for. So I’ve put myself in charge of making sure they’re all okay, a position for which I am spectacularly unqualified, and don’t get me started on the hours.
On top of that, I keep renewing my contract because accepting my actual limitations feels like letting something terrible happen. If I stop, who will keep it all from falling apart? (Assuming, of course, that my continued effort has been keeping it all together.)
I know that sometimes I am helping. Unfortunately, sometimes I’m just wearing myself out beside a situation that remains entirely unimpressed by my efforts.
People tell me that we can be deeply involved in something without being in control of it, but emotionally, I still like to get credit for the hovering.
Besides, accepting a limit means giving up the version of myself who could have made everything all right, and I like her. She has no evidence to support her existence, but I keep expecting her to win the day if I push a little harder.
I want the unlimited capacity of God. I want the reach of someone who can meet every need that moves her, and I’m rather offended that I don’t have it.
It has occurred to me, as of late, to stop treating my humanity as something I need to correct. God knew I would run out of energy. He didn’t overlook this during production. But I keep checking the warranty to see if I can make an exchange for a model that keeps going as long as somebody needs her.
Do I really think God made a mistake?
Of course I don’t. That’s just my functional theology talking. Theologically theologically, I can tell you that I believe God holds the world together, and hasn’t overlooked anything. But I confess that I sometimes still behave as though he needs me to cover a substantial portion of the problems.
Once everything’s settled, I find it remarkably easy to trust him. Before then, trust feels suspiciously like leaving something unattended. Running out of energy on my end hardly leaves God short on resources; even so, as long as I can think of one more thing to try, I have a terrible time calling it a night.
In my head, if there’s anything left on my plate, I feel like it belongs to whoever still needs something from me. It never occurs to me that God might have meant for me to eat, too. Which is odd, considering how often I’ve asked him for my daily bread. I guess I just thought I was asking so that I could distribute it.
Part of what I get out of giving until I can’t give anymore is the comfort of knowing that if things go badly, at least I can say I did everything I could. It’s hard to give that up. I want the people I love to be okay, and if they aren’t, I want to be absolutely certain it wasn’t because I went to bed.
I can be halfway through brushing my teeth and still trying to think of something I haven’t tried. The minute I come up with something, I feel like I owe it to somebody to do it. And if I still have enough energy to do it, well, what am I saving it for? Tomorrow’s to-do list, obviously, but I’ve never found that a particularly convincing answer at bedtime.
I believe God loves the people I’m afraid to leave unattended. I really do. I believe he’s with them in places I can’t go, and I believe he’s with me when I’ve done what I can and still have to sit there wanting things to be different. That last part is where I tend to get up and see if there’s one more thing I can do.
So tonight I’m gonna do it; I’m gonna go to bed while I still have enough energy to do more. I expect this will feel like being a quitter. I’ll probably be tempted to lie there and worry, which is how I keep working after I’ve technically gone to bed. But I’m going to give 90% a try. With the last ten percent, I’m going to ask God to take care of what I can’t, and turn out the light, and turn off my brain.