I messed up the strawberry pretzel salad. Nobody asked for it, but since it’s my favorite holiday dish and I haven’t had it yet, I decided to make it. The red jello wasn’t congealed enough and oozed into the crust like lava.
I’d spent an hour and a half on it—all the while getting the toddler out of the cabinets, off the kitchen table, and to stop sending emails filled with gibberish from my husband’s open computer. I hadn’t started on the two dishes I was supposed to bring, and I’d already failed (my phobia) in the kitchen in my attempt to be extra.
I let the sun go down on my disappointment and woke the next day to make the final two. A good night’s sleep didn’t help because the fear of failure never left me. It’s there each time I glance at the recipe to make sure I’m doing it right. It’s there with each stirring motion and delicate placing. It’s there with each distraction—every time my dear children say “Mommy.”
Then I remembered: my oldest child can help! She got a set of kid-safe knives from her grandparents for Christmas, and she can chop things for me. How wonderful! Then I can assemble. I might as well have pictured us working and whistling like Snow White’s seven dwarfs.
Instead, we were making mistakes like Jo March. The bacon burned, and the baby, pushing my assistant chef, kept eating what had been cut. How was I going to get this done? Not only did I have these two dishes to finish, but I still had the typical daily tasks to do. I looked at the overflowing sink, the four kids standing on the two chairs fighting for a spot, and the cheese and green onions sprinkled on the floor. I wanted to scream, but to scream at the kids about the mess would be sinful—a grown-up version of throwing a fit.
There’s something about a mess that disturbs me more than anything. My body tenses if it sees the couch pillows disarranged. That’s why I straighten them twenty times a day. External untidiness tells me I’ve failed, and as a result, internally becomes a shambles.
I have failed too often by letting the lack of control over the tidiness of my house cause me to lose control of my tongue. I decided on this day, I would choose not to sin. My desire for godliness must exceed my desire for orderliness. My desire to live for God must exceed my desire to live for myself.
I left the kids in the disarray of the kitchen and locked myself in the bathroom. I prayed: “God, help me. I don’t want to sin. I don’t want to be ruled by my feelings. Help me to stay calm and to trust that you will help me.”
I thought about what the bigger failure was: failing to have a clean house or failing to fight sin?
If I fear failure so much, shouldn’t I fear sinning? To sin is “missing the mark.” It is, by definition, failing. Shouldn’t I strive to not fail at holy living more than I strive to not fail at anything else?
When I came out of the bathroom, the children continued grating cheese. I know I will fail and sin many times in this life, but in this moment, I didn’t. I whispered words of praise in my heart, for God helped me succeed when I worried I might sin. I whispered them over and over while one dish was being washed at a time until all were done and put away.