While I was busy scrutinizing my writing abilities and considering alternative careers, I failed to see the beauty before me. I failed to delight in the way I had come up with creative nicknames for each preschooler based on their personality. I failed to recall how my heart had soared when I figured out the perfect final sentence to conclude the story. I failed to rejoice in the lives touched — those who wrote, “I needed these words today.” I failed to see that I was doing a job I loved — an occupation I’d dreamed of having since I was eight years old. All these beautiful details were mine for the taking, and I couldn’t see them. I was fixated on the fact that I had failed to please everyone. I was too busy trying to control something I had no control over.
As those unsubscribe notifications glared at me from my computer in-box, a solution became immediately apparent. Being notified when a reader unsubscribed from my blog was not automatic; this was an optional setting. With newfound clarity, I decided I would no longer voluntarily subject myself to feelings of rejection and failure.
I logged into my subscription service and triumphantly unchecked the box that read, “Send me an email when people unsubscribe.” Originally I thought this information would help me become a better writer, but there are much healthier ways to improve one’s craft. The fact is, I will never know why someone decides he or she no longer wants to receive my posts. It may have something to do with what I wrote, and it may not. But even more importantly, it doesn’t matter. I must continue to write because this is what makes my soul come alive. I must write because I believe this is my life’s purpose. And knowing someone does not want to read my writing (for whatever reason) only causes me to second-guess my abilities and hinders me from living the life I am meant to live.
A few days after I unclicked the box on my subscription service, Avery and I were going through the morning lens-cleaning ritual. As usual, she was staring at her glasses in eager anticipation of their arrival to her face. I took a deep breath, knowing it was time — the lesson of the little glasses was about to impact me like the sight of a rainbow after a long, hard rain. Now I was ready.
“Why do you smile so big every time you put on your glasses?” I asked, my voice heavy with hope.
There was no hesitation from my curly-haired, freckle-faced love. “Because I can see. I can see all the beautiful things.”
Yes! Oh, my sweet child, yes! It is really that simple, isn’t it? There are so many beautiful things to see, but when we spend too much time fixating on what other people want us to see, we miss them all.
The lesson of the little glasses is a powerful one, but we must be ready — ready to surrender the desire to please everyone . . . ready to surrender the hope of being liked and accepted by everyone . . . ready to surrender the fear of making mistakes. We must be ready to release our words, our choices, our dreams into the atmosphere knowing we cannot control other people’s reaction to them.
Now that I’ve surrendered, I feel different. I am holding my shoulders and head higher. My voice embodies a new confidence. And I’m smiling — smiling like a little girl when she puts on her pink spectacles — because I am no longer waiting for someone to tell me what is beautiful, what is good, and what is of value.
Now I can see for myself.
HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION
Today I will stop looking at images and newsfeeds that take my focus off what really matters. Today I will distance myself from people who cause me to question what I know is right for me. Today I will discard or destroy items that open wounds from a dream never realized or a past hurt. Today I will offer myself a clear, unfiltered view of the beautiful life I am meant to live.
HANDS FREE LIFE HABIT BUILDER 2
Surrender Control by Opening Clenched Fists
Before, I was living life with critical hands,
Always demanding perfection.
Gotta be just right . . . be just right.
Before, I was living life with tireless hands,
Always trying to please.
Gotta make everyone happy . . . make everyone happy.
Before, I was living life with fretting hands,
Always asking, “What if?”
Gotta go according to plan . . . according to plan.
Before, I was living life with full hands,
Always taking control.
Gotta do it myself . . . do it myself.
But as I struggled to catch my breath day after day, I realized I was not living life, I was managing life. Because living life with a death grip is not living at all.
Deep in my soul, I yearned to grasp what really mattered,
And I knew I couldn’t do it with clenched fists.
So I opened them with the word surrender.
When anxiety, fear, and controlling thoughts came into my head,
I physically opened my hands and whispered these words:
I surrender the pressure. I am doing the best I can.
I surrender my fear. There is a hedge of protection around my family.
I surrender my hate talk. My body can do remarkable things.
I surrender my insecurities. What others think of me is not my business.
I surrender my timetable. God’s timing is perfect.
I surrender my blank page. Words will come when they are ready.
I surrender my uncertainty. A resolution will come without my interference.
With each surrender, I got a taste of true freedom.
With each surrender, I felt life coming back to my bones.
With each surrender, I saw positives in people and situations that I could not see before.
At last, with unclenched fists, love and life found their way back into my mind, heart, body, spirit, and soul.
Take a moment to think about the situations, fears, or events that cause you to feel controlling. Think of a phrase you can say to yourself when controlling thoughts threaten to take away opportunities to live freely and love fully. You might just discover that by surrendering your best-laid plans, an even greater plan has a chance to evolve — one that allows room for connection, laughter, love, growth, and grace.
Habit 3:
BUILD A FOUNDATION
Imagine you felt accepted and supported just as you are, appreciated for everything you do, celebrated and observed in each new accomplishment and allowed time to explore, try, experiment and experience life without judgment or fear of failure. How would it feel to build a lifetime from this strong foundation?
Linda Hinrichs
GROWING UP, I ASSOCIATED the word tornado with the twister in The Wizard of Oz. Only a handful of times did my parents wake me up to seek shelter during a storm. Since nothing ever transpired during any of those severe weather events, the word tornado remained elusive throughout much of my life. I didn’t fully understand what a tornado could do until I lived in Alabama for six years.
The morning after an F2 tornado came frighteningly close to our home, my daughters and I wandered the neighborhood to check on friends and assess the damage. Uprooted trees, gaping holes in roofs, and entire chimneys sitting on manicured lawns shook us to the core. We would soon learn that this damage was minimal compared to what neighboring counties would experience a few hours later. That evening, a mile-wide tornado descended on homes, farms, and businesses, picking them up and spitting them out with no regard for life and loss.
Once emergency vehicles cleared the roadways in Tuscaloosa, the pastor of our church asked Scott if he would be trained as a leader of an UMCOR Early Response Team. Having a personal connection to some of the impacted families through his job, Scott eagerly accepted. His team would be assisting tornado survivors in removing trees and debris at the location of their home, or in some cases, where their home used to be.
The first day Scott went into the field seemed to drag on forever. Although the girls and I spent the day collecting supplies for those in need of food, water, clothing, and hygiene items, my mind was focused so
lely on Scott. I had a deep yearning to see and hear what my husband was seeing and hearing.
When Scott finally came home, his pace was slow and stiff. His clothes were covered in a layer of dust and grime. His shoulders sagged from exhaustion and devastation. I expected these things. What I didn’t expect was the look in his eyes. The man standing before me was not the same man who had walked out of our house that morning.
“Tell me everything,” I pleaded, knowing that I needed to learn from Scott’s experience as much as he needed to process what he had seen. My husband didn’t take off his steel-toe boots or remove the sweat-soaked hat from his head. He simply collapsed onto the worn seat cushion of our kitchen chair. I slid in next to him, my hands folded and fidgety in great anticipation of his words.
“I met Mr. Frank today,” Scott began so ordinarily. “Frank and his wife, Betty, live on a meandering country road that once held five long-standing homes. The homes are now gone. My team was there to sift through the wreckage to find valuable family mementos. We weren’t there five minutes when Frank pulled me aside and said he had everything that mattered.”
“So his family was all safe?” I asked, trying to interpret what Scott meant.
“Well, that’s the thing. Betty and Frank’s beloved dog, Shelby, had been carried away by the tornado. Frank said he kept getting down on his knees, praying for his dog’s return. He knew Shelby might not be alive, but he just wanted to have her back, no matter what condition.” Scott removed his hat. With one hand, he squeezed the rim back and forth in rhythmic succession. “A few hours after praying about Shelby’s whereabouts, Frank spotted a little black dot on top of the hill where his neighbor’s house used to be. It was Shelby. Seeing the state she was in, Frank surmised the tornado had carried her for several miles. But when Shelby saw Frank, she ran. Broken and scared, Shelby ran down the hill into her master’s arms.”
I cupped my hand over my mouth to stifle an emotional outburst that had the potential to wake our sleeping children. That’s when Scott’s hand reached for mine. I noticed it was stained and blistered. “Frank lost everything, yet he was the most contented man I’ve ever met.”
Scott and I sat in silence at the kitchen table as I digested this miraculous fact: a mile-wide tornado ravished a man’s home, yet his foundation was unshaken. Mr. Frank would overcome. He would endure. He would even thrive, despite the challenges ahead. To me, this was the epitome of living Hands Free. To lose so much — your house, your possessions, your wealth, your security — and yet still have an unwavering sense of peace and fulfillment inside your heart. Because Frank carried his foundation on the inside, not the outside, he had solid footing that enabled him to hold on and carry on even in times of tragedy.
I was familiar with such a foundation. It was given to me at age sixteen. I was sitting on my green gingham comforter doodling in my spiral notebook when my mom came into my bedroom. I shot her a look of annoyance, as if she were interrupting a dictation to the Queen of England. Despite the fact that I was a selfish, cantankerous teen, I was not too self-absorbed to realize the words coming from my mother’s mouth were not to be taken lightly. The grave inflection in her voice caused me to look up from the blue lines on my notebook paper. “Rachel,” my mom said, holding a limp dishrag in her hands, “I want you to know that no matter what you do, your dad and I will always love you. No matter what happens, you can always come home.”
In response, I nodded coolly and said, “Okay,” like it was no big deal — but I knew it was a big deal. In the breath of two mere sentences, I became fully aware of just how much my parents love me and just how much God loves me. My fear of making mistakes too huge to forgive, my worry of not measuring up, my apprehension about taking risks or just being myself were put to rest. Standing on the unshakable foundation of unconditional love, I had an inner armor that could not be taken away. My parents kept their word throughout my years of foolish mistakes and repeated disappointments. When I published my darkest truths for the whole world to read, I knew the first people to be standing there with open arms would be my parents, just like Mr. Frank scooped up Shelby, battered and bruised, to carry her home.
Building a foundation, the third intentional habit of a Hands Free Life, is the fertile soil in which an individual’s passion and purpose can freely flourish. Through daily rituals of presence, communication, and faith, we have the power to stay connected to what matters in a culture that often leads us astray. In this chapter, we’ll consider three ways to build foundations that are unwavering despite worldly pressures and challenges. It is my hope that you will consider the impact of the following notion on your life or the life of someone you love: no matter how tattered and torn you are, no matter how many wrong turns you take, no matter how far off the beaten path you go, you will never be irretrievably lost.
Frank could not protect Shelby from the deadly twister that swept her away. My parents could not shield me from the painful mistakes and difficult situations I encountered throughout my life. Yet in both instances, there was someone waiting on the other side of that struggle. Enduring foundations built on presence and faith give us the freedom to live and love fully by providing a path that always leads home.
BUILD A FOUNDATION THROUGH LISTENING
Avery and I were the first ones to arrive home after an evening swim meet. I sat in the driveway, staring at the closed garage door. I didn’t want to go inside.
“What are you waiting for, Mama?” Avery piped up from the backseat.
“Nothing,” I said quietly, forcing my hand to push the button that would allow entry. I couldn’t explain the dread I felt in my stomach to anyone, especially to this child who loved her grandpa more than life itself. The truth was, I feared what I was going to find when I went into the house. My dad, who was visiting from Florida, had fallen ill that afternoon and had not been able to go to the swim meet. Although he’d promised not to descend the stairs while we were gone, I hadn’t been able to help but worry about my seventy-four-year-old diabetic father throughout the entire swimming competition.
As Avery and I climbed the stairs, the feeling of angst I felt at the meet was now going into overdrive. I’d hoped to find my dad sleeping soundly, but the guest bed was empty. My perceptive child knew this was not a good sign. “Uh-oh. Where’s Paw Paw?” she asked with wide eyes and worry in her voice.
I swallowed hard. “Oh, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.” My voice was steady and lighthearted even though the panic in my chest was now nearly suffocating. “Why don’t you go to your bedroom and put on your pajamas while I look for Paw Paw,” I suggested, not knowing what condition I might find my father in.
After putting up a brief protest about wanting to help find her lost grandpa, my child obliged. As soon as she reached her bedroom, I bolted down the stairs. I immediately noticed the front door was unlocked, which was not how we’d left it. I envisioned my pajama-clad father wandering the neighborhood in a disoriented state or lying facedown in the grass.
Quickly scanning the street and yard, I saw no sign of him. Now more worried than ever, I fought the urge to scream my dad’s name like a maniac. Instead I returned to the house and searched every room. When I’d run out of places to look, my eyes began to water. I knew this was no time to cry or fall apart, so I willed myself to stay calm and think rationally. That’s when it hit me. My dad’s favorite place to sit was the back porch! Even on the hottest afternoons in the South, my dad would sit there contentedly gazing at the swaying trees or catching a catnap.
I rushed to the backdoor and immediately felt fear’s intense grip release my racing heart. There sat my dad, hands folded and head bowed in peaceful slumber. My hand hastily reached for the doorknob, but I didn’t turn it. I just stood there for a moment reciting a prayer of gratitude to God — thankful for one more day with my dad.
As tears of relief spilled from my eyes, words written by my dad came back to me in full force. I’d received an email message from him a few months into
my Hands Free journey. While telling me he was proud of my decision to transform my distracted ways to be fully present in my life, my father had his own difficult truths to share.
“I am sorry I was distracted while raising you and your sister,” Dad wrote. “I wasn’t as Hands Free as I could have been. I am deeply sorry for that. Growing up, I hope you always knew how much I love you.” Dad didn’t go into detail about what he was sorry for — he didn’t need to. I knew. I remember. But I remember something more — something much more important than my father’s failings.
I remember walking across campus to my dad’s office every day after school for over a decade. Upon my arrival, I would find my dad sitting at his desk surrounded by piles of papers and books. Although the empty chair sitting beside him was probably for a colleague in need of curriculum guidance or a college student seeking scheduling assistance, I always believed that empty chair was for me.
Dad would look up from whatever he was doing and greet me with a smile. Then, as if on cue, he’d place the cap on the black felt-tip pen he always used to grade papers or draft lecture notes. The pen cap gesture was my signal. It meant my dad wanted to hear about my day. Sometimes I told him just a few things; other times I went on and on about something exciting or unusual that happened at school. My dad would listen, nod, and sometimes add his two cents. Without fail, my dad would smile as if hearing about my day was the best part of his day.
From first grade through my senior year in high school, I had after-school chats with my dad at his office. I can’t recall a time when he said he couldn’t talk — even when he was writing his dissertation, dealing with difficult faculty issues, or facing university budget cuts. When I spoke, my dad was there — all there.
My dad wasn’t perfect. He lost his temper sometimes. He worked too much. He experienced periods of depression. But even through the rough patches, my dad always listened to me. My dad was never too busy, too distracted, or too desolate to listen to what I had to say, even in the rough patches. So despite what the critics say — that giving a child our undivided attention creates a child who thinks the world revolves around him or her — I believe otherwise. Having a parent who listens creates a child who believes he or she has a voice that matters in this world.
Hands Free Life Page 6