Lesson #4: Be Ordinary

Series intro is here.

Lesson #1 is here.

Lesson #2 is here.

Lesson #3 is here.

On one of our shelves stands a book that I've had for years, have never read, but can't bear to get rid of.  Each time I get it in my head that we have TOO MANY BOOKS and we MUST GET RID OF SOME, my hand pauses when I pass this particular book and I consider adding it to the pile to take to the thrift store.  But I decide to pardon it, and my hand passes on in search of some other victim that must be eliminated.  What's so special about this book, this volume that I've never even begun to read?  Only the title.

Ordinary Faithful People.

Robert Hubbard wrote it, but I don't know a thing about him.  The book is a study of Ruth, but I haven't gleaned an iota of information about that unlikely but illustrious heroine.  I'm sure it would be a wonderful book to read in my quiet times (maybe I'll do that in 2012?), but I've never so much as started the first chapter.  

Still, I keep it; and why not?  After all, I have gained so much wisdom and inspiration simply from the title.  And so, let me tell you about the fourth big lesson I learned in a new way this year.

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From the time we are young (and perhaps before we are born), we are programmed to desire fame, recognition, gratitude.  We want to be known and admired.  We desire a special status, a medal to hang around our necks, an award of some sort that sets us apart from the crowd.  We are told that "you can be anything that you want to be" and "you can change the world!"  We crave distinction so much that, the child psychologists tell us, we even resort to misbehavior to get it.  In short, we want to be extraordinary.

No less than anyone else, I felt that desire as a child, that almost insatiable pull to be Somebody.  No amount of Student of the Year awards or high scores in piano competitions satisfied my soul forever.  The drive remained.

In the world of academics, I could satisfy that craving; after all, God gave me a competent brain, my parents nurtured it, and I could use it to stand out from the crowd.  In particular, being a music major provided many opportunities for recognition, as the reward of uncounted, sometimes wearisome hours in the practice room came in the form of enthusiastic applause in a recital hall and many kind words of affirmation.  When you're the one on stage, you're Somebody.

Fast forward three years.  Jeff and I were living in marvelous San Diego, were enjoying the pleasures of the newlywed season of life (which, in my opinion, lasted about five years for us!), and were then asked to work full time in the ministry for our church.  Wow, what an honor!  This was the kind of church where nearly everyone dreamed of someday being in the ministry, so to be chosen was truly a privilege.  The work we did and the service we performed for the saints was accompanied by a high level of respect and recognition.  Just like with musical performances, the nervousness of being the one to stand on a stage speaking to hundreds (or even occasionally thousands) of people was repaid by the esteem which was given us.  Although there were many other Somebodies higher up the chain, so to speak, it was still relatively easy to feel like a Somebody.

Being asked to move to Israel only served to reinforce that.  "You live in Israel?  That's awesome!" was the common response we got from people in the States when we returned here for visits.  As if celebrity status is awarded to those who move to other countries.  Our many friends and acquaintances eagerly looked forward to hearing about our life over there; and again, I felt like I was Somebody.

But what about now?  I stay at home with my children.  I care for the needs of my husband.  I chase dust bunnies and fold endless piles of underwear.  I homeschool.  I cook dinner for my parents.  I LOVE MY LIFE.  But I do not feel like Somebody.

I am ordinary.

Neither my high school nor my college are calling me up to interview me for the latest alumni magazine article. No awards are being handed out for who can read Goodnight Moon the most times without going crazy.  No one stands and applauds when I sing a lullaby to my child before tucking him in bed for the night.  No test score reveals that I've done all my homework and studied my grammar facts thoroughly.  No one even notices when I, without complaining, wash the poop off the chicken eggs.  My name no longer appears in our local newspaper under the Honor Roll list or in the announcement about Dean's Scholarships.  It's been a very long time since anyone has placed a medal around my neck.  

This, apparently, is what happens to us stay-at-home moms who used to be Somebodies.  In fact, my ordinariness is so very ordinary that those of you who are reading this are probably thinking, "You're not unique at all in this, Davene.  Why even bring it up or make a big deal out of it?  You think you're the only one who fits this description of being ordinary?"

No, of course I'm not the only Ordinary around; there are millions of us.  Just as there were in the time of Ruth, so Robert Hubbard might tell us.

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I've been Ordinary for at least the past six years, so why the emphasis on it this year?  Why the struggle in my heart to content myself with my non-Somebody status?  Certainly I've had moments here and there during the previous years when I've felt challenged by my non-special role in life, but this year the battle for contentment has been bigger than usual; and as I've pondered this, I've discovered the answer.  Here's why:

2011 brought two opportunities for change, for waving goodbye to the ordinary life here in the countryside of Virginia and for saying hello to a new place in life.  As always, there is so much more that I could write about this; but let me be concise and say that one opportunity was moving to northern Virginia to be part of an enthusiastic, quickly-growing, zealous church (which would probably almost certainly--how's that for surety?--have led to being asked to serve in the ministry again), and the other involved moving to Israel.

To make a very long story short, after much discussion and much prayer and, yes, some tears and agony, we decided to say no to both of those opportunities and remain here in our beloved but ordinary life.  And it was hard.

Back to Ordinary.

Ordinary People.

But no, that's NOT the title of the book that's inspired me so much just by its front cover.  I left out a word.

Faithful.  

Ordinary Faithful People.  

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I don't know what the spiritual climate is like where you live; but around here, I often hear people express their longing for revival.  What exactly that revival should look like is anybody's guess, but without a doubt, there are people who are hungry for God to sweep in and do a mighty work in His church.  I agree with them and say, "Come, Lord Jesus, in power and righteousness!"

At the same time, I cringe a little--just a tiny bit.  I ask myself as I wonder about others, "Do we only find it easy and fulfilling and joyful to serve God when the church is experiencing revival?"  Of course we'd all love to see God's hand work in such an obvious way.  Miraculous interventions, hearts being stirred like never before, sin being repented of, lives being changed--yes!  Wouldn't we all delight in being swept up in such fervor and ecstasy as revivals break out across the land?  

But will we be faithful without that?

For all the Simeon's and Anna's who saw with their own eyes the redemption that had long been promised, how many other aged saints died the year before Jesus' birth?  For all the priests and nuns who found new freedom in Christ at the beginning of the Reformation, how many other ones lived faithfully and died, right before Martin Luther burst onto the scene?  For every single revival in history, how many other believers looked forward to the day, prayed and longed for it, and perhaps brought it about through prayer, though they lost their lives before they ever saw one wave of God's spectacular outpouring?  For all the Somebodies in the faith through the years of the human race here on earth, how many Ordinaries have there been who have gone unnoticed and unremembered?

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For 10 weeks of this year, Jeff and I sojourned on Sunday mornings with a congregation not far from here; and on almost every one of those Sundays, I thought of the title of the book, Ordinary Faithful People.  The people who filed into those pews every week were ordinary.  For the most part, from what I could tell, they were simple country folk; and they reminded me very much of how my grandparents were in their little country church years ago.  The hymn leader didn't even attempt to wave his arms to keep time, the organist had a hard time finding the right pedals with her feet, the man who prayed for the offering had such a lisp that I sometimes had a hard time keeping a straight face as I listened to him.  But the Word was preached, and the smiles and handshakes were warm, and God knows the hearts of His people there--hearts that may very well have been much more pure and clean than my own.  Truly, He takes the weak things of the world and uses them for His glory.

I'm inspired when I think of the people there.  Ordinary.  Faithful.  Can I be that?

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One of the dangers of not only having a blog that's open to anyone to read but also writing so freely here is that the opportunity constantly presents itself to toot my own horn.  As hard as I strive for a healthy balance between sharing my successes and failures, I'm well aware that my nature would much rather dwell on what I'm doing right.  "Look at my latest recipe - it's delicious!  Here's how I'm being a good wife - aren't I wonderful?  Check out my happy, smart boys - they're incredible!"  In my path of Ordinariness, I can too easily turn to this blog to try to feel like Somebody again when what I really need to do is sit at my Savior's feet and bask in His presence.  To Him, I am Somebody.  Known, cherished, honored, loved.  Will I quiet my soul and rest in that affirmation?

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As 2011 draws to a close, I think I've learned a lesson:  to give up on extraordinary and focus on ordinary.  Why?  Because in God's economy, the ordinary and extraordinary switch places.  Even Mary knew that, and she poured forth a beautiful song of the way God changes everything.  May I have her heart to accept whatever lot God has for me!

If the title alone of Ordinary Faithful People has taught me so much, who's to say how much I might learn from within its pages?  Maybe I'll move that to the top of my stack of books to be read in 2012.  :)

But even if I never read it, I know what I want my prayer to be.  

Lord, if I'm to be Ordinary for the rest of my days, help me remain Faithful to you!