entrepreneur

We spent the afternoon at a craggy beach earlier this week, and the kids collected two buckets of white sea shells. Mostly they were broken and smooth from the waves and sand, but they were infinite in number – a true delight for the obsessed.

Ruthie was focused that afternoon. While Thomas played in the distance with the friends we’d come with, she hung back, eyes to the ground, methodically searching for shells in a grid pattern.

That evening at home Ruthie laid the shells out in rows and announced she was selling them – small ones for a dime, medium for a quarter, large for fifty cents, and the one fully intact shell for a dollar.

Alrighty, I said. I’ll take two of the small ones for a quarter a piece.

Before I knew it, she’d caught the attention of everyone who walked by: Would you like to buy a shell? she asked sweetly, turning back to grin at me every time she dared to ask.

She asked everyone from the dog walkers to the neighboring teenagers to the church goers who park in the lot next door (who were the only ones who made a purchase, by the way; score one for Jesus!).

Then yesterday as I made dinner I noticed she was engaged in a project – marker in hand, looking for tape, in and out the front door, NOT antagonizing her brother.

Eventually she came to me and asked, “Mom, how to you spell ‘would’? Not the kind of ‘wood’ that’s a tree but the kind of ‘would’ that says ‘would you like to buy a shell?'”

I went outside to investigate this curious sign project and found that she’d re-purposed my magnetic clips (I later found piles of paper abandoned on the floor at the foot of my refrigerator) to hang her sale signs along the fence. She’s managed to cover the perimeter of our yard, hanging a sign on each side to let the world know she is selling shells.

As I’ve watched this unfold over the last few days, I’m intrigued by all the elements of her personality that blossomed to make this happen – focus, ingenuity, tenacity, and self-starting initiation – elements I fear she’d always use for evil rather than good.

My little girl is growing up. She’s using her mind, she’s creating, and she’s solving problems (no tape? no problem! I’ll use clips!).

I’m growing up, too. I didn’t intervene. I didn’t freak out over the magnet clips. I didn’t try to control any element of this process.

She asked me to spell a word, and she asked me to buy a shell.

It’s all her, and I’m so proud of that.

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I just spent the entire evening doing nothing – something I long to do almost every minute of every day.

The kitchen is a mess, the laundry is unfolded, the bounty from Costco is still piled up on the table. Yet? I sat in my chair all night… doing… nothing.

And now that I’m moving this party to bed, do I feel refreshed? Relaxed? Rested?

Nope. I feel guilty, unproductive, and lazy.

What IS this crazy relationship I have with busyness, anyway? I got three hours of sleep last night, so yes – I’M A LITTLE TIRED. I fell asleep some time after 2am and my alarm went off at 5:30, so yes – I SAT IN MY CHAIR STARING AT THE WALL.

I think that’s grounds for not hauling a few laundry baskets up the stairs, don’t you? So why do I feel like such a jerk? It’s not like I stayed up until 2am on purpose – I simply couldn’t sleep.

And seriously. Laying around in my pajamas while someone else acts responsible is, like, the best fantasy I have right now. I don’t even dream of running away (anymore) – I just want a couple hours to remind myself what it’s like to have a couple hours.

My dysfunction is so fickle: I WANT! I DON’T WANT! I WANT!

Right now, though, I want sleep.

Everything’s Amazing & Nobody’s Happy

Bryan played this video for me the other day and prefaced it with, “You’re going to be mad at me for about 5 seconds, but then you’re going to think it’s really funny.”

I’ll admit I wanted to be mad, but I know myself too well – I embrace my inner Eeyore and live it proudly. I complain loudly. I whine dramatically.

I know I’m the one who takes for granted all the blessings in my life – my house, my job, my kids, my gadgets, my amazing husband who beats me over the head with his optimism and grouch-crushing humor.

For instance, I complain DAILY about the shoddy wifi connection in my bed. IN MY BED. Oh poor me. I can’t access the internet on my iPhone in my bed for TWO WHOLE MINUTES. What a terrible tragedy of epic proportions. I remember when I had to plug my giant computer into the wall where I worked to get an internet connection – I didn’t even have the internet at home.

I’ve actually heard this rant a thousand times from Bryan’s own lips. In a glass-half-empty/glass-half-full kinda world, he’s more likely to say, “Isn’t it AMAZING that we have this AWESOME GLASS???”

And that’s what I get, now, whenever I Eeyore about something that isn’t going my way. I get Bryan all up in my face with his big grin and wild eyes yelling, “BUT ISN’T OUR LIFE AMAZING???”

I love that guy.

Hey Boss Lady

My assistant affectionately calls me the Boss Lady, which I find endearing. “Hey boss lady,” she’ll write in an email. “Here’s the weekly financial update. Did you send out the checks?”

Yeah, she may call me Boss Lady, but she’s always telling me what to do.

I find that I really like being the boss lady. I oversee three project managers and my assistant, as well as various illustrators and animators. I love working with this team. I learn a lot from this team.

And I’ve learned a lot about myself, being the boss lady.

I’ve learned that it really sucks when your team has to work a weekend because you have the gift of procrastination. I’ve learned that kindness builds bridges. I’ve learned that praise is a great motivator, and generosity breeds loyalty. I’ve learned that it’s okay to leave things undone at the end of the day… unless I’ve squandered my time. I’ve learned that I hired great people, so I can stop trying to do their job for them.

I’ve learned that I need to keep reminding myself of all that I’ve learned.

I’m not sure what it is about motherhood that I just don’t GET at first glance, but I feel like all the lessons I learn about being a mom I learn while being something else. I guess a detached perspective is the story God chooses to tell me – I’m just thankful he continues to crack a hard nut like myself.

But anyway, as I thought about how much I love to serve my team and see them succeed in their jobs and give them the tools they need to be awesome producers of great animations, I realized I fail so spectacularly at doing this for my own children.

I do not serve my children generously – I take what I need from them. I do not get excited to see them succeed – I want them out of my way. I do not always give them the tools they need to be awesome – I criticize them.

Surprisingly, I don’t feel guilty about this. Guilt is not from Jesus – he does not shame me to action. Conviction is from Jesus – he gives me clarity to see what I’m doing really looks like, and frankly I’m not all that impressed by it once I can see behind the curtain.

So I pray tonight for my hard, cranky, selfish heart to be as generous and kind and encouraging to my kids as it is to my team.

And maybe, just maybe I’ll make my kids call me Boss Lady, too.

Releasing my grip, one finger at a time.

This kitchen trash bag contains all the lunches Ruthie left at school over the last couple weeks that she finally remembered to bring home.

I estimate there were at least four lunches, and about ten tupperware containers. Inside those containers were half eaten sandwiches, untouched apple slices, some leftover taco meat, and an unopened package of string cheese.

“What DO you eat at lunch?” I asked, suspicious.

There was a Hot Lunch Incident earlier this year in which she threw away the lunches I sent and told her teacher I didn’t make one for her. Lies! All of it! She just wanted to eat the “free” hot lunch at school.

I discovered this fraudulent behavior when I received a bill for $25 and a strongly worded letter about feeding my child. Okay, well, there was actually no strongly worded letter, but this was the judgment I imagined everyone at the school was feeling toward me.

So when I see half eaten sandwiches, untouched apple slices, some leftover taco meat, and an unopened package of string cheese, there are questions.

But IF I am to believe that my daughter is, indeed, no longer stealing from the school district, this now begs the question, Why are you wasting my food?!

I am tempted to let her buy hot lunches using her own money. This has great potential to backfire on me, but in my imagination she’ll realize the value of her money and how it translates to the value of the food she’s wasting.

Things Ruthie draws onI’ve already started this lesson a bit.

Ruthie likes to draw on things – my walls, the car, her body, whatever. She’s destined to be a tattoo artist. Or graffiti artist. Or a member of a chain gain working off a minor misdemeanor charge for vandalism.

The last time she wrote on her pants I made her pay me a dollar for all the extra work I’d have to put into cleaning them. (You know, cuz sometimes the handle on the Spray-n-Wash bottle gets jammed and it’s a real pain in the neck). She slumped in her chair a little, but she didn’t argue.

I think she got the message.

Ruthie’s not the only one learning a lesson, though. I make every attempt to control her conscience, to dictate how she feels and responds, to make her GET THE MESSAGE.

But I can’t. I’m not the Holy Spirit. And seven years into this parenting thing, I’m finally getting it.

I can teach her discernment and shepherd her heart, but in the end she makes her own choices. And since that’s the scariest thing I can imagine as a control freak, I’m left to trust Jesus with her heart and her future.

Let me tell YOU about duty, little padawan.

Mail Man Mail Man do your duty
Here comes a woman with an African booty

This is what they’re singing on the playground these days while jumping rope.

When I was a kid we sang about bubble gum and ice cream, but now it’s about getting laid by the mail man.

I once got in trouble for telling one of my parents’ friends I was going to sock him right in the kisser. I thought we were all kidding around, but apparently I was not the funny one. I was mortified that I had said something wrong, and cried DRAH MA TAH CLY before I finally apologized.

We were at Bridgeman’s Ice Cream on W. 66th in Richfield, Minnesota after church, in a corner booth opposite the kitchen door. THAT’s how clearly that embarrassing moment is etched in my mind.

So I asked Ruthie if she knew what that meant, and she was all, I don’t care.

And I was all, WELL YOU’RE GONNA CARE!

Okay, I didn’t really say that. But I THOUGHT that. And I also thought about my hands around her neck. And I also thought about locking her in a box.

But that’s normal, right? Please tell me you think about that all the time, too. Pretty please?

Anyway, what I REALLY said, was that the mail man is being told to treat a woman like she’s his wife, only she isn’t, and what does Jesus say about that? And how is a man supposed to treat a woman who is not his wife? And for that matter, how is a man supposed to treat ANYbody? And who is that man supposed to listen to – Jesus? or a bunch of first graders who are taunting him to sleep with the first woman he runs into???

Okay, I edited that part a bit for age appropriateness.

Maybe.

But we had our little conversation, and it was all just dandy. This was months ago. And just last week when I asked her again how that little jingle went, she rattled it off like an auctioneer and I was all, Wow, you still know that pretty well.

And she was all, Yeah.

And I was all, Sooooo, you’re still chanting that on the playground then?

And she was all, Kinda.

So we had that same conversation. Again.

And I realized parenting is not just about being a broken record, but about being THE LOUDEST BROKEN RECORD ON THE PLAYGROUND.

No one said it would be easy, but sometimes it can be.

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I’m pretty sure this was the best Mother’s Day EVER.

Breakfast at my favorite spot, church, sun, a nap, and time in the garden. It’s how we spend most Mother’s Days, but this year I felt like the party drunk hugging everyone and crying, “I LOVE YOU, MAN!”

Everything about this day felt perfect before it even started, and I didn’t even care what happened. I just knew it was going to be GREAT.

I attribute a huge part of this to the fact I really like Bryan these days. And when I say I really like him, I mean I REALLY like him. A lot. In fact, I like him so much right now I barely leave the house because I can’t imagine doing anything else besides snuggling up next to him.

This generally makes life bearable for a married couple, so I highly recommend doing whatever you can to really like your husband.

(Hint: attempts to change him will NOT make life bearable).

Really liking my husband has a trickle down effect because even though my kids are making me grate my teeth, I actually wanted to be with them today – a far cry from the Mother’s Day Escape Plans I tried to get away with the last couple years.

I also attribute the general success of today to the fact I totally forgot it was Mother’s Day weekend until late last week. This left no time for me to build up expectations, which gave me no reason to bitterly seethe when my expectations weren’t met.

Maybe I should only speak for myself, but I’m convinced marriages break down from a fatal cocktail of equal parts selfishness and unmet expectations. I know I’ve spent a lot of the last eight and a half years wanting what I want, expecting Bryan to give it to me, and growing bitter when I don’t get it.

Personally, I’ve never been happier than when I simply decided to like my husband again, for better or for worse.

Thanks for a great day, Babe. And kids? GET IN BED!

In which I whine just a little bit on a Friday night.

I keep thinking that parenting will get easier once the next thing happens – once they’re crawling, once they’re walking, once they’re out of diapers, once they’re in school, blah blah blah – and to some extent this is true.

It DOES get easier to fly on an airplane to grandma’s house when no one needs a car seat and everyone schleps their own stuff.

But parenting also gets harder.

The sassing is more sassy, the doors are slammed harder, and the testing is more… testy.

I have the same conversation over and over (and over and over) again with a certain strong willed child who shall remain nameless: when you do THAT, the natural consequence is THIS, so to avoid THIS you should try not doing THAT.

Just once. Please? Humor me. Just try it on to see how it fits. Who knows? You might like it.

I think the fatal error I keep making in my head is that I want this to be EASY. I don’t want to get off the couch, I don’t want to have this conversation right now, I don’t want to be inconvenienced.

In other words, I don’t want parenting to disrupt my life.

Wha-?

Eeyore Attitudes & Slippery Slope Theories

David was a shepherd, but when God looked at him, he saw a king.

Sure enough, when David grew up, that’s just what he became. And David was a great king. He had a heart like God’s heart – full of love.

Now, that didn’t mean he was perfect, because he did some terrible things – he even murdered a man. No, David made a big mess of his life. But God can take even the biggest mess and make it work in his plan.

“I need a new heart, Lord,” David prayed, “because mine is full of sin. Make me clean inside.”

God heard David’s prayer. He forgave David and he made David a promise: “I will make you great, David. And one day, a King will be born into your family, and he will heal the whole world.”
The Jesus Storybook Bible

I tend to let my vision for the future be clouded by what’s right in front of me.

If I’m having a busy week, I tend to go all Eeyore on Bryan and whine about how it’s ALWAYS GOING TO BE THIS WAY. Then we both laugh at my folly when the weekend comes and we’re sipping margaritas on the deck while giving each other foot massages.

Okay, that hasn’t happened yet, but you get the idea.

After catching my daughter in another lie this afternoon – just one in a long succession of lies that I’m constantly sniffing out – my eyes began to glaze over with the idea that I’m raising a lying liar.

Because surely, this is a slippery slope to a dime in the state penn, right?

I understand my daughter’s issues clearly, because she struggles in all the same ways I did do. When I was a kid I, too, was a lying liar. I lied about Big Things, and I lied about Stupid Stuff.

I told my mom I was at Jean Donohue’s house when I was really making out with a boy in a parked car. I told my step dad I only stole one cassette tape, when really my whole collection at the time came as a “five finger discount.” I said I was the one driving the car we wrecked so I wouldn’t get in trouble for letting a friend try out a stick shift.

These are the realities I have in the back of my mind every time Ruthie tells me she put her laundry away, when in reality she shoved it under the bed. Because I know. Seriously, I KNOW. The lies will get more complicated, and the liar will get more crafty.

I know this because I invented lying.

So I sit there in my thinking chair and steep in fear, worrying that she’s already gone, that her heart is a stone cold lump of coal, that my work here is futile and there’s nothing left to be done for her.

And through the drama of my drama-filled dramatic thoughts, a story from my kids’ Bible speaks to me profoundly.

Here is what I am reminded of:

  1. I am still a lying liar. I hide the bills I forget to pay on time, I hide the message I forget to pass on and now it’s too late, I hide the invite to the party I don’t want to attend (not yours, of course. I would never do that).
  2. God blessed me with a lying liar for a daughter – not to punish me or make me miserable, but because he knew I would empathize with her, love her fiercely in spite of it, and continually point her to Jesus as the truth-giver.
  3. I did not do ten years in the state penn, despite the fact I am a lying liar.
  4. My daughter is only seven years old. And she is a cutie pie. And her heart is not (usually) made of coal (kidding!). There is still much work to be done, and I will never give up.
  5. “God can take even the biggest mess and make it work in his plan.” So even if she does do a dime in the state penn, God will not let go of her.

In the moment of dealing with Ruthie, I tend to forget I do the same thing she does – even now as an adult. I sometimes scold her as if her life is already over, as if the shackles are hanging on the coat rack by the door, ready to slap on her wrists and take her in.

My prayer today is for my heart to remain soft toward her, and to be compassionate. It’s easy to hate what she does, because I hate what I do – but it’s easier to yell at her than it is to yell at myself.

I’m thankful for a God that doesn’t expect us to be perfect, who shows us grace and mercy and kindness. As a parent, I pray I reflect more of this to my kids.

If I saw this picture I’d TOTALLY wanna be friends with us.

Photo by Randy Stewart

I’ve been worrying all week about my ugly hair and my chubby face and generally being all Charlie Brownish about my appearance because I’m going on a business trip to where all the Beautiful People are.

And then I look at pictures like this and I’m all, “Giiiirl, you are HAWT!”

Way to make us look good, Randy!

First World Problems

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Today technology is not bowing down to me. In fact, it is quite certainly giving me The Finger. My trick to getting work done in the afternoon is for Thomas to watch a movie, but guess what? The DVD player is crapping out, and for an unknown reason movies won’t play from the laptop.

No problem! I’ll just put the movie on Bryan’s computer in the office and wear headphones to keep The Clone Wars from distracting me. Right?

Of course not. You knew that wouldn’t work, though, didn’t you?

For some reason iTunes can’t find my music library. And I can’t plug the headphones into my iPhone because of that stupid jack issue with first generation phones.

So here I sit half an hour later, wearing headphones that won’t play music but will at least muffle the distractions.

Oh who are we kidding – they’re just keeping my ears warm.

No spouses were harmed in the making of this post. Well, maybe just one.

At some point during every major project I take on, I have a nervous breakdown. It comes shortly after I’ve committed, laid my reputation on the line, and pulled on my hip-waders.

Take pregnancy, for example. Around the seven month mark is probably a little too late to panic about what kind of Mommy Dearest you may turn out to be, amiright?

Last Spring as I prepped for my Ignite Seattle talk, I spent a few dark hours yelling at my husband about what an idiot I was for getting myself into this mess. NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR ABOUT MY STUPID BORING LIFE, I yelled in desperation.

I was a ratty looking squirrel trapped in the bottom of a well, clawing away at the dirt walls of insecurity.

Bryan managed to talk me down off the ledge within a couple hours, bumps and bruises notwithstanding, and I went on to give a killer presentation.

Well wouldn’t you know it, but my first client as a freelance whatever-I-am purchased the fully loaded Cadillac option from my list of services, launching me headlong into the deep end of the pool ocean galaxy.

Around 10:15 tonight, after forty-five minutes of research fueled by the absolute certainty I have no fucking idea what I’m doing, I started yelling.

I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M EVEN LOOKING FOR! Is one example of what I started yelling. There were many other things yelled, but as is the case with most panic moments, not much is remembered. I do know that Bryan yelled back at me, and we spent a few moments trying to out-panic each other (he has his own deadlines), but in the end he sent me a magic link that made everything better.

And now I am fine. I will likely go on to produce the best work I’ve ever done in my whole life for this client, but for some reason I must pass through this creative rite of passage.

Poor Bryan. Poor, poor, Bryan. You can pray for him – he married a crazy lady.

Somewhere between limitless possibilities & certain painful death.

God, your God, has blessed you in everything you have done. He has guarded you in your travels through this immense wilderness. For forty years now, God, your God, has been right here with you. You haven’t lacked one thing (Deuteronomy 2:7, The Message).

I think the tricky part to the Daily Grind is not drowning in the details. It’s easy for us to stare at the empty refrigerator we may or may not be able to fill next week or a full schedule that doesn’t allow us to breathe, and think to ourselves: Shit, we should have kept the day job.

But that would be too near sighted.

Every morning at six Bryan and I have coffee together and set our plan for the day. We are bloodshot and tense and running on five hours of sleep (well, at least I am), but thoroughly enjoying ourselves. Still, enjoying yourself doesn’t always pay the bills or add an extra two hours to the day.

So yeah, the emotional ratio of limitless possibilities to going down in a blaze of glory is constantly fluctuating.

But when I read this the other day I was all, “YES! HE HAS! HE IS! I HAVEN’T!”

And mentally – not literally, as I was still drinking my morning cup of coffee – I jumped to my feet, pumped my fists in the air, and did a few grunting body builder poses. I karate chopped the air, let out a WOO-HOO! and ran a lap around the dining room table – all still mentally, mind you, as I’m not this energetic that early in the morning.

But still, that’s how encouraged my inner Eeyore was after reading this passage in Deuteronomy.

Contextually, it’s a sermon Moses preached before he died and before God led the Israelites across the river into their promised land, the land that was just within their reach for forty long years.

Think of it like a product launch party, or a ribbon cutting ceremony, or a toast at someone’s milestone birthday party. So much led to this moment – joy, tears, sweat, uncertainty – but here we are! We arrived!

And we are not the same as when we left.

My wilderness seems immense right now – though filled with mostly good things. Even so, God is right here with me, and I’m not lacking anything.

summer weariness

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Isn’t she beautiful?

I’m really struggling with this little girl right now. She is a challenge, and every day is a series of battles over things as minuscule as Please Put Your Shoes on the Shoe Rack (because apparently that’s the most unfair thing I could ask of her).

And I’m tired.

I’m tired of holding my ground, of being manipulated, of staying on my toes, of the mental challenge, of the broken record, of being late to everything because I have to spend fifteen minutes debriefing a blow-up over not having just the right dress to wear (or whatEVer).

I know not every parent is going to relate to me when I say this, but just ONCE I’d like a simple request (like, “it’s time to set the table for dinner,” for instance) to be met with, “okay mom!” But it’s not. I get drama, I get stomping, I get the The Unfairness of It All speech almost every single time.

I’m the first to admit I don’t do everything right – I lack patience and compassion, I rage, I’m controlling, I throw around a few expletives my children like to repeat in front of three-year-olds and grandmas – but I don’t let her get away with this stuff, and I think that’s why I’m so tired: I’m battle-weary.

Today I actually asked her, “Would you rather I just let you do whatever you wanted?”

“No,” she said quietly.

I thought that was a breakthru conversation, even if I did have it THREE TIMES with her today. Did I mention I lack patience? I don’t like to have the same conversation THREE TIMES in one day.

Which brings up another point, which I don’t have time to get into now. But I’m working through an essay about God’s patience toward those desert-wandering Israelites that’s cracking into some dark spaces and making me feel very tender right now, so stay tuned.

my precious

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On the heels of my last post re the boundaries of my comfort zone, I happened to catch the last part of a PBS documentary called Life. Support. Music. about a NYC musician who emerged from a vegetative state after suffering a near fatal brain hemorrhage. The documentary included video clips from the rehabilitation center where they worked to restore his motor skills and brain function, and as much progress as he was making, his future looked grim. So grim, in fact, that doctors recommended he be transferred to a nursing home for continued care.

Well, the family was not having this since any chance of his recovery would be shot while wasting away in a facility with no rehabilitation plan. They opted to bring Jason home and care for him on their own, despite the doctors’ warning of the grueling 24hr care it would require. The family rallied, and worked in shifts of morning, afternoon, and over-night, not only caring for his basic needs like bathing and feeding, but also stimulating his brain function with puzzles and games and such.

After two years or so Jason was walking, talking, playing his guitar, and fully functioning on his own. It was incredible. The primary care doctor said very certainly that the only reason Jason survived and recovered was because of the dedication of his family. If it weren’t for them, he would have surely been confined to a bed in a nursing care facility for the rest of his life.

As I watched this documentary, my pile of clothes still unfolded (maybe I need to stop watching tv while doing laundry!), all I could think of was, What if this happened to someone in my family? What if this happened to Bryan? And through my mind raced everything I would have to give up – all my hobbies, all my free time, all my relational outlets – in order to care for someone at that level.

Quite honestly, as I imagined the mere possibility of this scenario, I felt anger in my heart – anger at the unfairness that everything I ever wanted for myself could be stripped away because of someone else’s needs.

These were very disturbing and convicting thoughts, considering not more than an hour before watching the documentary an ambulance pulled up in front of my neighbor’s house. I stood at my ironing board with a mound of clothes in front of me and the energy waning from my body. Do I stop what I’m doing to check on my neighbor and see if there’s anything I can help with? If I do, then my tasks could be left undone and my plans for the next day may be disrupted.

In that moment I became aware of my deep selfishness because the laundry was just an excuse for me to not get involved.

Natalie hit it dead on in her comment at my previous post about seeking comfort. I know self-comfort my idol, that thing I make more important than anyone else, including Jesus. I see it play out in my issues with rage and anger as much as I see it play out in extending myself to others.

I have a fortress built around my comfort, a wall I realize even I can’t break down with my own will-power. I am both terrified and relieved, though, to see it beginning to crumble under the weight of a God who wants me to be free from my Gollom-like self preservation.