Sometimes I just hate myself.
Generally, I don't have time to wade around in my insecurities. I have three children, a dog and a congregation full of people to lead and care for. I'm 55 years old and have had plenty of time for God to help me to get over myself. I've come to accept that I am not a compilation of accomplishments, abilities and actions. I'm a person who has been profoundly shaped and transformed by the grace that I have found through Jesus Christ.
But then I have a day like today and I just have a jag of DESPISING my weaknesses, my peccadillos, the stupid things that I have a tendency to do. Today is Thanksgiving and I feel like I had almost ruined it. I have roasted at least 40-50 turkeys in my life. It's not a big deal. I can totally do it; just pick a recipe and make it happen.
The New York Times Cooking recipe said to roast the dry brined turkey for 30 minutes at the unusually high temperature of 450 degrees. I'm guessing that the purpose of this is to do something like a sear to lock the juices in. Then I was instructed to turn the temperature to 350 degrees for the remainder of the time. It really was an elegantly simple recipe, something that an experienced cook, such as myself, could do quite easily while managing teen aged sous chefs, a hungry special needs young adult who kept emerging from his room demanding food and various side dishes.
The problem was that when I turned the temperature on my oven down to 350 degrees, I had forgotten to push START! What that meant was that, after having been cooked for 30 minutes, my turkey had been hanging out in a slowly cooling oven for the next two hours. By the time I checked on it, an hour before we were supposed to eat, I opened the oven door to a very comfortably cool oven. The turkey might as well have smiled and greeted me with a hello for how uncooked it was.
This catastrophe, combined with the realization that I had forgotten to pick up a splurged order of various breads and baked goods at a local bakery until it was too late, drove me to my room to lay on my bed with the door closed, taking deep breaths. I hate that I am a forgetter. . . and a non-detail oriented person.
One time, I was in charge of travel to a family cruise in Florida and I scheduled our return flights to be for the day before the cruise returned to port. In college, I would schedule things so that I needed to be in three places at the same time. This lack of organization is the thing that I am most tempted to judge about myself.
Granted, I've come far from those organizationally out of control young adult days. The years of being a full time mom of an incredibly medically and developmentally complicated child certainly gave me organizational and detail management muscles that I never dreamed that I would have. I am also a pastor of a church where, together with a multi-talented team of staff members, we function pretty well as an intergenerational, multiethnic community of around 300 people who need to turn a middle school into a place of worship every Sunday.
But every once in a while, I still make mistakes out of my lack of detail orientation and organization especially when I am tired. No matter how much I've grown and matured, I can't seem to escape this part of my personality.
Two things helped me to pull out of the vortex of self-chastisement. The first is my amazing husband who did not share my hypercritical attitude. He just told me that he loved me and drove to KFC and to the bakery to see if he could help save our dinner. (KFC was out of chicken and the bakery was all closed up.). Just as he came home, I realized that I had also purchased a small ham to serve at a later gathering. I threw that into the oven to heat and serve with our stuffing, potatoes and veggies. Fortunately, Thanksgiving dinner this year was just my nuclear family and my mother so it wasn't a huge deal. The ham was barely warmed and rather boring but it was fine.
In fact, the second thing that served to give me perspective and stop being so disappointed with myself was how much Josh loved the ham. My son LOVED the ham. He asked for more over and over again. In fact, at one point, while I got up to get more from the kitchen, he grabbed a slice right off of his grandmother's plate. My mom reflexes are still pretty fast so I grabbed it right off his plate before he could eat it and made him wait for his own piece acquired in a proper manner.
At the end of this day, I am choosing to think not about what I did wrong or what didn't go well but about the things that I am grateful for. The six of us were able to sit together for a nice meal. We enjoyed the food, especially Josh. My 83 year old mother was able to spend quality time with us. We played a little game which had us ask each other interesting questions. We laughed together about funny stories from our pasts.
As much as I am a foodie, I have to remember that the food is not the point. The most important part of any feast is the spirit, the love, the people and what or who you are celebrating. I hope that I am able to keep this on the forefront of my brain as we enter into another season of food and celebrating.
