Honor Cords and Baby Toys

I sit down with a dear old friend over dinner, both of us unwinding internally and rewinding externally the stories we’ve missed from the past few months. She has moved, been promoted, chased after aspirations (and caught them, might I add), began and excelled at her new high levels of education, and, to sum it up, has been killing the adult game.

I, meanwhile, had a baby.

She’s got titles, awards, and degrees to show for it. I have a howling ten-month-old in a splattered highchair. Most of the dinner conversation either had to be shouted to be heard, or was interrupted by repeated attempts to get a singular pea into his adorable and stubborn mouth.

When we’ve finally made it through the meal, we make the socially acceptable move to the living room and I pull out a massive bin of toys while I plop onto the couch. Hopefully there’s something in there to keep him entertained while we continue to visit.

While he’s digging through the bin, something catches my friend’s eye, and she immediately starts laughing.

“Are these your honor cords?” she asks, pulling out the long, yellow, twisted rope from our Alma Mater, now slightly frayed and unwound in places.

I snort. “I was cleaning out my closet the other day, and he started playing with them, so they’re a staple in the toy bin now, I guess.”

My friend laughs and tosses them back in. “Honestly, super fitting. I respect it.” Back to sharing.

It was such a small moment, but an underlying message has been haunting me since. Probably because it’s related to something that I spend an embarrassingly large amount of time either thinking about or working toward.

Honor and recognition.

I crave it. I desire it. I base way too many of my daily actions on how I can get it. We all do, it’s human. I want to be seen and acknowledged. I want to achieve and be praised. I want to be special, to excel, to be publicly applauded for my actions.

Do I want to walk around life wearing metaphorical honor cords around my neck displaying that I’m killing it? Absolutely.

Because the lie factory of my brain tells me that honor and recognition will give my life meaning, will make me happy, will fill that one hole in my heart. Even now, I’m shocked at how on paper I know that is false, but in my head it continually appears so true.

Now, there is nothing wrong with seeking excellence. There is nothing wrong with pushing ourselves toward achieving great things. We ought to do that! I’ve heard one too many Pope Benedict XVI quotes about that after all!

The real question becomes, however, why am I seeking these things? Why am I fighting tooth and nail for that promotion? Why am I spending inordinate amounts of time honing that skill? Why am I being so darn proactive about seeking out that opportunity? Why am I forcing doors open that seem to be perfectly content staying shut? Why am I so aware of the accomplishments of my peers and also silently irritated by them? Why am I so starved for achievement that I’m left aching when I’m not chosen?

Achievements are good. Achievements can motivate us. Achievements can serve as a way to glorify God.

But achievements are not the end in and of themselves.

When I start to view accomplishments, and the recognition I get from them, as my goal in life, I am invariably left frustrated, sad, and still dissatisfied even when they’re reached.

Because only Jesus satisfies. Not that extra title. Not that extra award. Not that extra 0 on the paycheck. Not that extra number of followers. Not that extra anything.

Jesus alone satisfies.

My purpose in life is to love, reverence, and serve God. That is my end, my goal, my purpose. And if I can accomplish things along the way as a means of knowing and loving and serving Him, then fantastic. But if not, should I?

I remember working really hard for those honor cords. I remember feeling very proud of myself walking across a twenty foot stage wearing them. I remember one of the greatest gifts of that education was helping me uncover the specific plan God had for my life. And I remember, at that dinner with my friend, feeling the lie of comparison creep in. After all, as a stay at home mom, albeit in the very role I both dreamed of and felt called to, the visible accomplishments and public recognition levels are low.

But my friend helped me change my mind. When I’m up to my elbows in dirty dishes, or scrubbing a blow-up diaper mess off the carpet, I am living out my vocation. And my vocation is a direct way to love and serve God.

My friend told me that night the highlight of her past two years. She had decided to join a religious order. She was hanging up her life of recognition and achievement for the quiet, hidden life of a convent. And when I asked her how that was even possible, with her prestigious status, she replied with a shrug. All that time had not been a waste. All that effort had not been for boosting her ego. Rather, all that experience had served her for this moment. Had served her toward making this great and humble decision. Had served as a means toward something greater. This decision of self-gift. This decision of her end. This decision of her ultimate purpose. This decision to love and serve God.

So keep my old honor cords in the toy bin. At the end of the day, what was the honor for anyway?