In this week's chapter, Herod celebrates his birthday, and over the past week we have celebrated the birthdays of two of our sons: one who just turned 1, and the other, 7. I can tell you that the birthday parties we threw were nothing like Herod's. In fact, I've never been to a birthday party that resembles anything like Herod's. Birthdays in our world are largely full of balloons, homemade cakes that match the birthday theme (I do my best, but they are still so obviously homemade ), and a gathering of grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and our elderly neighbors who love to dote on my sons. Stuffed into our tiny front room, we laugh, hug, and chatter, and do our best not to spill cake in the process. Bright wrapping paper and bows peek out of a garbage bag, and the kids are off playing with all the new toys. It's the essence of innocence. So it struck me more than ever this time, that, in verse 6 when it reads "But when Herod's birthday was kept..." (that word "birthday" sitting there on the page like a bright balloon), I am still not fully prepared for the sinister and awful plots that ensue.
John, on the other hand, has to know what's coming. At least to some degree. For the last several chapters he's been locked in prison, awaiting his fate at the hands of someone he knows is merciless. Someone who has slaughtered all the babies in Israel is certainly not going to bat an eye at killing one man.
And while he is there, alone, sitting in the cold dark, John knows that Jesus is out there, preaching and doing miracles and drawing out multitudes. Many of them the same people who used to follow him. They are calling Jesus's name and worshiping him. What John spent his life working for - the coming of Jesus - is now unfolding. But he is not there to see it. And yet, by all records, there is not one note of jealousy or resentment from John. In fact, he sends his own followers to Jesus to confirm he is the Christ, and then, it would seem, admonishes them to follow him.
I spend my days taking care of my three sons. If I'm not feeding, changing or tracking down the 1 year old (Cooper) and checking his mouth for tiny wads of wet paper (he has an affinity for paper and carpet, but, apparently, not for most fruit), I'm feeding, reading to or cleaning up after my 4 year old (Beck). The 7 year old (Cael) is getting more independent and now does almost everything for himself. The problem is that he doesn't do it very well yet (spilled food, globs of toothpaste, piles of books in every room abound) so, in some ways, he's like a 1 year old, he just eats more and has bigger clothes. On top of that, laundry, carpooling to school, meals, and my part-time job mean that I am running all day long. Some days I forget to even eat lunch, and most nights I go to bed so tired that my husband has to literally prop me back up into kneeling position as I'm saying my prayers. I wake up early to write, but my poetry manuscript (10 + years in the writing) is coming along at a snail's pace, and I often feel so behind in my writing that I am embarrassed to tell anyone I do it.
In the meantime, one of my dear friends from graduate school just saw her first book of poetry published. She's had wonderful success doing public readings and collaborations with other artists. She's enjoyed the kind of attention that I've always felt she deserved. Having exchanged poems and manuscripts with her now for almost 10 years, I know the quality of writing she produces and the talent she has. And I am genuinely happy for her.
And yet, there are days when I think of her success and wonder if it will ever happen to me. I sit in this freezing cold, unfinished basement, surrounded by toys and laundry, trying hard to focus on my own writing, and I wonder if I'm kidding myself. What if I'm just doomed to live a life of hopeless mediocrity? Do I embarrass myself by even trying? What if all of my chances are passing me by, right now? And loudest and worst of all: What if I am, at the core, just a loser?
It's not as if this only happens in the adult arena either. Friday night Cael went to a friend's birthday party at a family fun center. On the way back home, when I asked how the party was, he grew quiet for a minute and then choked out, "I hate laser tag!" When I asked why, he said, "I'm no good at it!" And when I tried to help him brush it off, I realized there was something deeper going on. He recounted for me how embarrassing it was that he was the only one who raised his hand when they asked who had never played before, how even though they suited him up, they didn't explain the rules very well, and how he spent the entire game confused and frustrated. Then he ended by saying, "At the very end, they showed the scoreboard in front of everybody. Everyone's name was listed and they had, like, 100 thousand points. But 'Cael' was at the bottom and it had a big zero next to it." Then these big tears fell down his cheeks and he covered his face with his hands and sobbed.
It was almost more than I could bear. While I know that my son is extremely bright, articulate, funny, and talented, I have no doubts that that single experience at that moment was louder to him than anything else. It told him he was a loser and that he was the only one who wasn't good enough. I tried to explain to him that it didn't matter, that all the other things he's good at do matter, and that if he practiced laser tag he was sure to get better, but that bright scoreboard loomed large all night.
Of all the posts I've done so far, this one has been the timeliest. John the Baptist taught me this week something I desperately needed to remember, something I need to be better at teaching my children: one person's success is not another's failure. Our own good work stands alone and is not countered by anyone else's good work. Or talents. Or time to shine. In life, really, there is no scoreboard. Things ebb and flow for us just like everyone else. It just doesn't look like that sometimes.
It's easy to get caught in that moment when things are going extraordinarily well for other people and not so well for us and feel like we are nothing and that it's all been a waste. But that's unwise and short-sighted. Maybe the key to this, aside from John's perfect example, lies in the very things I say to my kids every day: "You can't both have the exact same things all the time. It's not possible." "Just be happy for each other." "It's his turn."
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