Fake it Til you Feel It

A couple weeks ago, when the girls went down for their naps, I went outside and sat in the chicken coop.

I guess I'll do anything for alone-time these days.

Now before you picture me sitting on a roost or in some mucky shavings, I can set you at ease and tell you that it's a cute little white building with a small porch surrounded by green grass, under a shade tree. In my opinion, it's pretty fancy-schmancy as far as rural chicken coops are concerned. The inside is divided in half, with the back part being where the chickens mill about, roost at night, and access the nesting boxes. The front half has a few salvaged cabinets, shelving for feed and whatever random gardening items I drag in, as well as an old 1970's orange plastic bucket-seated chair with metal legs. The previous owners left it behind, so it serves as HQ for nesting box watching.

While sitting in that bright orange chair, casually passing out hellos to a few of the hens who'd come to deposit their gems, the thought occurred to me that Andrew and I are chicken farmers. It struck me as odd, because I have had an image of a REAL chicken farmer being someone who has a huge farm, a red barn, and a million or so chickens in his possession. I realized that for some time I've felt like we're only playing at it, keeping chickens that is, when the truth of the matter is that we're really doing it.

When we acquired our first tiny flock 3 years ago, I couldn't tell you what a waddle was, what colors an Easter egger would lay, or why those baby chicks would someday want to sit on something high before they could properly go to bed at night. I certainly would have thought you were talking botany if you'd mentioned the "bloom" of an egg. What the world?! It's been a process, but we've learned a lot. The chicks grew up, and with them, our knowledge of how to care for them. I couldn't tell you at what point we moved out of novice chicken keepers, nor if that really matters. If you ask my Andrew, he will tell you that we became chicken farmers the moment we selected them to take home. And he would be right.

So, right there in the little white coop, amongst the quiet clucking, I realized that I've had some skewed thinking. In something as simple as keeping chickens, I didn't think it really counted until we'd been at it for a while. You know, until we had it down pat. Or at least had a red barn. The real truth is that the moment we begin doing something, we become it. This thought has been rolling around in the back of my head over the weeks, and has applied to other parts of my life.

Somewhere along the way, I picked up the phrase "Fake it til you feel it." This statement commands that if you don't feel/believe/like etc something, then act like you do until you genuinely do. While I don't support being fake or dishonest, there is something to to be learned from practicing something until we possess it. This makes me think of a believer's state of salvation. Christ has saved me, so I am saved, but since I'm still breathing and sinning, I am also continuing to be saved. Therefore, even when I may not feel like it, as I practice patience, I am being patient, also while growing in patience. Does that blow your mind?! It does mine. But that could be simply because there's little left of it at the end of the day. ;)

What I am suggesting is that for any area you or I need to grow in, let's fake it til we feel it. When Andrew and I were first married, I would start my day and avoid forget to make the bed. I later learned that if our bed was made, then Andrew felt like the house was clean. Realizing he could care less about dust bunnies lurking in the corners if the bed was made, this action became important to me. As a self-avowed non-maker of beds (who really likes to put decorator pillows in their just-so spots anyway?!), I had to fake it til I felt it. Sooner than not, as I daily owned this small task, I became....dun-dun-dunnnn...The Maker of the Bed. Subsequently, I now happen to love putting the pillows in their rightful places. Just ask my husband!

While this is a silly example, God has encouraged me that as I put on what I'd normally avoid, I'm growing. I am owning it. Be it parenting, cooking, listening, loving, cleaning; I am becoming that very thing which I put on. What's more is that what I practice can take on more meaning, a deeper character, or a greater richness. The act may end up becoming a skill.

It doesn't matter exactly when the transformation took place, rather, that something new and perhaps even beautiful exists where it didn't before. At some point, your and my titles begin to stack up. I become Jenna the patient Mama, Jenna the good listener, Jenna the puller of garden weeds, feeder of the hungry, washer of cloth diapers still working on not loathing this one, maker of the bed, and yes, even keeper of chickens. I'm doing it. It's happening. And even when I'm not feeling it, practice makes perfect.

I'm encouraged that at whatever stage of development I'm in, if I'm doing it, I'm making ground. There is progress. For those things I want to do but lack the skill, I should just start doing them and grow from there. God is gracious to remind me of what I should be doing for the betterment of myself, my family, and those we're around, and He will do the same for you. He is faithful to grow His children. He gives rest to the weary (Mt 11:28), and offers inspiration in the strangest of places. Even in chicken coops.

The Never Ending Story

Hello, again. It's been nearly three months since I last blogged. In that time we've been busy welcoming the arrival of spring, being giddy over our new hens laying their first eggs, getting a garden plot started again, and watching our girls grow like weeds. All of this has seemed to happen at lightning speed.

In the past three months, I've continued to deal with my own version of "The Neverending Story", known as potty training. We began back in January, and have slogged on. Like an uphill climb. Through mud. The "Potty train in a Day" how to's were a total joke. I wanted to throw toilet paper at those mothers who made it look so easy, but learned not to be a hater just because their kiddos were "ready". For any mothers yet to face this journey with your own wee-ones, I do not mean to discourage you. It's just that I've finally accepted that for all of the time, training, encouragement, incentive bribery , and guidance I've given my Olivia, she just isn't ready. She's not owning it yet. The irony of this fact is that she is potty trained. We have accident free days under our belts (after many accident filled ones), have run errands in big girl panties without disaster (although there have been many disasters), and for my highly verbal child, have had every possible discussion with her about being a big girl, using the potty, etc. Yes, she is fully potty trained, but only when I remind and take her to go. Like every 30 minutes. And as much as I cringe to admit this; her potty training is currently, likely a greater reflection of how "with it" I am on any given day. Perish the thought, because I am still in desperate search of my A-game. Until then, we slog on, because some day it's going to "click" and I'll have an independently potty trained child. Hopefully I'll find my A-game, too.