Success vs. Failure

Our front door... for the next few weeks.

As Jesus is calling us to step away from Church Planting (read the update letter here), I have had to redefine success biblically and what that looks like in my life. Here's what I've learned:

WHAT IS SUCCESS?

In order to determine success or failure we will have an expectation of one or the other. We must have an idea of what success looks like, or what constitutes failure. Even if we decide to simply “hope for the best” there is an underlining of what “the best” must be.

We make success vs. failure lines in the sand in every area of our lives, be it financially, as we homeschool, in our ministries, our marriage, our health, our parenting… 

And more often than not the concept of success is based on numbers. How many dollar signs are in our savings? How are our kids’ GPA? How many ladies are in the Bible Study? How many happy years have we been together? How many pounds are on the scale? How many years before the kids are potty trained?

But in God’s economy success is measured in a vastly different way. In Kingdom credits for the Christian woman's success is measured only in faithfulness. 

Have we stewarded our finances well? Have we sought to instruct our children in knowledge and care of God’s world? Have we loved the women in the Bible Study well? Have we sacrificially cared for our spouse? Have we honored the Lord with our bodies? Have we shepherded our children in light of the gospel?

THE GIFT OF FAITHFULNESS

Numbers do not define success. Faithfulness does. And even then, it is inevitable that we will be unfaithful. 

We are called to love God with all our heart, soul, and mind. Yet we so often love our comfort more than that which is eternal.  

We are commanded to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God. Yet we seek fairness, are sharp to answer, and place our busy schedule above God’s to-do list for us. 

We ought to rejoice in all things, giving thanks to God, but we grumble in our hearts, and harbor bitterness toward our husband and kids.

If faithfulness is the measure of success we are to aim for, well, we’ve failed.

BUT GOD.

But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved—and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. 

For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.

Ephesians 2:4-10

If the very faith that saves us is a gift, and such a huge deal is made out of the fact that we bring NOTHING to the covenant table, wouldn’t it also stand to reason that not just our faith, but our FAITHFULNESS is a gift from God?

WORK OUT THE FRUIT

When we list the fruit of the Spirit we have love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Faithfulness is a gift, found only in the Spirit, and we as Christians have full access and ownership thereof. 

The fruit of the Spirit has been likened to a muscle. The more we use it the stronger it gets. The more we neglect it the more it atrophies. The muscle never goes away, but we have a responsibility in how we use it. 

So in every area of our life, financially, as we homeschool, in our ministries, our marriage, our health, our parenting–we are called not to achieve any particular number, but simply faithfulness.

Faithfulness to give our absolute best every day (at whatever level “our best” might be that day), knowing that by the mercies of God, we are to present our bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is our spiritual worship. (Romans 12:1) 

We will fail. This side of heaven, and for as long as our souls remain housed in sin-broken bodies, we will never be completely faithful. Which makes the gift of Jesus that much better. HE is our perfection. He stands in our place before the Father. When we fail He succeeds. Where we are unfaithful, He remains faithful.

So if Jesus is our success, we’ve already succeeded.

Now this is not a ticket to lazy living or half-hearted attempts to do the right thing. No. Quite the opposite. 

Out of our gratitude and joy and wonder at all Jesus is and all that He has done, we will be compelled to be faithful as a response to His faithfulness. And the more we understand His heart and appreciate His gift the more natural it is to respond in faithfulness to Him.

Philippians 2:12-13 says, Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, so now, not only as in my presence but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure.

Our salvation is a gift. But we have a responsibility in how we respond with the rest of our life. We must “work out” what God has “worked in.”

JESUS LIVES THE FRUIT

Thinking back to the fruit of the Spirit, we see Jesus as the perfect personification of each attribute, and it was displayed beautifully at the cross.

God’s LOVE was what drove Jesus to the cross.

It was for the JOY that was set before Him that He endured the cross.

PEACE between God and man was the purpose of the cross.

PATIENCE compelled Jesus to pray from the cross “Lord, forgive them, they don’t know what they’re doing.”

His KINDNESS to suffer the cross is what leads us to repentance.

GOODNESS is the standard that was required at the cross.

His FAITHFULNESS to see God’s plan through earned us redemption at the cross.

GENTLENESS at the cross withheld God’s wrath from all whose sin Jesus bore.

SELF-CONTROL kept Jesus on the cross until it was finished.

Christ is the perfect exemplification of the fruit of the Spirit, so when we exercise the fruit we are looking like Christ. And when we reverse engineer the process, as we gaze on Christ we will be transformed to look more like Him, and will thus be living in and working out the Sprit’s fruit. 

As we read in 2 Corinthians 3:18, “And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.”

In seeking Christ we can not help but worship. And in worshiping we will look more like Him. And in looking like Him we are exercising the fruit of the Spirit. And one aspect of that fruit is faithfulness. And faithfulness is success.

THIS IS WHERE IT GETS PERSONAL

But faithfulness doesn't always (usually) come with numbers. And that reality is attempting to challenge my heart's peace. I know truth is not tied to other people's perception, but I'm often tempted to consider the falsehood that others' thoughts determine my success.

But hallelujah--I'm actively fighting against that fear of man which is SO good! Struggling rather than giving in is a WIN! The fear I'm currently kicking in the teeth is this: If people are unaware of where our hearts have been and how we’ve been living faithfully, they might think that where we are now looks like failure. Here's what they'd see:

We invested three years into this church plant endeavor and we never got to see the church happen. We have no numbers to show success- zero people on our core team, zero dollars put toward the church building, zero converts, zero baptisms. It looks like a failure.

For the last several months we’ve been hitting a number of divine roadblocks, the main one being the lack of people for a core team. 

So just this last week we called our main supporters to pray fiercely for us, and had some crucial conversations. As of this past Monday, with much prayer and wise counsel we are confident that Jesus is calling us to pivot. (Oh, goodness, I just started to cry as I wrote that. Wow. Grieving is going to be thick. It's a good grief, though, for we are leaving a good thing for a better thing... but still... Oof. Hold on, I need a tissue.) *sniff

Pivoting is HARD. But.

We have assurance that we have accomplished everything Jesus has called our family to do here, and now He has more for us to do elsewhere. We trust that the church planting vision will be passed to someone who can take it even further, and we are grateful for how these last several years have perfectly trained and equipped us for what's next.

We still love Calistoga and desire to see a church planted there, but Jesus has made it clear that He is now calling us out of the Napa Valley. We’re not sure what the Lord is doing, we are sure that it is good.

WORTH IT

We don't have a church to show for the three years we invested, but we’ve been faithful. And therein lies success.And Jesus will use that in eternal ways that we can’t even imagine. There is a grieving for all we had hoped to see, and in the knowledge that we must say goodby to sweet friends and beautiful opportunities. 

We may not see the fruit of our labor, we may not have even planted seeds, but we tilled the soil. We were faithful. And even though we don’t have tangible numbers, we have a palpable faith that in Kingdom economy Jesus has redeemed our efforts as success.

So I must remind my own heart: be it financially, as we homeschool, in my ministries, my marriage, my health, my parenting… I must seek Jesus and be faithful. Therein lies my success.

Goin' Home: An invitation to join me on my trek through the Napa Valley

Photo from SevenFifty

The steering wheel jiggled under my fingers, the shallow potholes announcing their presence in a subtle rumble that never quite matched the rhythm of the tympani drums playing over the Classical music station. With my left foot propped up on the edge of my seat, I sat comfortably folded like a gangly grasshopper, my knee a perfect shelf for my elbow to support my hands placed at a languid 4 and 8 wheel position.

“The best defensive driver is an offensive driver.” 

My father’s voice niggled at my memory, a flash of my first driving lesson on the foggy Humboldt cliffs pulling at my attention. Daddy would be appalled at my origami posture, though I’m sure he would have been proud of how well I managed the busy freeways I had abandoned just a few minutes prior. 

A country girl at heart, I never cared for the chaos of the angry urban streets, though dad’s instruction from my teen years (“Check your mirrors.” “Ten and two, Chrissey.” “I’m not worried about your driving; I’m concerned about the idiots around you.”) gave me the confidence necessary to navigate the tangle of offramps and intersections around The City. 

After hours on the freeways of the Bay Area, my shoulders tense, my feet firmly planted and hands in the daddy-and-DMV-advised position, it was a relief to turn off of Trancas onto the Silverado Trail. As soon as I saw that long stretch of empty highway nestled between hills and vineyards of the upper Napa Valley, I inhaled, my lungs rejoicing in the first deep breath since early that morning, and I melted into a more comfortable, yet far less safe posture. The stress of the long weekend had dribbled away, mirroring my fingers as they slid from their offensive grip on the wheel to an easy support.

I watched the grape vines in their endless rows flicker by. I could almost hear the rows call out a staccato ”thupp, thupp, thupp, thupp,” as if they were the corner pages of a notebook being pulled back in a flipbook animation. As a musician I’ve always loved the mathematics of soundwaves, and my heart lulled as I watched the wide rows just outside my window flanked by the vines further away shiver in a visual trill of halves and harmonics. The patterns were music, the scenery, an orchestra, and I, a humble spectator surrounded by a symphony of beauty.

Autumn had arrived, and with it the vibrant copper tones spilling over the velvet hills. The golden hour’s sun shivered just a few fingers-width above the horizon, melting the rows of leaves in a wave of heaven-touched splendor. The heavy grapes lent a rusty purple shadow below the foliage, creating an ocean of sunburnt paper clouds on entangled arms hanging over a dusting of cosmos and daisies. 

It would soon be cutting time, and in a few weeks the leaves would rain yellows and auburns onto the earth, transforming the branches into gray arthritic knuckles exposed to the chilling air. The rows of leathery vines would evolve from suspended feathers to anorexic silhouettes against the hilly backdrop. The inevitable winter preluded a whisper even as the leaves’ golden highlights boldly promised a Bachus-worthy eternal warmth and bounty.

I pulled down the visor as the road curved westward, the sun fierce against my face. Squinting against the yellow glare I adjusted my sunglasses, jiggling the right hinge to better rest on my ear, flecks of paint falling off the weathered plastic at my touch. For a twelve-dollar pair of glasses they had served me well over the last four years. I hoped they would last me at least through the rest of the season, as the tint held the perfect shade of burnt crimson to bring out the depth of vineyards and sunsets. At the thought I dropped my chin and looked over the frames at the rolling hills. Even without the added hue the view was breathtaking.

Pushing the shades further up my nose I settled deeper into my seat, rolling my shoulders and resting my head back. I let my elbow slide down to the window frame, resting my left wrist on my knee, allowing my right hand to manage the steering wheel solo. I breathed in deeply, noticing the odd scent of bananas and vinegar that was frequent in this later part of wine season. 

The road curved again and the sun shone warm against my neck. I yawned with abandon, and my jaw dropped, my ears popped, squishing my eyes into watery slits. I could feel myself getting too comfortable, and realized I would have to fight to be alert for the remaining 40-minute drive. 

Sighing in resignation I uncoiled my left leg from its perch and planted it firmly on the floorboard. I stretched over to the passenger seat and unzippered my crossbody purse with clumsy fingers, riffling through the random receipts, pens, cards, and cough drops to find that last piece of wintergreen gum I was sure was hiding in there somewhere. Ah-ha! I wrangled the gum out of its wrapper and folded it into my mouth like a sugary ribbon, and once again steadied the helm with both hands. The minty explosion made my eyes water, and I immediately felt more alert. 

Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was playing and I turned up the radio, returning my grip to the lower half of the wheel. The Autumn movement of the piece began as a chipper arrangement, with fast runs and trills accented by arpeggios and jumps. My jaw bounced up and down on my gum, while my fingers tapped along with the rhythm of the strings until the instruments merged into a slower section. 

As the melody swelled I noticed that I wore a grin, unexpectedly delighted at the exquisite juxtaposition of song and scenery. I wondered if Vivaldi had thought of vineyards at sunset as he composed the piece. I wondered if he had imagined crimson and burnt umber as he penned runs of eighth- and sixteenth-notes. I wondered if he and I just happened to feel the music of Fall in a similar manner, or if Autumn was universal enough to communicate to everyone everything that lingered in the wake of Summer.

My left turn arrived far sooner than I expected. I shouldn’t have been surprised, though, as I was frequently distracted by the scenery and often missed that first road into town. Pope Street boasted a narrow bridge over the Napa River, one of 360 historical stone bridges in the county. Originally built barely wide enough to accommodate two carriages, I regularly held my breath if needing to pass another large vehicle. Without oncoming traffic, however, I straddled the middle dotted line, admiring the verdant green growth of nearly neon moss tucked between the brindle stone walls on either side of the road. 

Yawning again, I flipped the visor up for a better view of the oak trees hanging over the road. The sun had dipped behind the hills and twilight had turned the sky violet. I sighed a happy sigh as I approached town, admiring the way vineyards had given way to homes, and watching the quaint lampposts flickering on over the scattered sidewalks. 

Dvorak’s Largo was introduced on the radio and I sang the apropos words that had been set to that tune:

Goin’ home, goin’ home, I’m a goin’ home;

Quiet-like, some still day, I’m jes’ goin’ home.

It’s not far, jes’ close by,

Through an open door;

Work all done, care laid by,

Goin’ to fear no more.

Goin’ home, goin’ home, I’m jes’  goin’ home;

Goin’ home, goin’ home, goin’ home!

An old brick church came into view, the grandiose Seventh Day Adventist property the landmark for my turn. The red walls shrugged tall shoulders toward the darkening sky, and I turned on my ticker-tocker, the click-click-click indicating my intention to make a left. I waited for an angular Tesla, an Amazon van, and three e-bikes to roll by, and made the turn. I wanted to speed up the little hill, but the elementary school to my left reminded me to take it slow. It was only one block up the hill of homes and a tight right onto Granger before I was in the Quail Meadows neighborhood, a sleepy little collection of 24 homes, mostly populated by sweet retired folks. I yawned again, the breath reaching clear down to my knees, and whooshed it out in a lusty gust that waggled my lips like a horse’s contented blow. 

Parking the minivan under the carport, as close to the garbage bins as possible without tapping the van’s nose to the plastic, I shut off the engine and rested my head back, giving myself just a few seconds of quiet before heading in. As soon as I opened my door I could smell the many active fireplaces and I felt a smile pulling at my lips and pressing at my eyes. Perhaps we’d have s’mores again that evening. Roasting marshmallows inside was always a messy adventure, but the memories gained far outweighed any inconvenience. 

Phone, wallet, glasses, keys.

I repeated the mantra in my head, making sure I had all my possessions in hand before kicking the car door shut. As I walked up the little path behind the row of bushes I aimed my key fob over my shoulder and pressed the lock button far too many times, hearing the beep-beep! salute its affirmation.

38, 39, 40. 41.

I counted my steps from the van to our front door, and reached for the knob. It was unlocked, as usual, and I pushed my way in. The hubbub of four kiddos doing school and chores and playing with the baby was a cheerful, ruckus cacophony, and it wasn’t until the door snicked shut behind me that I was noticed. The happy cries of welcome ricocheted off the tall ceilings and, as I dropped my keys into the little basket on the entryway table, my heart agreed with the children’s announcement of, “Mama’s home!” 

I Am Rosie

Two lines. Two rows of bowed heads and slumped shoulders. Weary people stripped of

their humanity, stolen away from their futures, from their families, from their faith, from the foundations of all they knew. The woman standing in front of me shuddered, her shoulders trembling as she shuffled forward. I followed at her heels and looked around at the endless string of dusty people, wondering if the emptiness in their eyes was reflected in my own.

I stared at the ground, unwilling to take in the fear and the despair of the broken people

around me. The August wind scraped its talons across my skin, and I curled my body against the cold. My feet were dusty, with garish scratches ripping lines from my toes to my ankles. My shoes had been taken away. As had my brothers. And my parents. Along with every sweetness I had ever known.

And now I was about to lose the last part of who I was. More than anything else I was

terrified of where this line was leading me. For just a few more minutes I had a name. I had a future. I had dignity. Yet as the muted colors of the condemned and cowering progressed I was drawn closer to the end of who I was.

I swallowed a shuddering sob and scrunched my eyes tight against the reality that was

barreling toward me. With heaving breaths, I gathered my courage and whispered the only precious thing I had left. I am Rosie. I will never forget who I am. I have a story. I have a name. I am Rosie. I am Rosie. I am Rosie.

Looking up to the free, blue sky I breathed in deeply, only to double over, choking on the

grime and soot wrapped around the camp. My eyes stung against the smoke, and I blinked against the unbidden tears. From under the lashes of my downcast eyes I watched those at the front of the line peel off and retreat, returning with dragging feet to the yard, hobbling down the path between the two rows, the weight of their plight grinding their hearts into the dirt.

Some cradled their arms, transfixed by the jagged lines etched on their flesh. This thing

that was given to them, which served to rip everything else away. I felt my heart beat faster. In fear? In anger? Perhaps. But it was beating. And it was strong.

And I realized something which has since shaped my every moment: Even in the confines of capture, even in the grip of the Gestapo, even in the bowels of this decrepit pit of hell, even if my life were crushed, even if every breath were stolen from my lungs, I still had a choice. Even if I had nothing else, I could still choose this one thing: Hope.

I knew the choice I must make, and the depth of it burned a fire of resolve in my chest,

spilling forth in determined tears. Here, now, in this formation of broken people I would live.  I would survive. I would escape. I would continue to hope.

And as that decision settled into my heart, making its home between the pain and the

sorrow, I noticed details. I saw the woman with intertwined fingers. I heard the child soothing himself with a lullaby. I felt the sun warm my freshly shaved head–that glorious, consistent sun which never burned out–and I noticed the numbers. So many numbers.

I watched the dejected people returning from the front of the line, inspecting their new

identity inscribed in ink, their skin pink and raw around the crisp lines on their forearms.

Those leaving my row were marked in a clumsy script, with shaking lines, sloppy ink,

and uneven spacing. Those from the other row were inked neatly, the numbers uniform and proud.

And so I lifted my head.

I filled my lungs with life.

And I ran to the other line.

In that moment after choosing hope I chased it down because I knew: I was going to

survive. And the life I lived would carry all the mountains I overcame including this brutal trial of having my name taken away in exchange for a number scrawled on my flesh.

And though it may sound petty, though it may be a little thing, this choice to change lines embodied hope for the future, hope for life, hope for freedom. I could not escape the numbers, but I could place myself in the line with the more talented tattooer. I planned to live, and I didn’t want sloppy numbers for the rest of my life. Someday I would find love, and when it came I wanted to be beautiful.

Claiming a place between two broken souls I stood tall, my spine straightening with

resolve, and I whispered a promise to my heart. I am Rosie. I will be fierce and unshakable. I am Rosie. I am not my number. I am Rosie. And I choose hope.

“And so, mayn oytserl, remember,” Rosie tucked a strand of her vibrantly red hair behind

her ear with gnarled fingers as she continued. “There is always a choice, even in the most derelict of dungeons. There is always hope. But it must be chosen and chased after. If you believe in hope you can continue to believe in your dignity. You can continue to believe in your future. You can continue to believe in who you truly are. You may not be able to escape the scars, but hope will shape which line you stand in.”

Rosie survived Auschwitz and was liberated after 3 years under Nazi affliction. She

traveled to America and married a man who loved her well. With great care she stitched her simple wedding gown, crafting sleeves that flowed to her elbows, showing off the number that helped shape her character and confirm her identity. The lines were still crisp and bold, and she was beautiful.

---

Author's Note:

About a year ago I came across this post on instagram, where a sweet gal was sharing a portion of her grandma's story. After reading that single post I wrote this short story. Though inspired by the real Rosie, this piece is fictional. But though it is only wrought out of imagination it is stitched together in awe and honor of those who lived the horror of WWII.