"Daddy, I Made Pancakes!"

This whole conversation started the other night in the bathroom. Steven and I were getting ready for bed, and that is where I do my best talking. I don't know what it is about that space and that time of night, but I could stand there talking for hours. Over the course of the 10 years we've lived in this house, that little room has probably born witness to some of the most transforming conversations of our marriage. And, bless his heart, Steven has learned to love the late-night bathroom conversations almost as much as I do.

On this particular night, I had recently come home from sharing a quick "testimony" at an evening worship night, and I was JAZZED. I had prayed and listened and finally gotten my timid heart to say yes to the opportunity, and then I had walked on that stage with the confidence of the Lord and spoken with boldness and passion. As I later recounted to Steven (because he'd had to stay home with a sick kiddo), I had used my preaching voice. That's the voice that comes out when God wants to use my voice for His glory, and I let him. He anoints it and breathes life into it and it is amazing.

I had been so nervous. Yes, I'm a pastor, and yes, I'm a missionary, and yes, I'm supposed to preach and teach and speak to groups as if these things are everyday occurrences. But getting up in front of people and speaking forth words out of my head and my heart have never been something that I get excited about. Or look forward to. Or think I'm really all that qualified to do. Especially if there's a stage involved. I always feel that there's someone else who can do a better job, or has something better to say. Always. I always feel like I'm unqualified and not good enough and we better set the bar pretty low for her.

So when I feel like I do an even remotely good job, I get pretty surprised. When people come up to me afterwards and tell me that they really needed to hear what I said, I feel the urge to look behind me to see who they're talking to. When I'm standing on that stage, and that preaching voice comes out of me, I wonder who it is that's talking. But, gradually, I'm beginning to learn that that girl is me, and that that voice is mine. It is God-given, but He has given it to me. Wonders never cease.

So, back to the bathroom. Like I said, I was feeling jazzed. What a fun word to describe such a fun feeling, right? I was remembering and reliving and retelling and relishing. Because it had been so good. I had done it and people had been touched and truth was proclaimed and God was glorified. And the buzz was real. But while doing all that jazzed enjoying, I had this niggling thought in the back of my mind: Am I supposed to be this excited over something I did? Is it okay to feel proud of myself? Do I even have anything worth being proud of anyway?

"All of us have become like one who is unclean,
and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags..."
Isaiah 64.6

Even my righteous acts are like filthy rags compared to the righteousness of Christ. I bring my meager, pitiful offering of obedience, and Jesus - not me - is the one who multiplies it and transforms it into something beautiful that can feed multitudes. The gifts I have weren't even mine to begin with - they were given to me, and even when I try to use them I am like a small child learning to ride a bike. When I finally figure out how to stay upright, the wheels keep wobbling and I can't get very far before I topple and fall off again.

So how could my getting up on that stage and allowing God to breathe life into the words He had given me to share be cause for me being proud of myself, in any capacity? What do I have to even be proud of? It was only from God and through God that any of it was even possible.

So, as is custom for late-night bathroom talk, I outsourced the question: "Steven, is it okay to be proud of myself? Is it okay to feel this excited about something I did?" And, in typical Steven fashion, he answered with a resounding yes. According to him, the more excited we feel about ourselves, the better, and walking around patting ourselves on the backs should be an everyday, multiple times a day, exercise. At least, for him it is. While Steven is truly one of the most humble men I know, his confidence has never ceased to amaze me.

One of my favorite parts of marriage is that Steven teaches me new things every day. There are quite a few things that we see differently, and a couple things we outright disagree on. But I know my husband, and if he has a different perspective on something, it is either because he has thought and prayed and read and studied, or it is because he is a different person with different life experiences and a different personality with a different lens on the world. So I love to dig in and figure out what he knows and what he has learned and why he sees the situation in a different light. I always learn so much when I take the time to ask questions and listen, and I think maybe he has learned a lot from doing this with me too.

So, this night, I dug in. I decided to listen to why he believed it was ok to be proud of ourselves. I have always felt that being proud of myself in any capacity was dangerous, sinful even. I mean, self-pride is never spoken of well in Scripture, and it never seems to lead to anything good, so how could it be ok to be proud of myself?

We talked for a while, back and forth, listening and learning - not just about pride and behavior, but about each other too. There were many good thoughts and perspectives, and I know my husband better today than I did the morning before this chat, but nothing seemed to shake the hold I had on the idea that I have absolutely nothing worth being proud of, and no right to take any pride in my stepping onto that stage.

But then he made a connection that I couldn't wiggle around to look at any differently than how he had displayed it. He talked about our littlest kiddo....

Our 3-year-old, Jesse, LOVES to come hang out in the kitchen while we are cooking. When Steven is cooking eggs or pancakes, Jesse is there. When I'm baking banana bread or cookies, Jesse is there. When Steven is mixing and forming hamburger patties, Jesse is there. When I'm putting together a soup or a salad, Jesse is there.

And even more than being there with us, Jesse LOVES to help. Anything we will let him do, he loves. Dumping in the teaspoons and half-cups, mixing together the dry ingredients, stirring the pot, adding the chocolate chips. And he's so proud when the food is ready, too.

"Daddy, I made pancakes!"

Daddy, I made pancakes. The words ring in my heart even now. Did Jesse create or purchase the ingredients? No. Did he come up with the recipe? Determine the proportions or the flavors that would go best together? No. Did he set the griddle temperature or decide how long to wait before flipping them over? No. But when he brings the plate with the golden, steaming, delicious pancakes to the table and says, "Daddy, I made pancakes!" we smile and exclaim and glow because we are so proud of him.

And he is proud of him too. And we celebrate that, we encourage it. We delight when he delights in himself. Did he earn it? Does he deserve it? No. He couldn't have done it by himself, not yet. And we definitely have a bigger mess to clean up now because he helped. But, at the same time, yes. He did earn it, through joining in with us and listening, responding, following our guidelines, sticking with it until the end. He does deserve it, because he said yes, and because he is ours, and because we say he does.

Daddy, I made pancakes.

Daddy, I made pancakes. I said yes. I prayed and listened and made cutting room floor decisions. I walked on that stage and took that microphone and looked into the lights and opened my mouth. I used my voice, Your voice, the voice You breathed life into and anointed and gave to me.

And You were proud. Proud of my yes and proud of my trembling hand and proud of the words that you gave and I chose and you anointed and I spoke. You were glowing with delight and calling me your own and brimming with pride. And somewhere in there, the line between You and me got blurry and I was proud of myself. And you were proud of that too.