Part of Enough is Enough

I’ve said it before: With God, you are enough.

But maybe that’s not true. At least, not in the way I used to think about it.

I’ve had a few experiences of late where I have, for lack of better words, not been enough.

Someone invited me to participate in something, and I did. But it didn’t yield the results they were hoping for. I didn’t meet their expectations. I wasn’t enough.

It’s been a rough parenting few weeks and one nigh recently I found myself in tears because, once again, I don’t know how to help my child. I don’t know the answers. And the answers I offer aren’t received well.  I am not enough.

I have a strong understanding of and firm belief in certain spiritual truths, such as casting out fear with faith and not allowing external validation or criticism to sway my feelings about myself and the world around me, yet I sway. I am not strong enough to stand in complete confident serenity. I am not enough.

Like Paul, I know that with God all things are possible.

But I am still not enough.

I used to think (as early as this afternoon) that God could make me enough. That He could take all weaknesses and make them strengths. That with His help I could be exactly what my children need them to be, what the world needs to me be. . . what He needs me to be. That with Him, I could somehow be enough.

But I don’t believe that anymore.

This is not a siren sounding from the depths of a depressive epiphany. In fact, it is quite the opposite.

You see, I had clung to the fact that with God I could be enough for everything and everyone in my life. I wasn’t okay not being enough on my own, but I accepted it because I know that with Him I could be enough. I could be the mother my kids need me to be. I could be the speaker and writer publishers and readers need me to be. I could be (insert calling or label here) that others need me to be.

But that night, as my daughter walked out of the room taking my heart with her, I realized I wasn’t enough for her. The following thought was that with God I could be so I need to pray to be more.

Then a new reached into my mind like sunlight peeking through newly ripped blinds.

I am not enough for her. I nor will God make me enough. Because she needs more than just me. She needs Him.

I let that sink in, then began down that mental road.

I am not supposed to be enough for her.

I don’t know all the answers, and though God can and has blessed me with inspiration regarding my children, He won’t give me all the answers each of my children needs, because I am not the only source He wants them to turn to. If I were enough for my daughter, for instance, would she need Him? Would she seek Him? Would she need others in her life?

I have put so much pressure on myself to be enough—which, translated in woman-speak means everything—that I haven’t left space in my mind for the idea that I’m not supposed to be enough.

I can’t be enough

I will fail people.

I will make mistakes.

I will not know all the answers.

I will not connect with every viewer or reader.

I will have weaknesses and faults as long as I live.

I will disappoint people.

I will not be perfect at everything.

I will not be everything everyone needs—or even everything one person needs.

I will fall short.

I will not be enough.

And God, as good and capable as He is, won’t make me.

He won’t make me able to never fail people.

He won’t make me mistake-free.

He won’t make every viewer or reader love me.

He won’t take away my weaknesses and faults completely.

He won’t magically turn me into someone who won’t disappoint anyone.

He won’t make me everything everyone needs—or even everything one person needs.

He won’t make me succeed every time.

He won’t make me enough, even if He could.

Because it’s not about me. 

The moment I try to be enough for others—meaning, to meet all their needs and make them happy, I do a few things. I take away some of their personal responsibility to think and do for themselves. I take away their privilege to grow through struggle. I also leave little room for others to meet their needs as well.

I am not supposed to be enough for them because God has put other people in their lives to help them, support them, and love them too. People who think differently than me, who can reach others in a way that I can’t. Even my own children.

As my daughter and I shared tears that night, I realized I wasn’t enough for her. I wasn’t enough to give her all the answers or to take her pain away. I wasn’t enough to respond to her in the perfect way. I wasn’t enough.  And I’m not going to be enough because being enough for her isn’t my job. It isn’t the way God has set things up. She needs Him. She needs others. She needs me. She needs herself.

It’s not that with God I am enough, in the context of Him making me enough. But rather, when I stand with God, I am part of enough. When I stand with others who can help my children, we are part of enough. And when I help my children stand for themselves, they become part of enough.

I am not supposed to be enough. I am supposed to be a part of enough.  My part of enough, then, is to love and serve and teach the best I can.

I won’t be enough in my speaking and writing, simply put, because there are some people who simply don’t connect with me. I don’t resonate with them. Some even don’t like me very much. God isn’t going to make me enough for them because it’s not about me. They don’t like me. And I have to be okay with that. My part of enough, then, is to do my part—to speak and write the good things I love the best I can.

I won’t be enough for those in my larger circles of friends and acquaintances. I’m not meant to me. I’m not the friend you see in the movies that says the perfect things in three lines and all the world is better. I can’t be what everybody needs. I am not enough. My part of enough is to be a good person and try to improve a little every day, to love and be loved, to get up after I fall, and to be real.

I used to think I could be enough with His help, meaning, He would make up for my mistakes and faults and fill in the holes I’d left—like holy armor or a divine clean-up crew—so my efforts would, then, be enough.

But now I see it as me standing next to Him. I fall short and He smiles lovingly at my effort. Then He goes to work through the Spirit, through divine choreography, through others, to help meet the needs and righteous wants of those I love. I am a part of His plan. Not the whole plan. He is not the backup plan for when I fail. He is the coordinator of the plan I am a part of.

I am part of enough. He knows the whole enough.

In this new light, I am no longer afraid of not being enough for my children or anyone. There is no failure in not meeting everyone’s needs because that’s not God’s expectation. That’s not my job. I can trust that God knows my children and His children well enough that He has plans to give them all they need—to give them enough—if they let Him. (Because in all of this, others still have their agency and can choose to reject all their enoughs if they want to.)

With God, I am still not enough. But, with God, I am part of enough. I am a part of their enough, and I am a part of your enough. My part is different sizes in the lives of those around me, but it’s still just a part.

My mind turns to the people in my life, how they fill their parts of my enough. And I love them. I love the different colors and beats they bring into my life. I love that my needs are met through many of them—some needs I didn’t even know I had. Some play bigger parts in my enough—like my husband, children my parents, and close friends. Some play smaller, but vital parts of my enough—like the friend who sends what they think is a random message but actually the answer to a prayer I’d whispered that morning. Like a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes swirling together, I can see God bringing people into my life that all play parts in my enough.

And I can see, now, that I am just a part of theirs.

I don’t have to enough for everyone. Even my kids. I just have try to do my part of enough well. And that is something, I think, God will help me make possible.

So, now, I have a new motto. Rather than, “I am not enough” I am going to say “I am part of enough”. In fact, I’m going to cross-stitch it on a pillow.  That’s how much I like it.

I am part of enough. And that's enough.

Lucy's hands: Why God sometimes allows us to suffer.

(Excerpt from "Does This Insecurity Make Me Look Fat?")

Photo of Lucy’s hands courtesy of Kimberly Robinson

Do you ever wonder why we must endure some of the burdens we are asked to bear?

             I used to ask, “Why?” until a young mother’s example answered the question for me.

One Sunday, I was walking down the hallway to teach my class of five-year-olds when a sister in the hall stopped me. She told me that Lucy, the sweet, almost one-year-old daughter of a friend of mine, had been taken to the hospital. No one knew exactly what had happened, only that Lucy had been hurt.

By the end of our Sunday meetings, most of the congregation had been made aware of the situation. Meals were scheduled to be taken to the home. Care for Lucy’s older brother had been arranged. Prayers had already been whispered. Some tears had already been shed.

Through phone calls and visits, we learned what had happened. Lucy had been playing on the floor as her family had been getting ready for church. They had just moved into a new home, and Lucy was exploring the new family room. She was just beginning to walk and would often hold on to furniture and other things to help herself stand. This particular morning, Lucy crawled over to the gas fireplace and pulled herself to a standing position, leaning her full weight on her small hands as they pressed into the hot glass. The heat was intense, but Lucy was too young to realize that the palms of her hands were burning. She simply stood there, leaning against the hot glass pane for several seconds until her mother saw her and ran across the room.

Lucy’s quick-thinking parents immediately sought medical care. It was a long day of tears, doctors, praying, and waiting.

After a few days in the hospital, Lucy was able to come home. My husband and I paid the family a visit. Lucy was already in bed, and we sat with her parents, Matt and Stephanie, who were understandably exhausted. As we listened to them retell their experience, I was moved by their faith in the face of this adversity. My heart ached when they told me of the pain and suffering Lucy had experienced. I thought to myself how grateful I was that the ordeal was over—Lucy was home now, safe and warm in bed.

Then her mother told me about Lucy’s recovery process.

The doctors had performed skin grafts to save her hands. Then, to protect them as they healed, her hands and arms were wrapped up to the elbows.  During the healing process, the palms of Lucy’s hands would need to be stretched to prevent the skin from healing too tightly. Stephanie smiled through tired, moist eyes as she explained to my husband and me that this stretching had to be done not once or twice a day but every hour.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

The answer was a tearful “Yes, but it’s the only way for her hands to heal correctly.” If the palms weren’t stretched, the skin would not heal with enough flexibility, and Lucy would not be able to open her hands fully as she grew older.

Oh, this poor little girl! was my first thought. To endure not only such initial pain and trauma but to have to experience pain over and over again—how heartbreaking!

The following Sunday, I saw Stephanie and Lucy in the restroom at church. It was time for the hourly stretching of Lucy’s hands. I watched as Stephanie set her smiling little girl on the counter and talk softly to her. Then she gently took Lucy’s hand. Lucy recoiled and began to whimper, knowing what was about to happen. Calmly and gently, Stephanie bent Lucy’s fingers back to stretch the healing skin. Lucy cried.

Stephanie spoke the tender words of a loving parent: “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. We are almost finished. You are doing so well. Mommy’s right here. I love you.” I turned my head and looked at the floor, feeling that I was invading a private moment between mother and daughter. I was also trying to hide my tears. I was watching a painful, yet tender exchange between child and parent. But it struck me that I was also witnessing a profound representation of the relationship between me and my heavenly Parent.

There have been many times in my life when I have struggled, when I have felt tired and stretched. My prayers in my younger days had often included this plea: “Heavenly Father, how can you let this happen to me?” It was difficult for me to understand how feeling so much pain could be for my benefit. I thought that if God loved me, He would save me from such pain. But most of the time that did not happen.

Little Lucy hurt herself—even though she was not fully aware of what she was doing. She had loving parents who helped to her heal. Even though it hurt, they knew that stretching her hands would lead to full use of them in the future. Temporary pain now would lead to full recovery later. Her parents knew this, so they stretched her hands for her benefit, even though it broke their hearts to do it. Out of their deep love for their daughter and their understanding of how necessary the stretching was, they not only allowed Lucy to hurt but they willingly and lovingly acted as the instigators of the pain. It took great courage and emotional strength on their part to administer this therapy, but they did what was hard now in order to help Lucy in the long run.

It might have been easier for them to say, “No, we don’t want Lucy to hurt anymore. She’s been through enough. We want to protect her. We will not stretch her hands.” But they were looking at the situation through the eyes of loving parents. They were looking at and loving not just the little Lucy but also the Lucy of the future: Lucy the future piano player, Lucy the future mother, Lucy the future artist, Lucy with full use of her hands. They understood the difficult truth that Lucy would have to endure pain now to reach a greater potential later.

We are told that the purpose of our mortal existence is that we might have joy (see 2 Nephi 2:25), but our lives in mortality are also punctuated with all manner of trials and tribulations. During these difficult times, we might feel stretched; we might feel pain and even suffering. We might cry as Alma did, when he was bound, imprisoned, and beaten, “How long shall we suffer these great afflictions, O Lord?” (see Alma 14:26).

When we feel stretched and are suffering, we might find ourselves wishing that our Heavenly Father would say, “No, I don’t want you to hurt anymore. You’ve been through enough. I want to protect you. I will not stretch you anymore.” If that wish were granted, we would momentarily be free from pain or discomfort. We might feel relief and happiness. It might seem to be an easier way to end the trial—but we would not grow.

Alma had faith, even in the midst of his afflictions. His plea to know how long the suffering would last was followed by, “O Lord, give us strength according to our faith which is in Christ unto deliverance” (Alma 14:26).  Alma understood that faith was imperative in the face of adversity. He knew that the Lord had a purpose and a plan for him, and he looked to God for guidance and help.

Our Father in Heaven loves us dearly and perfectly. He does not find any joy in our suffering. But He is not looking at and loving us just for the present. He is also looking at and loving our future selves. He knows that sometimes healing hurts.  He knows that for us to grow, we need to be stretched. He knows that for us to become like Jesus Christ, we need to change, and sometimes change comes only through adversity.

As a loving parent himself, Alma later testified of this principle to his son. He said, “I have been supported under trials and troubles of every kind, yea, and all manner of afflictions; . . . and I do put my trust in him, and he will still deliver me” (Alma 36:27).

What a powerful example Lucy’s family was, to me and to the entire congregation, of the influence of the love of good parents—and our Heavenly Parent. It reminds me there is purpose to my suffering. It also helps me to understand that my Father in Heaven allows me to suffer because He loves me—and that it is not an easy thing for Him to allow. It gives me hope that I can be healed, that pain is only temporary. And it helps me know that my loving Heavenly Father is there for me throughout the trial and the healing.

I am reminded of the gentle words that Lucy heard from her loving mother during the painful stretching: “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. We are almost finished. You are doing so well. Mommy’s right here. I love you. You will be okay.”

Now, when I am hurting, feeling stretched, and growing, I imagine those words as an earthly echo of my Heavenly Father’s loving message to me: “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. We are almost finished. You are doing so well. I am right here, and I love you. You will be okay.” We know we are loved not because our life is easy but because He is there to help us when it is hard.

That’s the power of my favorite word: perspective.

Perspective helps us find solace in the truth that God will not give us more that we can handle with His help. Perspective helps us understand that even though we see only a piece of the big picture we can still have faith in the One who created it. Perspective assures us that we are not alone in our trials and enables us to find the purpose in our lives and in our pain.

 (Excerpt from "Does This Insecurity Make Me Look Fat?")