My mother-in-law wraps everything in glitter wrapping paper. It’s become a joke over the years—the way we’ll find glitter two to three weeks after any given holiday, shimmering on the couch cushions, wedged in the crevices of the dining room table, leftover sparkles reminding us Mimi was here.
“Elegant gaudy” is her style of choice, the polar opposite of mine. She loves bright; I love muted. She loves shiny; I love matte. We’ve learned this about each other over the course of almost two decades. Now, when she shops for me, she tones down. When I shop for her, I scale up.
Did you know there's a limit to how many instagram posts a person can like in an hour? I know this because I used to hit that limit. I believe they’ve upped it in recent years (probably to combat the bots) because it hasn’t happened to me in a very long time, but I remember feeling borderline offended the first time it did. How dare Instagram tell me I can’t like all these posts?
I recently shared a piece of writing by a friend, something I do fairly often, and, upon seeing my share, she wrote back: “You are the most encouraging person alive.”
I don’t believe that's true, but, if I can be morbid for a moment, it reminded me that sometimes I think of what people will say about me when I die. (Does anyone else do this or am I a total freak?) I don’t know how much time I have here, or when the Lord will call me home, but I think it’s human nature—and probably our own egos—that wonder what people will say about us when we’re gone.
While I'd hope to leave behind a legacy of love … on a much, much smaller scale, sometimes I think it would be nice to be remembered as a person who liked too many posts on Instagram. Who hit the share button without hesitation. Who left too many comments. Who encouraged too much. Who cheered too loudly. After all, how many have done the same for me?
When we operate out of abundance, it’s easy to throw glitter.
On the contrary—have you ever known someone who seems to get their jollies from offering negative feedback? Or who seem to thrive on picking apart your ideas and dreams the minute you say them out loud?
Julia Cameron has a perfect metaphor for this:
When people cannot see the larger picture of what it is we are trying to do, they will pick out some detail and pick at that. We have, many of us, had the experience of being all dressed up, ready to go somewhere and feeling pretty marvelous, when someone—a parent, a friend, even the babysitter—picks a small piece of lint off our outfit. “Lint picking” is focusing on the small imperfection rather than seeing the greater glory of the whole.
Lint picking. Oof. Yes, that’s it.
I’ve had a fair share of lint picked off me. But—and this is much harder to admit—I know how to be a lint picker, too. You probably wouldn’t know that about me, because if you follow me online, you see me throwing a ton of glitter. You never see me lint picking because I do it in my head. I keep my critiques quiet, silent, internal.
What a gross admission. Why do I do this?
Envy tempts me to lint pick. I want what she has. I want to write like her. Look like her. Be smart like her. Whenever I fall into this trap, it is almost always because I sense I am lacking something. It could be anything—a talent, a skill, a creative gift. I could be lacking confidence, or courage, or faith.
When we operate out of scarcity, it’s easy to lint pick.
There’s something else you should know about my mother-in-law. Every month she sends $50 to Coffee + Crumbs. She is also a Patron. She has bought, I am not even kidding, probably close to 40 copies of The Magic of Motherhood. I am surprised she's not handing them out at grocery stores to every pregnant lady she sees. Last month she signed up for my capsule wardrobe workshop. She reads everything I write. She comments on all of it. Every time I tell her about a new idea churning in my brain, she has two responses: 1) That’s a great idea, and 2) How can I help?
She is the opposite of a lint picker—she is a glitter thrower. And while I don’t love vacuuming literal glitter out of the carpet mid-January, I put up with it because the constant stream of metaphorical glitter she offers is my favorite thing about her.
If I can be honest, I did a lot of lint-picking in my twenties. But here's something I've learned in my thirties: the more time I spend throwing glitter, the less tempted I am to pick lint.
Every single day, we get to choose how we support those around us. We get to choose how we react to other people’s work, and how we celebrate other people’s dreams. We get to choose whether we build one another up or break each other down. We get to choose whether we root for or against our fellow moms, artists, neighbors, friends.
Are we not all limping across the finish line of 2020? Is it not a miracle any of us are still writing, still creating, still whispering dreams out loud? I beg you as we wrap up this horrible, no-good, very-bad year: Let's consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds and whatever beautiful work God has set in front of us to do. Let's cheer loudly for one another. Let's like and share and comment too much. Let's use emojis galore. Let's choose generosity over grumbling. Compliments over criticism. Today is a new day. Let's get out there and throw some glitter.
And who knows? Two or three weeks from now, someone might find traces of it lingering on the couch cushions—right when they need a sparkly reminder to keep going.
