Going For It

I’m in a season of life where margin is pretty thin. You know margin–that extra space that lined the perimeter of your old high school papers. The boundary that your thoughts were supposed to stay inside so your words didn’t go falling off the page.

The margin is intended to give some padding. Whether its your dissertation or your profit column, you want what it offers–space, wiggle room, where you can breathe, or reduce the tension. Margin is a necessary evil — it presents like you have some more room to fill, when the best use of margin is to leave it empty — no modifications, no tweaking to give yourself more room to write or spend.

Leave the margin alone. It’s there for a reason.

Let me explain.

Two days ago I left the house after my husband had left to take the kids to school and clearly someone had spilled an entire bowl(?) cup (?) jar (?) of salsa in a heaping clump on the ground. To say it looked as delightful as it does on a chip heading toward my mouth as it did spilled on the ground in a way in which it could also double as an unexpected throw up would be a lie. It looked awful and I rolled my eyes and wished it away, but had to go to work. I returned home that day to the pile of throw up, I mean salsa, and wondered if the neighbor minded seeing this heap of goodness in his comings and goings. But, again, I did nothing about it. I had to make dinner. Start the arctic pet project for my six year old and quiz my twin sons for their history test while running loads of laundry. I mean, after all, it was Monday. Who has time to clean up salsa vomit?

Another example. Yesterday morning, as I was pulling out to take the kids to school, I could tell I was running over something. Confirming it wasn’t any of my kids (all accounted for in their seats), I was forced to jump out, look around the car, the back tires, underneath it – all clear.

Got back in, started to back up and couldn’t.

My brain jumped to my husband being out of town. The car was stalling. I was going to have to have my car towed to my kids’ school to drop them off before taking it in for repairs.

I jumped back out. Nothing. Nowhere.

Tried again.

Stuck on something.

Turned out it was a soccerball smooshed under the front right tire. Maddened for my 3 minute inconvenience, we unlodged the culprit.

We were late to school, I needed to keep moving to get to work. The salsa vomit was still there and I just sighed loudly as we made our way out of the driveway.

No margin, means less room to adapt. To deal.

No margin means the salsa vomit remains. When pulling a hose out to wash it off seems like it might be the straw that breaks the camels back, you may ask how your margins are looking.

Where are you pushing out your margins?

Where can you tighten them back up?

For my entire childhood, I used to watch my mom with awe and wonder when she would peel her Florida naval orange with a butcher knife. With precision and confidence, she maintained a single flow of the peel curling around itself as she unveiled the orange’s insides. It was a work of art to watch. She could do it while chatting, doing a crossword puzzle, all at the kitchen table. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized that you can also peel an orange with your fingers. It was the butcher knife that made it the most interesting. She never cut herself nor bled as far as I know.

It wasn’t until I got older that I realized that there are much less aggressive tools to use to peel an orange. Where if you slip, you won’t accidentally slice yourself. Or say, cut off a finger. And while neither option is right or wrong, I think the butcher knife on the orange peel is where my intense approach to life was birthed.

Unfortunately, I see my margins as an orange peel and I attack that free space with a butcher knife. I have the big boulders of my commitments in place (my husband, each child, my job, my home, my sanity) and then the margin is there to help me be my best at each one of those commitments. It’s when I fill the margin in with extra (as amazing as it may be) or when my margin is forced to be filled with unexpected things (sickness, other people’s health, extra needs) then my ability to adapt - say, spray off the salsa vomit - can start to feel impossible.

The margins are designed for our benefit. Our papers looked prettier, our bank accounts feel more secure, our hearts are more open to the Lord’s leading, when we don’t drown our margins with more.

How do you approach your margins?

Butcher knife, or no?