My 3 weeks of holy underachievement

For years, I’ve heard the hackneyed phrase, “You’re a human being, not a human doing” and in my mind, I know the truth that we are loved, not because of what we achieve but because we are of intrinsic worth to God. Period.

But to know something in your head isn’t the same as experiencing it in your body. So for 3 weeks, I tried an experiment that was spurred by a favourite author, Kate Bowler, when she coined the phrase, “A summer of holy underachievement”. It was teeth-gritting hard and entirely out of my Protestant-work-ethic-comfort-zone. But what I learned over these past 3 weeks of intentional under-achieving has brought me so much joy!

This experiment took place at the darling cottage we have been renting for 6 years right next to Inverhuron Provincial Park. Over our 3 week stay, 19 guests have come through here, walking on perpetually sandy floors, with wet towels strewn everywhere and all sharing one very small bathroom. Oh- they didn’t come all at once, mind you, but in clusters, usually for 2-5 nights at a time. But here’s the amazing thing.

I hardly cooked for anyone.

It was a strange feeling. Family and friends would arrive, dumping their coolers on any horizontal surface and stocking the fridge with drinks, yogurt, incredibly juicy peaches, Ontario’s best corn on the cob, frozen hamburgers and chicken and lots of ice cream things on sticks. In the morning, whoever was up first, made the coffee. Most of the days were spent in my bathing suit with a book, soaking up the rays sitting in the low-slung Tommy Bahama beach chair then moving to the shade of the cabana when I got too hot. Beach chair, cabana, beach chair, cabana. The lake is shallow and crystal clear and most days, I swim not only for the exercise but for the sheer pleasure of feeling its silky waves lapping on my skin.

Back at the cottage, it was every man for himself but we usually ate meals together and everyone pitched in to clean up dishes. After dinner, we gathered on the beach along with other cottagers to watch the sunset over Lake Huron. The drone of a bagpiper is heard in the distance. It sounds like a woman wailing for her husband, lost at sea. It’s deep and hypnotic and stirs a sense of something eternal in my chest.

The days, then weeks bleed into one another.

Despite enjoying being surrounded by my favourite people, with no responsibilities and basking on the beach, I have to admit I sometimes cringed, watching everyone take over my kitchen, flipping burgers and tossing salads while I sat curled up on the couch, turning pages in my crime novel. But after a few days, something gradually, almost imperceptibly, began to shift.

It began while I was watching these cute little girls, maybe 7 or 8 years old, playing at the water’s edge and Jesus’ words came to mind:

“Unless you become like a little child, you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.”

For the next hour I watched as these children, uninhibited and totally oblivious to my presence, create a miniature city using only a plastic shovel and pail.

They saw potential in every rock or piece of driftwood, dead beetle or shell. They weren’t concerned about being best or having enough, or being productive. They weren’t checking off completed tasks on their to-do list.

And most notably, they weren’t posing for selfies.

So dear God, please…not childish but childlike.

Seeing ordinary things with fresh eyes.

Tender and trusting,

Dependent on a God who flung a thousand stars into space.

Amazed by clouds, ants, or a song I’ve heard a hundred times.

Curious, like a child continuously asking “why?”

And believing that even sand, and driftwood and rocks can become a city where you dwell.