“Give us, us free”

The movie came out the year I graduated college and a scene in it permanently altered my understanding of freedom.

Amistad, a powerful historical drama depicting the mutiny of the schooner by captured Mende slaves,  revolutionized some of my thoughts about what it means to crave freedom.

In one of the most memorable scenes, Joseph Cinque (played by one of my favorite actors, Djimon Hounsou) stands, sweat streaming down his face, rattled by indescribable memories of captivity and the fear of returning to enslavement, emboldens in the courtroom with, “Give us, us free.”

Freedom.

It’s a word thrown around a lot this time of year. You listen a little more intently when, hand over heart, you hear certain lyrics kicking off ballgames around the 4^th. You might reassess with a more investment your interpretation of the Declaration of Independence in regards to unalienable rights, including “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” And if you so fancy, you just might go around singing, “If you love somebody, set them free. Free, free, set them free.” Although no matter how hard you try I’m just not believing you’re singing it as well as The Police (sorry).

In other words, freedom has a lot of connotations associated with it.

Sometimes I wonder if we’ve lost the impressive responsibility that comes with liberty.

Sometimes I wonder if our gratitude has become rote, much like asking someone how they are but not really waiting to hear the answer.

Are we waiting and acting in response to our freedom?

Have we ceased to let freedom impress so deeply inside us we’re compelled to do something in response—to live out our appreciation?

Which brings me to my question for you today—what are you doing with it? What are you doing with your freedom?

I Had This List of Rules

I shot myself in the foot for years as a mother. I didn’t know I was doing it. It was as though I were running around crazy trying to be the best mom I could be while unknowingly firing arrows into the Achilles heel of my undoing.

I had this list of rules in my head.

You know…a good mom _______________. 

A bad mom...________________.

Sound vaguely familiar?

I work really hard not to pass judgment on others, but I spent a lot of time not only peering at the wooden plank in my eye but hammering nails in as I constructed a gargantuan tree house of lies, one mistaken truth impaling me at a time.

Here are some doosey misconceptions that made my list…

A good mom…has Band-Aids in her purse at all times.

A good mom…joins the PTO and attends every meeting.

A good mom…never has laundry stacked in piles that rival architectural wonders.

A good mom…doesn’t yell…ever.

A good mom…bakes realistic-looking animal and caricature cakes she found on Pinterest for her children’s birthday parties.

And then there’s the other pesky side of this list…

A bad mom…doesn’t know the lyrics to the shanty Sponge Bob Square Pants because why would she let her kids watch that show?

A bad mom…doesn’t stab herself in the finger, creating a blood-spurting hole while trying to separate Lego guy’s hair from his mini-Lego head with tweezers.

A bad mom…would never shove a bunch of pennies and loose change in an envelope when sending in money to her child’s class for end of the year teacher gifts.

A bad mom…wouldn’t be caught dead sprinting to slather coconut oil on a patch of psoriasis on her child’s leg, delaying the bus.

A bad mom…cannot for the life of her recount the names of the other students in her child’s class.

I had this list.

And if, by some fluke, I ever caught you doing or not doing one of the above, it might surprise you that I refrained from judgment. At least I didn’t judge in the way you’re thinking. I liked you—instantly. Inside I smiled because I just became a little more normal—more human. And you, in all your you-glory, helped me believe in grace again. Helped me to believe every time one of these tweezed out ideas flashed like a neon sign in my head that lists like these are pure malarkey.

I eventually found my way to the end of the list maze.

Know where I landed?

Here:

A good mom…loves her kids.

A bad mom…withholds love from her kids.

Want to know what I did with those other cockamamie lists?

I mixed the ingredients of a boxed Betty Crocker cake, baked it, shoved the little particles of good mom/bad mom thoughts between the spongy goodness, slapped some icing on the top, devoured the whole whopping ooey gooey cake pan, then I let it pass through me.

And now those lists are gone.

And I’m not about to go looking for them.

Have you ever done yourself a disservice by believing in a fabricated and skewed list as you tried to live well in a specific role in your life?