Every month I get the opportunity to teach the preschool class at my church. And every month, I put an inordinate amount of pressure on myself to make sure I’ve followed the lesson plan to a tee.

I know. I can’t believe I just said that. Preschool and pressure.

Usually the only pressure involving preschoolers is the one these sweet kiddos are feeling on their bladders as they finish out their potty training. Yet here I am, sweating it out and asking myself questions like, “Did I hit all the points? Did I teach the right things and ask the right questions? Was anyone listening? Did anything stick?”

It seems almost absurd to fret about such things when your audience of four, five and six-year-olds are more concerned about when they’re going to have their snack, if I can put a Band-Aid on a boo-boo only they can see, and why we have run out of emoji stickers to decorate their craft.

But I do feel pressure. It probably has a little to do with my personality and my desire to do things well (if not perfectly), but I also believe it has something to do with the sense of responsibility we feel when we’re placed in a position of leadership or authority.

There’s a weightiness that comes with teaching. The goal is to propel students forward with truth, knowledge, and the tools they need for success. To do that requires preparation on our part. I don’t want to be the reason someone else fails because I failed to do my part well.

On this particular Sunday, my teaching confidence was at an all-time low. Like a zero on a scale of one to 10. I wrapped up the lesson and all the activities and glanced at my watch. Twenty-five minutes left to go.

“Well,” I thought to myself. “When all else fails, play games and sing silly songs.”

We launched into a rousing rendition of “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.” We played “Doggy, Doggy, Where’s Your Bone?” and “Mr. Judge.”

And then something amazing happened.

I was looking at their faces and what I saw was pure joy: grins from ear to ear, giggles, and uncontainable delight. It was like watching a movie in slow motion—and as I watched, I heard God whisper to me, “Sarah, you didn’t fail. Do you see their faces? Today, you created a safe place where they experienced joy and love. That…is a GREAT success.” 

Friends, don’t underestimate the impact you are having in someone else’s life. What you might perceive as a failure on your part could be exactly what they need. It may seem silly, illogical, and the complete opposite of what you planned to do. It may be completely perfect in a way you never anticipated or expected. Maybe it’s not the sermon or the lesson that impacts someone’s life, but a hello, a hug, and a simple word of encouragement: I believe in you. You’re doing a great job. You got this.

Having an impact on others is easier than you think—just do your best and let the pressure and expectations go.

**For the record, turns out I was wrong about the full impact of my efforts that Sunday. Three days later at breakfast, my daughter (who was in the class) casually mentioned a key point from the lesson. Cue the shock and awe. It did stick.

Maybe, just maybe, I can do this teaching thing after all. Maybe we all can.

We all have a breaking point. That place where life and circumstances cause you to hit an emotional, physical, and spiritual wall. For some of us (all arrows pointing to me) that wall can come quickly and is easily aided and abetted by a spilled cup of coffee, a missed night of sleep, or sitting down to an empty toilet paper roll.

Others seem to have a superhuman strength and patience that confounds the rest of us. Wherever you land on the scale however, at some point…we ALL break. We all experience the frustration, angst, and weariness that comes from being human and realizing we’ve officially maxed out on the limits of our personal strength and fortitude.

That moment for me came one evening after having battled a virus running its course in my home. After a week of nursing my daughter back to health, I finally felt we’d rounded a corner. I’d successfully managed to get her to take her medicine through fits and tears, stayed up with her during the night when she hacked and coughed, and personally couriered about 300 or so tissues from her nose to the trash can. Victory…and a full night’s sleep were nearly in my grasp.

And then it hit my son.

I was done. I was frustrated. I was tired. My attitude stunk. My complaining was off the charts—both in my head and the under-my-breath mutterings. I desperately wanted my kids to feel better, yet the finish line seemed to keep moving further and further away. Thankfully, we did eventually cross the finish line, but in retrospect, there were some things I could have done differently to help better manage my emotions and navigate my circumstances more gracefully.

Over a steaming hot latte at one of my favorite java joints, God showed me a picture of what it looks like to successfully navigate a crisis and move from your breaking point to your breakthrough. For the record, it seems these gentle nudgings and communications often come to me through coffee, hot showers, or intimate conversations with friends. It must be a comfort thing. What I do love though, is that God speaks…a lot…and often, in unexpected ways.

The picture He showed me was of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, followed by his immediate arrest, and ending with his crucifixion. Not the prettiest of pictures, to say the least. He prayed until he literally sweated drops of blood, suffered the betrayal of a close and trusted friend, and endured a brutal beating and tortuous death by crucifixion. It was, in effect, the breaking point and culmination of his life and ministry—only he didn’t break down. He broke through.

“How?” I asked. “How did you go through one of the most physically, emotionally and mentally painful times of your life and not once get angry, lose your composure, or throw in the towel?”

That’s a loaded question to unpack, but what did immediately jump out at me were three principles to help move us from our breaking point to our breakthrough when we are walking through a dark time or moment of crisis.

Principle #1: Keep the Conversation Going

Jesus didn’t wait until the eleventh hour to cry out to God. He didn’t wait until his last reserves had dried up or attempt to rely solely on his own strength. He was in constant communion and conversation with the Father. He prayed in the Garden before the chaos of what was to come, and he prayed on the cross at the pinnacle of his suffering. Frankly, prayer was the hallmark of his ministry. He prayed often, many times privately, but also publicly—before and after miracles and healings—and with his disciples. He understood that constant, daily communication and conversations were necessary to sustain him—both in the highs and lows of life. The same is true for you and I. We were not meant to be “islands” and live life in isolation. We were built for relationships—and communication is key for both our sanity and survival. Keep praying, keep talking, keep engaging with others. When you do this consistently, especially when things are in non-crisis mode, you’ll be well equipped to maintain the conversation when a crisis hits and find the peace and help you need to carry you through the storm.

Principle #2: Turn Your Focus Outward

If you’ve ever watched the reality series, “Survivor,” there’s always a challenge that tests the physical limits of the contestants—tests designed to bring them excruciating nerve, muscle and body pain. The ones who endure and ultimately win said test are those who find a way to channel their focus and attention onto something other than their pain and circumstances. They’re focused on their victory. Likewise, Jesus in his ministry never lost sight of his end goal. In the midst of incredible pain, discomfort and betrayal, he kept his focus on others and not himself. In the Garden, he healed the soldier’s ear that had been cut off. On the cross, he extended mercy and salvation to the thief being crucified next to him and forgiveness to those who persecuted and mocked him. Whatever crisis you are facing—be it grief, financial, marital, as a parent, in your career, or your health—stay focused on your end goal…your victory…your breakthrough. If you’re in the quicksand of life right now and so focused on all the sinking muck and mire around you, you just might miss the branch hanging right over your head offering you a way out.

Principle #3: Be Willing To Let Go and Let Others

This may be equally both the hardest and easiest principle to apply, particularly for those of us who like to channel our inner Luisa from “Encanto.” She was the strong one, the one who shouldered all the burdens—literally—for her family. To ask for help or admit that she needed a break would signify weakness and failure on her part. Or so she thought. When we place those expectations on ourselves, we’re essentially doubling our burden and choosing to navigate the crushing weight of a crisis by way of our own strength. At his physically weakest point, when Jesus could no longer carry his own cross toward Golgotha—the place of his crucifixion—Simon of Cyrene stepped in to help carry it for him. It doesn’t really matter that Simon was “volun-told” to do it by the Roman soldiers. The bigger picture here is that we all need Simons in our life. When help is offered, accept it. When you need help, ask for it. Receiving help is not a sign of weakness; it’s a sign of maturity. And it makes crossing that finish line all the sweeter when we can celebrate our breakthrough with those who helped us get there.

My friends, we’ve been hoodwinked.

For well over 160 years, we’ve been taught that “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” It’s an adage with the best of intentions, encouraging us to not give up just because we don’t find success in something the first go ‘round. The key is persistency.

I get it. And I believed it. 

This week however, that belief was called into question when I heard a DJ on the radio talking about the word “try” and pitching the question to listeners about whether we should consider removing it from our vocabulary. 

Her reasoning, she stated, was based on commentary that the word “try implies failure, or at the very least, a lack of adequate action.” To say we are going to try and do something leaves room for a cop out. The verbiage alone subconsciously communicates to oneself that you are not fully committed to whatever it is you are trying. 

By contrast, if you say you’ll “do” something that suggests 100 percent effort. No matter what happens, you are fully committed to your actions. It’s that do or die “I’m not throwing away my shot” kind of passion sung about in Hamilton the musical.

It’s what Master Yoda said to Luke Skywalker in his Jedi training: “Do or do not. There is no try.”

It’s what the Apostle Paul said countless times in his letters of encouragement to churches and fellow believers in the Christian faith. To the Corinthian church he said, “let all you do, be done in love.” To people of Philippi, “I can do all things through him who strengthens me” [emphasis mine]. 

So it seems, in the battle of trying vs. doing, the odds are in favor of the doers and not the triers. How ironic that the very catch phrase “try, try again”, which is supposed to encourage us to overcome failure, is actually keeping us trapped in its cycle. 

Kind of like when I “tried” recently to not eat desserts or sweets as part of a church-wide fast I was participating in, but then crumbled in defeat one day when I handed out the fudge-stripe cookies to my kiddos for their after-school snack. 

The temptation was fierce and I succumbed. 

“Jesus fasted for forty days with no food, was tempted by the devil himself, and still walked away victorious. And here I just lost to a cookie,” I thought to myself.

Yes, I accept responsibility for my lack of discipline. But I also believe part of my fasting failure was because I kept thinking, “try not to eat that” instead of telling myself, “don’t eat that.”

There’s an empowerment that comes with believing you can do something that you don’t get when you simply “try” to do something. The first goes all in, while the second just dips the toes in the water before fully committing.

So back to the DJ’s question: Should we remove “try” from our vocabulary? Personally, I vote yes. 

I want to stop trying to be a better wife, mom, and friend and just be one.

I want to stop trying to hit snooze on my alarm and actually get up when it tells me.

I want to stop trying to be perfect and rest in the fact that my failures, mistakes and missteps do not define me—but rather refine me and help push me toward becoming the best version of myself.

Time to get off the “try” train, ditch the excuses, and remove the self-imposed limitations I declare over myself when I say I will only try to do something.

I can do better. And you can too, friend. If at first we don’t succeed, we’ll just get up and do it again. 

I love a good coffee mug. Not only does it need to be large enough to accommodate my daily intake (which happens several times a day) and have a nice comfy handle for endurance coffee clutching…but it’s also a major “perk” (pun intended) if it makes me smile or laugh.

The darker the better too—which goes for both my coffee and the humor.

The most recent gem I found? An all black mug with the following white text: “Good morning, I see the assassins have failed.” I left it behind on the store shelf, but dang if I didn’t cackle all the way out the door.

There is one mug in my collection, however, that has a semi-permanent place on my desk. It’s somewhat unexpected, unapologetic and, well, uninspiring. 

The message? “Today I’m going to give it my some.”

I laughed when I first saw it. And I loved it, mostly because it was the total opposite of all those annoyingly over-the-top motivational posters hanging up in offices across corporate America. You know, the ones that say “Excellence” with a photo of a bald eagle or “Make It Happen” with a man standing on the summit of a mountain.

Ick. Just the thought of one makes my productivity suffer. 

Not this mug. I sincerely appreciated its snarky nature. When everyone else is shooting for the moon and ready to crush some serious goals, I’m over here with my mug just saying with a chuckle, “Yeah, I’m not gonna give it my all today…maybe just a solid 47 percent.”

Maybe that’s because in part it accurately reflected my season of life—a stay-at-home, work-from-home mom with two kids under five trying to keep everyone fed, clean, laundered, and entertained. Even on my best days, giving it my “all” seemed an impossible feat, so why not just shoot for “some” so I too can have the satisfaction of feeling accomplished? 

It’s pretty much right on par with why I also prefer the medium level of Sudoku. Semi-challenging yet winnable. There’s no time in my life for multi-day expert level gaming—especially when as moms of “littles” we’re already playing Russian Roulette every time we attempt to take an adult bathroom break, knowing full well the odds are stacked against us. 

Crises inevitably and almost always hit while our pants are down. But I digress.

So what does this all mean? Does loving this coffee mug mean that I’m a champion of the under-achiever? That I’ve lowered my standards? That there’s just no more room for excellence in my life when average will do?

No, no it does not. I can assure you (as can my spouse and kids), that my expectations and standards are still well nigh into the rafters.

No, I love it because it makes me laugh. And because humor is almost always based on a bit of truth. And because the truth is sometimes raw—and in those raw moments—we need to give ourselves grace when we simply don’t have it all to give. Or when giving it our all still only gets us to “average.”

It’s in those moments that we need to laugh. Take a breath. Then shoot for better days ahead. God doesn’t expect us to be perfect. Babe Ruth didn’t always hit home runs. We give it our all—and if that means we give all the “some” that’s in our tank—then so be it.

Celebrate the wins. Dust off the losses. And drink to the “Average Joe” moments that earned you that coveted participation trophy. 

I’m raising my mug to you, friend. Now get out there and go give ‘em some.

Dear friends…recently I discovered something amazing about the word: love. It has five letters.

No, that is not a mistake and no, I did not miscount—although I confess mathematics and I have been at odds for most of my life. No, this extraordinary epiphany about love came to me during the most ordinary of tasks. 

I had just finished picking up a few items at the grocery store and was pulling out of the parking lot when I received a text from my mother-in-law who was visiting us.

“The kids want more of these,” she texted along with a picture of some pretzel chips. 

“Ugh,” I muttered to myself. Not only had I already left the store, but this particular brand of pretzel chips was only available at a different store.

“This is so inconvenient,” I thought. “But,” I said, “I love them so I’ll do it. I’ll get the pretzels.” (Side note: the “other” store was literally a 20 second drive across the street, so inconvenience is a rather broad interpretation here).

But then a second, more profound thought hit me. “Sarah, you’ve missed the mark. It’s not really love if you’re considering your feelings in this equation.”

Wait, what? I consider myself to be a kind person. I am a generous person. I live to encourage others. I feel as if I love well. And to a certain degree, I do. But the truth is love is not just about being kind or compassionate. To love in the fullest sense of the word is to do so unconditionally—and that means removing any self-interest from the equation. It’s not about me. At all. It’s 100 percent about the person I am loving.

Love means focusing on the “other.” O-T-H-E-R. Five powerful letters.

That means if I’m complaining while acting in love toward someone—it’s not love. If I’m engaged in self-pity, it’s not love. If I’m thinking about how it’s inconveniencing me, even in the slightest, it’s not love.

“…if I’m complaining while acting in love toward someone—it’s not love. If I’m engaged in self-pity, it’s not love. If I’m thinking about how it’s inconveniencing me, even in the slightest, it’s not love.”

But here’s the kicker. When we do love fully and unconditionally, without regard for self and full regard for the other…something amazing happens. We reap the full benefits of that love.

Last year my sister traveled to Charleston, S.C. to undergo a major surgery and I came to help her for a few days post-recovery. I was in one of the top foodie cities in the nation. The weather was incredible. There was beauty everywhere you looked. But for the majority of my stay, I was either in a hospital room or the house we had rented. My sole focus the entire time was on the care and wellbeing of my sister. 

I don’t say that boastfully. I was just genuinely happy to help her in any way I could. When I returned home though, something changed. For the first time in months—maybe even a year or two—I felt fully alive. I can’t explain it except to say that the funk of self-pity and depression I had been in was no more. My spirit was full of joy, love and contentment. 

I was at a loss for why I felt the way I did. I kept telling myself that maybe it was the change in environment, the amazing food, or just spending quality time with family that helped break me out of my rut. Regardless, I seriously felt like I was Poppy the Troll and glowing from the inside out. Everyone around me, especially my husband, noticed the change.

What I didn’t know then however, I do now. It was love. The demonstration of pure unconditional love. That was the game-changer. 

Love = Other.

Unfortunately, I can’t take the credit for this discovery. While it was a new revelation for me, this whole love “other” concept has been in the works for some 2,000 years when Jesus left his crew with these parting words before his death:

“Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other” (John 13:34).

Yeah, I’m one of those late to the party kind of gals. But hey…I showed up and I learned something.

Now, I’d be crazy to think I can remain in a constant state of unconditional love euphoria. I’m human and that comes with the full gamut of emotions. I’m not perfect and I will never love others perfectly. But I can—to the best of my ability—be intentional about how I love others by keeping the focus on them and not myself.

It’s a daily choice, and sometimes even a moment-by-moment one. Loving well is not always convenient. I won’t always “feel” like doing it. But it will always and forever be the best decision when I do choose to do it and do it well.

I have a belching problem—both literally and figuratively. On the literal side, let’s just say that carbonated beverages don’t do me any favors. My husband still shakes his head in disbelief (and perhaps some dismay), when his tall, slender bride delivers a deep, throaty belch that puts even his bass drum to shame.

I’m pretty sure that was a post-nuptial surprise he hadn’t planned on.

Bevvies aside, however, there’s another kind of belching I do that he probably didn’t bank on either: criticism.

Proverbs 15:2 says, “The tongue of the wise makes knowledge appealing, but the mouth of a fool belches out foolishness.”

I’m a belching fool, ya’ll. I often joke that I “comment” on things, but really that’s just a nice way of saying, I criticize.

Criticism, according to Merriam-Webster is: the act of expressing disapproval and of noting the problems or faults of a person or thing; a remark or comment that expresses disapproval of someone or something; a person strongly resembling that of Sarah Nguyen (hint: that’s me!).

“But wait,” you say, “that verse says a fool belches foolishness, not criticism.” True. Yet for me, criticism—in this context of speaking negatively or disapprovingly—is a kind of foolishness. Being foolish means “showing a lack of good sense, judgment, or discretion.”

Somehow, I’ve managed to mount a 30-plus year defense trying to convince myself and others that my commentary is not harmful. That me casually suggesting the right turn you just took was not smart because now we’re stuck in traffic. Or that perhaps you should have watched a “how to” video on YouTube before calling a technician over to the house to take $300 of our hard-earned money for flipping a switch on and off. Or that the assembly of said item wouldn’t have gone wrong if you had just read the directions more carefully.

Criticism. Criticism. Criticism.

It’s foolish to believe that such “commentary “ is helpful. It’s not. It slowly chips away at the value of a person and belittles them. And these little criticisms add up. When I really evaluate what I’m saying, each statement by itself is fairly innocuous. But when continuously linked together, they can do some serious damage. Much like eating a super spicy hot wing. The first one goes down ok. But by the third or fourth, what started as a comfortable heat has compounded into a raging inferno in your mouth.

I’m done taking Tums (metaphorically speaking). I’m done treating the symptom of my poor choices. It’s time to change what comes out of my mouth. To start replacing criticism with praise and to stop belching foolishness.

I know I’m not alone in this. Now more than ever our social media-driven society is big into belching foolishness. Debates and discussions quickly turn into browbeating barrages and attacks. Unnecessary and unwarranted criticism is rampant.

It’s time to change our discourse. To carefully consider what we say before we say it. To weigh the impact of our words. To put ourselves in the shoes of the listener and ask ourselves, “Is this helpful or hurtful?”

It’s time to focus on loving others well. To focus on things that are true, noble, right, pure, lovely and praiseworthy. It’s time to step up our etiquette game, squelch the belch and instead be vocal in our encouragement for one another.

And if we can’t be nice, then let’s heed the advice of Thumper’s mother from Bambi who said, “If you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all.”