I try to be a reasonably productive person. At a few points, I've even been described as "high capacity." Those moments went something like this:
Me: teaching four college courses, raising three children, and painting a bedroom over a random weekend.
Random Person: "You're high capacity."
Brain: "We had a day off. We must have been used it productively."
Me: "No."
Brain: "Well, then we must have rested."
Me: "Somehow, also no."
I putzed, but without pleasure. I dabbled on the computer, yet didn't manage cross off a single item from my to-do list. If I had ended the day feeling more refreshed than when I started, I'd count it as a success. But, sadly, that's not the case, either. I received no checks in any win column, neither rest nor achievement.
Did I read a book? No. Grade assignments? No. Exercise? No. Watch a movie? No. Clean a closet? No. Enjoy the fall day with a pleasant walk? No. Prepare a nice dinner? No. Connect with a friend? No.
Today, however, the sun rose again, as it reliably does. Things were different. I exercised. I taught three solid classes. I met with students, caught up on email, finished yesterday's grading, and planned an upcoming lesson. I made strombolis and assembled a salad. My kitchen already is cleaned for the evening. Apparently, my capacity has returned.
In light of these adjacent experiences, I need to remind myself of a few core truths:
One, there will be days like this. Both versions. High capacity and low capacity days are two sides of the same coin. Nobody — I mean nobody — always can function at full throttle.
Two, worth doesn't change depending on the version. Yesterday's version of me, while not ideal, was just as loved, just as valuable, as today's more productive version. God's love doesn't waver based on how much I achieve. His love is contingent on His faithfulness, not my own. It's a constant force, hearty and steadfast and underserved and inherent, regardless of my performance and productivity, or lack thereof. This is hard to fathom, yet good to remember.
-- God