I feel spiritually off, in a funk, and out of sorts. The past few days have been gloriously beautiful with warm weather abundant and lots of time in the sun running and laughing and enjoying life. It hit me as I was yelling (nearly at the top of my lungs) at my four-year-old with the windows wide open, giving every single neighbor of mine a good dose of what it’s like to be in this house. Funny, considering I don’t have much, if any, conversation with my neighbors. My husband, chatty Charles, is the one fit for that job. I cringe at the thought of all the awkward exchanges that could take place.
My skin is crawling right now just thinking about it.
I recoiled as I recollected my shouting, my crying kids, the heat of the day, the people who were probably listening with cupped ears thinking, “Holy crap, that woman over there who doesn’t talk to nobody sure is loud!” I wanted to send apologies and “But this isn’t how it always is!” to everyone within shouting distance. Because I’m sure they heard it. And I’m sure they were judging me for it. And I’m sure my palpable inadequacies were determining their thoughts on me.
I’m reading a book right now that is challenging me in all the hardest and most uncomfortable ways. It talked about being the woman who always apologizes, for everything. Who nearly apologizes for existing, as though it is an inconvenience to everyone. It’s something I feel more than I want to admit; I have rationalized a thinking that allows me to believe that I inconvenience others all the time, and I should never do that.
I don’t deserve the attention.
I don’t deserve to exist unreservedly.
I don’t get the privilege of real freedom because I’m too busy shackling myself to lies like these ones.
I yell at my kids. I say things to them that I regret immediately, and I sometimes do all of the above with the windows open. I apologize to them, and I do it because I know I need to. Those boys need to see that in me, the willingness to be lowly so that I can love them wholly.
But I don’t have to apologize for being this woman. This not-even-close-to-perfect woman. I cannot attain the best me because, surprise!, God already made me good just like this. This me right here is the best one yet. Everyday is better because everyday I am renewed by grace, seen through a crimson lens of forgiveness and sacrifice. I am wholly and humanly imperfect, but I am made holy and perfect by Jesus.
It’s good news isn’t it? I mess up on the daily, and every millisecond He is saying, “Girl, you are good. You are good because I made you. You are the best at being you because there IS no other you.”
Inconvenience? Hardly. Not even a little bit.
I’m just right for this job, for this life, for this me. He doesn’t make mistakes.