I had big plans for myself last month. Like, I got over-confident, in a big way. So if anyone needs me I’ll be over here engaging in epic power struggles with a toddler, reading “The Foot Book” 81 times a day, consistently enforcing rules, and keeping to strict routines like it’s my paying job. Also using my octopus arms to feed two babies at a time, while simultaneously serving as a human jungle gym to two larger children, plus apologizing to Merrick and Mia for the 4th-night-in-a-row-Cheerios-for-dinner, and texting my husband with my nose. And I’m not answering my phone because the house is so loud, and full of terrors. (Text me, please, and I’ll get back to you within 1-700 business days.)
I’m slacking. My 2019 agenda includes things I am far from accomplishing, and all I do is sit and mentally add things to a list of stuff ain’t nobody got time for. Like I know I should be finding my rest in Jesus but that Tulsa half-marathon is not going to run itself.
So many times this year I’ve been challenged to dig deep, and find it within myself to not just “push through” but to excel. Whether it’s something so earth-shaking as having newborn twins in the NICU, or as mundane as wiping a butt for the thousandth time, each day has presented me with some sort of struggle. And man, I’m running low on strength.
Y’all I’m tired. And still, I’m slacking. I second-guess everything that comes out of my head, and I worry that my words and my thoughts and my actions aren’t Christian enough; that maybe I’m not Christian enough, and it gets me down, to the point where I just wanna break from it all. Maybe if I just give in for a bit–stop striving so hard for godliness and just settle for “authenticity”–crank my gangster rap and chug some beers; let my rage go unchecked, let the cuss words fly freely from my mouth…but I know where that road always leads me.
I’ve had way too many people pat me on the back and congratulate me for being good enough. They thank me for being “real”, but if being real means anchoring myself in my sin, then I can’t do it. Connecting to a hurting world doesn’t mean flinging myself in the rocks and mud that I’ve just been lifted out of, not when I’ve experienced something better.
Christianity is for the “real” me. Loving the person of Jesus Christ, in all His Glory and perfection, is for the impatient, hot-tempered, pessimistic me who can’t stop yelling. Following Jesus is infinitely better than following this guy or this lady or that writer or my friends who all believe one thing or another. People are confusing and I’m too broken to unriddle them.
So, right now, all I can do is hide my face, because sometimes God’s work in any given heart is not meant to be put on proud display. Sometimes the work is dusty and dirty and MOS DEF not worthy of the ‘gram.
I’m so very tired…but God is moving in my life. And maybe simply letting Him is what it means to find rest.
Here’s what else I know: the people that God gave me to love–they live in my house with me. I have to love them well, because it is my highest calling. The place where God has put me is right here on my gravel road, in my tiny green farming community–I must serve it well. Here in Oklahoma is where I be His hands and feet–warts and sin and bad grammar and all.