Tonight as I was scarfing down my dinner, I looked at the
walls around the kitchen table, streaked with white mystery stains, airborne
crumbs and sticky fingerprints. I took a deep breath and a bite of my dinner. I
reminded myself that one day when my children are grown, I will live in a clean
and controlled environment again. For now, the sticky stains are a small price
to pay for being a mom and living with my amazing and adorable kids. Like all moms (I’m sure) I feel like cleaning
is an endless cycle. I bleach the bathroom floor and the next day it looks
dirty and disgusting again. I wash the bed linens and someone pees their bed
the same night. I sweep dog hair into my trusty long-handled dustpan just as
the dogs roll and romp on the sofa, hair flying freely through the air. Some
days the entertainment center is so dusty I can write myself reminder memos
with my finger.
And even though I know this is just a season in my life,
sometimes I snap and go into a cleaning frenzy, scraping, wiping, removing all
the cushions from the sofa and complaining loudly to anyone who will listen.
And so it is with my spiritual life too. I sometimes let the
mess pile up for so long that the clutter and filth of my sin just becomes a
regular part of my day. I step around it, I ignore it, put off dealing with it,
and “save it for a rainy day.” And what happens when I do this?
I snap.
Saturday, I snapped.
Ugh, I hate to remember it – but it needs to be told. Like
the sweet and warm-hearted stories of our family, there are also other stories
less enchanting, less charming, but just as honest and real as those ooey-gooey
ones.
I think I’ve been saying whatever I want, blurting out my
opinions, letting off a little steam, and becoming far too tolerant of my
deepest flaws. I’ve become comfortable being unkind, judgmental, territorial,
demanding, pushy and even . . . obnoxious. Ouch . . . that hurt.
Gather around, ye saints of God – it’s confession time.
Okay, here it is: I’ve got this terrible habit of comparing
myself to others. I also tend to put myself on a pedestal in some areas, and
become overly critical of those who can’t seem to “get it together” or those
(like the birth moms of my children) who have failed in awful, ugly, public
ways.
And that is, my friends, so, so ugly. And I am so, so
ashamed to admit it. I think that my own insecurities stemming from my
personality and the battle with infertility have given me some kind of
superiority complex where I overcompensate for my perceived weaknesses by
puffing myself up in other areas. (If
this sounds like freshman Psychology ramblings, I do apologize.) But the truth
hurts. In my mind, I had become comfortable with talking about the failures of
these women, even making light of it, insulting them whenever possible, or just
being passive aggressive (in the case of the one I deal with occasionally.)
And Saturday I blew it. I let a little “difference of
opinions” get the best of me. Not only did I scream into the cell phone “We are
not in a partnership!” I also screamed the words: “YOU ARE NOT A GOOD MOTHER!”
Twice.
In front of my kids.
Did I mention I did this in front of my kids?
No, it was not my finest hour. I slammed down the phone
after my big fat baby-fit and saw seven pairs of eyes staring at me in horror.
Their eyes mirrored mine and my sister Becky’s the afternoon we found mom’s
sexy lingerie drawer while playing dress-up. The look in their eyes said: “Our
mom does that?”
I immediately grabbed my car keys and purse and ran out the
door after giving John the “look.” He knows that look means I am about to blow
my top so he needs to take over. Not that he wasn’t already doing everything
else- cooking dinner, supervising chores - while I was engaging in a pointless
tug-of-war and making a giant jerk of myself.
I drove around for about thirty minutes to get myself
“grounded.” Some scream, some cry, some drink, some smoke a joint, some pray,
some squeeze a squishy rubber ball. I drive. So I drove into town, my heart
hammering in my chest, knowing that I had made this mess and I had to clean it
up. This is the truth:
I may not think she’s a “good mother” but it is not my place
to say, er . . . shout that. I really messed up.
So I came back over the mountain and prepared my speech. I
came into the house where John was serving chicken, pasta and green beans and
the atmosphere was strangely quiet. I apologized to all the kids for losing my
temper. I apologized for being critical and cruel, and for my words. John
offered me dinner but I couldn’t eat. Instead I came into my bedroom, picked up
the discarded cell phone and sent a truly humble apology as a text. No excuses
– just “I was wrong. I am sorry.”
My apology was accepted.
And then I had to come clean with God.
One of my favorite parts of our church service on Sunday is
the “call to confession” and “prayer of confession.” I didn’t grow up in a
church that practiced this as a specific, corporate part of the service. But I
admit, it’s my favorite part. I like that we have a specific, identified time
in the service to pause and reflect and to really search our hearts. And it
doesn’t take a lot of searching when you know you acted like a big fat jerk not
even eighteen hours before the church service.
I had already confessed to my kids, to the person I
offended, and yes, to God on Saturday. But Sunday I accepted God’s grace and
forgiveness and decided to move on. And just like that feeling when you have
worked all day to clean your dirty house – it feels so good.
It feels so good to come clean.
So, in closing, let me say that if I have offended you, led
you astray, or used my words to hurt you, please forgive me. God is dealing
with me about this!
Some day I’m gonna get this house in order!
