More Beautiful You

My middle son has a big, funny shaped head, and on it rest one little bitty freckle to the left side of his nose -- it’s my favorite place to kiss him. When he pronounces any word containing the letter “F” he brings his bottom teeth to his upper lip, instead of bringing his upper teeth to his bottom lip, and the words never come out quite right; yet, still, I hang on every one of them. My youngest son’s left front tooth is split right down the middle, and yet, I’d do anything to see it peering out from his crooked smile. My husband has small wrinkles trailing from the corners of his eyes; yet, as they set deeper into his skin, my love for him follows suit.

Imperfections we call them.

But “imperfect” compared to what?

Compared to other, more “normal,” people? Compared to pictures that haunt the check-out lanes of our local grocery stores? Compared to our husband’s favorite actress or his old high school crush? What exactly defines a physical feature as “perfect” or “imperfect”?  

When I look at the people that I love, I see there “imperfections” as anything but.

Yet, I myself seep with envy for her hair, her height, her eyes, her complexion and her more “perfect” body.  

Day in and day out we succumb to the lie that our value, at least partially, lies in long flowing hair, an even skin tone, or a small waist -- and we spend, collectively, billions of dollars a year trying to measure up. We carry around the burdensome whispers that we’d be so much happier if only we could change this, if only we had that -- or worse, the sense that our husbands would love us more if only we had her butt or her breasts, or if only...

If only...

These prerequisites to happiness are such a slap in the face to our Creator.  

When I complain about my flat hair, my chubby cheeks, or my dull brown eyes, aren’t I really saying to the Lord that he is not enough for me? Aren’t I really saying that to be of any real worth, or value, or beauty, I need more? Aren’t I essentially saying, “God, you shortchanged me, and I deserve more”? 

Insecurity and pride: two sides of the same wicked coin. Strange how the most insecure people you know are also the most self-absorbed. Insecurities are born when we look to the wrong place for our worth, when we look to ourselves or other people. We, alone, will never be enough or have enough, but in Christ, we are fully-equipped.  Only when we put ourselves aside and look to Him, do our insecurities begin to melt away, and they are replaced with true contentment.  

Insecurity is a demon child of fear, but if we rest in Him and His perfect Love, all fear is cast out. When we turn our gaze to Christ, we find our daily affirmation is in the surety of our atonement, not the praise of men; we discover our identity in His innumerable graces, not a “perfect” body or face; we understand that our only fame is that we bear His name, not the applause of our audience; we recognize that our only glory is in His grace, not our own gifts; and the Holy Spirit, alone, is our comforter.

Just think about it, if we, as sinful humans, can see the beauty and marvelousness of our own children’s’ form, even with their so-called imperfections, then how much more must we please our Heavenly Father, who is capable of perfect love?  

I’m embarrassed by the time and energy that I have wasted on superficial ends, but I’m also thankful for them, because through their inefficiency to satisfy me, I was driven right into the arms of Christ, and I’ve never felt more beautiful or loved.

Quit comparing yourself to other people -- that is Satan’s impossible game – instead, take comfort in the truth that you were made for a purpose that only you can fill, and there could never be a more beautiful you.

Lord, 

Help us to remember that you are shaping us into the image of you. Help us to remember that we do not battle against flesh and blood, but against powers of darkness, and that those powers want us to believe that we are not valuable and not worthy unless we look a certain way, but we know the truth: that we are ready for anything and equal to anything through you, who infuses us with inner strength. We are sufficient in your sufficiency.  Help us to quit believing the lie that we need more, and help us to be grateful for what you have already given us, because what you have given us more than enough. And most importantly, Jesus, please, reveal to us your deep, unending, unconditional love, because you know we will only be truly free from our insecurities when we understand that all-consuming love. 

          In Jesus name, Amen.

Getting What I Deserve

I fix pancakes for breakfast, his favorite. I holler down the stairs that they’re ready and he gripes back, “But, Mom, I thought you said we could get McDonalds today.” Stab...

I set my alarm thirty minutes early in order to wash his new shirt so he can wear it to his eight a.m. practice. I hand it to him. He complains, “Gross. Why is it still so damp?” Slash...

In between carpooling him to his basketball and her to her softball, they grumble, “I hate when you take this way, it’s shorter the other way.” Slice...

As I serve dinner on plates, he whines, “Why didn’t you put mine in a bowl?” Rip...

I pour my time, my emotions, my finances, my heart, and oh-so many prayers into two children that are not even my own and I hear...well, I don’t hear much. Gash....

These thankless responses cut my pride-filled flesh like knives, leaving me to kick and scream, silently, “Helllo! What about ME?! Hey, look over here! Remember me?!”

I hold it in, teeth clenched, as I pick up another pair of muddy shoes from the living room floor.

Other times, my willpower fails me and my wounds gush with rage, “I just spent two hours cooking this for YOU and you don’t even appreciate it. Next time you can just cook your own dang food!” or “Do you think I WANT to get up and drive you all around town for this or that? No, I don’t, but I do it for YOU anyway. The least you could do is so me some appreciation!!”

Lashing out temporarily releases the pressure on my flesh, but leaves me feeling empty, disappointed, and unsatisfied on the inside.

When people don’t give us the response that we think we deserve, we get so angry and hurt, but why?

Pride wears many masks, often times it presents itself as anger, or fear. Pride is easily offended. Pride is always afraid; afraid of being unnoticed, unaccredited, or unaccepted. Pride only knows three words: me, myself, and I.

And pride never, ever gets what it thinks it deserves; for its thirst is unquenchable.

But I’m so thirsty.

So incredibly thirsty.

I’ve drank from pride’s fountain, and it is laced with salt. The more I drink the more I thirst. I know that if I want to live, I must find another source.

“But Lord,” I cry out, “don’t you understand? My kids ought to be more grateful, my husband should have showed me some appreciation for that, and those other moms should have thanked me! I do so much for these people and they...

“It’s not for them,” the Lord interrupts.

“Not for them?” I laugh, “Then who is it for? Because it sure isn’t for me!”

“It’s for me. Don’t you see?”

“See what, Lord?”

“See me – in everything. I’m in those piles of laundry, I’m in those pancakes you cooked this morning, and I’m in the freshly vacuumed carpet. I’m in the alarm you set thirty minutes early and the ‘atta boy’ you gave your step-son in the car. I’m in the half-a-dozen ‘momma, look at this’s and ‘momma, watch that’s. I’m in the shoestrings you spent five minutes tying just the way he likes them, even though you were running late. I’m in those nine dollar Wal-Mart-special fold-out chairs that get warmed up every single little league game, rain or shine. I’m in it all, watching it all, and it’s all for ... me.”

My phone rings, it’s my husband telling me that he’s on his way home. He’s trying to talk to me about an employee he is having issues with, but I quit listening. Colt needs a bath, the stove just went off, and I have my own list of issues I would like to talk about. I start to rush him off the phone, when I hear it again: “It’s all for me.”

Ok, Lord, I’ll listen.

“...and this is the third time he has showed up late,” my husband continues, “I’ve given him so many chances, and I just don’t know what else to do. The guy nearly cost us five thousand dollars today with some careless mistake he has made over and over. Oh well, you probably don’t want to hear all this. Sorry. I’m just venting. I let you go, be home soon.”

I hang up. His picture pops up on my phone as the call ends. I stare at it until the screen goes black. He does so much for me -- for us. He works so hard. I love him.

I walk into the bathroom and start my baby’s bath water. I run my hand through to test the temperature. It’s just right. As I watch the water rise, I think about what the Lord spoke to me.

It’s all for Him. It’s all for his glory, not mine. Just the thought of it loosens a few of the chains wrapped around my heart. I don’t wake up each morning, wrestle these four children all day, keep the pantry stocked, or even rush to kiss a another skinned knee merely to hear the words, “Thank you.”

No, I wake up, I wrestle, I stock, and I kiss all for His glory. It’s all worship.

And worship is the ultimate salve for my wounds. I only begin to heal when I look beyond myself and remember that it is all for Him, by Him, and through Him. 

I bow my head.

“Thank you, Lord, for revealing to me my purpose: to glorify you in all that I do. Thank you for setting me free from the smallness of myself and letting me enter into the fullness of you. I worship you, Jesus, right here, right now. I prepare this bath, all for you, and when I bathe my baby, that’s also for you. And when I dry him off, dress him, and tuck him in for another night’s sleep, that, too, is all for you. Help me to stop believing the lie that I always deserve more, because truth is, you are more than enough.”

I raise my head just in time to see the water run over the tub’s edge and I know it is Him – he always fills to overflowing.

Get what I deserve. The ridiculousness of the thought now makes me laugh aloud. Thank God I don’t get what I deserve. I get above and beyond, exceedingly more than I could ever hope, dream, think or ask for. I turn off the faucet, but my cup still runneth over.  

1,000 Gifts: The Pitcher's Mound

Tonight, I was not in the mood to go to my boys' baseball game. I was dreading the prospect of chasing Colt, my two-year-old, around for nearly three hours, dodging foul balls, and getting my freshly straightened hair rained on. I kept checking the weather channel for thunderstorms, but the most I could get was a 30% chance. In other words, the game isn't going to be cancelled.  I could hear pastor Joyce Meyer in my head saying, "What's the point of dreading something that you know you are going to have to do anyway?" I knew  Joyce was right, but I still couldn't shake the negativity. My "1,000 Gifts" list continued to pop into my mind but I continued to push it aside.

I arrived at the game, still not wanting to be there. As I sat there, drowning in my own little pool of negative thoughts, my own self-created, self-centered, pool of ingratitude, I reluctantly decided to work on my "1,000 Gifts" list again. So, I started looking around for gifts from God. I jotted down a couple:

#23. The breeze feels nice.
#24. I have money in my pocket to spend on junk food at the concessions.

I then notice some single mothers, sitting alone.

#25. I'm not sitting here alone.

I can feel a couple of ingratitude's tentacles release their grip on my heart. I take a deep breathe and exhale three healing, freeing, transforming words, "Thank you, Lord."

A few minutes later I see the coach call my son in from third base. I can't hear what the coach tells him but I see my son nod his head and walk towards to pitcher's mound. My heart leaps. Is he is going to get to pitch, for the first time ever!?

Every bit of remaining "pity-party" has left me...and left me on the edge of my seat. My boy did get to pitch his first game ever tonight -- and not only did he pitch, but he struck out the next 3 of 4 players!!!

Joyfully, I write out my last gift of the night:

#26. My boy pitched one heck of a game!!!

Digging for Treasure

As I watch my "little treasures" dig for treasure, I pray over them. I pray that they will treasure Jesus more than anything this world has to offer, even more than themselves.  This is my #1 prayer for them because I know if they treasure Christ above all, then everything else will fall in place for them. Keep digging for treasure, my little men, but Momma can already assure you, the richest treasures can only be found in Him.