Ps. 119:156
I don't tolerate mess. I can't abide disorder. I hate imperfection in its many forms and flatly refuse to allow any part of my life to fall into disarray.
But the week is hectic. The evenings are long and the dishes seem to multiply on the counter despite the endless scrubbing. The afternoon rainstorm floods the basement. I'm eating handfuls of chocolate chips because sometimes a girl just needs chocolate. The fridge is empty again and the husband and the toddler are hungry. The coffee is too strong. Or the coffee is all gone. The floor is dirty (dirty again already!?) and I'm 28 and still fighting zits. The naptimes don't coordinate with my plans. There are fruit flies all over the kitchen. I forgot deodorant and I stink. There's bad news about old friends. And I think my library books are overdue. We've spent months trying to sort out insurance money for a new roof, and we've gotten practically nowhere. My son has eczema and a heart murmur and a big swollen thigh where he got a shot this week. And when my husband turned the wrong stove knob and ended up cooking over a cold burner while a different burner glowed blue with flame, he was wrong when he said "You would never do something like that." I'd like him to be right because I'd like to be above mistakes. But I've actually done the same thing.
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| Water, being pumped out of the basement. |
"This doesn't happen to me."
"I refuse!"
I stomp my feet and shake my fists and threaten to quit life if things don't get back to perfect.
But families will never stop disappointing. Cars and houses will never stop breaking. Rooms will never stop getting dirty. As long as I shovel those imperfections into pretty jars, screw the lids on tight and hope no one notices them in my perfect little life, I poison myself. Not with the stash of disappointments, but with the refusal to face them.
I don't accept this? Me, not tolerate mess and disorder?
But what about the One who actually is perfect?
The One whose nature can't abide a single flaw?
Does He tolerate this mess?
Praise the Lord that He does. And not just my messy house, but my messy heart. He not only tolerates it; He embraces it. He reaches toward broken lives. He sacrificed everything - and brought on himself every possible imperfection - in order to welcome the rotten and the stinky and the sloppy, the heartbroken and the broken-down.
If I'm the gold standard, what a sorry world this will be. If it's my approval that matters, I dare not even accept myself. Thankfully, the Lord doesn't measure me by the perfection of my home or even by the list of sins I've 'conquered.' It's not my job to clean up. He dips me in the grace of His son and He sees me as glowingly perfect, all blemishes bleached out.
So instead of faking the ideal life, I'll just tell you the truth: It's not perfect. But it turns out that it's ok.
Grateful this week for the imperfect things:
sweaty armpits
fruit flies
wrinkled laundry
greasy hair
dead flowers
dust
crabby baby
meal prep mess
aching neck
insurance paperwork
acne
crumbs on the floor
crumbs on the counter
oversleeping
dry eyes
itchy skin
so-annoying senior class prank
unmade bed
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