Myth of perfecshun

This morning began at the butt-crack of pre-dawn…again. 

As I (most often) do when roused from snoring slumber at an "alpine start" hour, I rolled out of bed, crinkled to my knees and listened.

"umm…snargle…pork chop…good morning, god.  you rang? i sure do…snzzzzzz…love you and thank you for my…SLEEP and for this thing called prayer…"

Friends are traveling, wondering, wooing, and working and one friend (Teri B.) has really been showing up on the "prayer rotation" this week.  After listening and asking him to be himself to my friends and family, I felt like there was still unfinished business to do…about the time my phone read 4:45 am. (Is anything besides snakes up at this hour?)

So I waited – eventually crawling back into bed to wait. Trolled for tweeted inspiration, read a few blogs, and then it hit me. A line from a World Racer's blog rolled out like a boulder, “If I am ever to be raised up, it must be by the hand of God.” –Oswald Chambers"

It hit me like a ton of bricks…again as the first bits of sun made their way through the blinds on my street level window.  I've been trying to be perfect again. Damn. 

The realization hit hard. 

So I fell asleep until it passed.

It didn't. Thoughts followed me into the shower where again, I was brought to my knees with the very fresh and painful remembering.

Remembering that for the first years of my kids' lives, I tried to be the perfect parent. It was less about love and more about doing everything right…for me…I mean for them. Motivated to do everything right out of fear of being wrong or messing them up or being seen as "less than." Tubs were organized by color, item, and alphabet, playtime, bathtime, homemade dinners, playdates, clean house, reading, snow angels, were performed, etc.  And it all went down in flames. 

It wasn't until I realized that I genuinely could not parent the kids with any degree of success and that I desperately needed God to intervene and his kids to walk with me that I became the parent my kids need (with their help, too.)

Simply put, it was no longer about me being perfect and became about recognizing my very real and constant; deep and messy need and deep and messy love for Madi and Kenan. And being a parent is the best and hardest thing I've ever done. It's all I really want to do – that family thing.

And I thought about this season of working for Adventures in Missions and realized that fear had uprooted freedom (again) and I was less concerned with honoring God with my work and more concerned about being seen as someone who gives her best for the team and the call.

So here goes folks, an invitation to the reality check that followed this morning through the teeth brushing, coffee making, and reluctantly into this blog:

I'm going to fail you.  Many times.

I cannot be the best mum, friend, or colleague for you. I can't do it so I'm not going to try. I will promise to be desperate for a God I cannot see and invite him (every hour on the hour and then some) into this relationship we share. My part-now- is just to press into him and let him do his thing in us.

If it goes down in flames, then we get to start afresh, hold hands, and sing "Beauty for Ashes" as we pick up pieces.

To my family, the Mayes-es, and a friend who inspires me to trust and move out of my relationship comfort zone: I am going to fail you. You are going to wonder why you want to hold my hand. All I have to offer is a messy life of high hopes and deep quirky love and care for folks. That's all I got. All else is a lie. 

Deeply flawed does not begin to cover it, folks. 

"A beautiful mess" is the best I can hope for, because when I try to be perfect, it becomes about me and I alienate you and the folks we meet. I swap treasure of good company and love for performance. I don't want to be some two-bit actor on anyone's stage. (I positively fail at learning anything rote – including this Bible I love so much – so performance is a failed effort from the first moment.)

I can promise this: I will love you and fail you and pray with and for you and laugh too loudly and cry at commercials and always think that Eddie Vedder's curly long hair is attractive. Not sure about the guy under those curls, but the point is moot.

I'm just not perfect enough to care.