A culmination, of sorts.

Monday night seemed to be the culmination of a solid week of “bad days”, the last straw, if you will.  It’s been a particularly grumpy, chocolate craving week for me.  I've been quite the pouter, and I haven’t reacted very kindly when my three year old has tried to one up me in that department.  Putting it frankly, Mommy threw a tantrum.  How pitiful is that?

More often than I’d like to admit, I can be the emotional equivalent of what we, here in the south, call a “hot mess”…  an absolute mess, I tell you.  God bless any poor soul that has to endure a relationship with me. (Hi, Mom.)  I can’t imagine why anyone would stick around.  My emotions run rampant.  If they were put on a color wheel for a month, you’d see me jump from a week or so of cheerful yellow, happier than a pig in a pig pen, and then a quick trip to raging red, annoyed by anything and everything, straight down to a solid week of sulking blue that makes me feel like we would all be better off if I just pulled the covers over my head and sat this season out.
This chaos is nothing new to me, it has sort of been a way of life.  But, I think that this past year has been significant to me because I am starting to figure out that A:  “Houston, we have a problem”, and B: everyone I meet isn't crazy and unlovable, but boy, I am!  And last, but not least, C:  God made me, He knows who I am, He knows that I need repair, and He is STILL in love with me!  Imagine that.

A few weeks ago, I went through one of the toughest depression spells that I've experienced in quite some time.  It lasted for what seemed like forever, probably a solid three weeks of feeling like this world would just be better off without me.  House keeping took a back seat, I let the kids watch movies all day so that I could sleep as much as I could get away with, I ate beyond my heart’s content, and I didn't go to church for three Sundays in a row, convinced that people were most likely repulsed at the very sight of me, as if all of my life’s sins and hang-ups were written all over my forehead.  It’s been a while since I've reacted to a depression in that manner, but boy, was it intense!

At church, we are coming to the end of a study on the book of Revelation, and how majestic it has been!  I think it is the first time in my life that I have been able to look deep within the book of Revelation without fear and trembling.  On the contrary, I listened, as it was read aloud this past Sunday, with much delight.  I became truly overwhelmed, in the greatest sense of the word.  Growing up in a church that taught with little to no doctrinal value left me unsure of myself, even more unsure of God, and quite frankly, panicked out of my mind that I wasn't doing this “Christian thing” right, and thus, I was doomed.  In a church that does not believe in eternal security, that once you are saved, that is it, a done deal, no one can separate you from Christ…  what hope is there for any member of that church that believes such things?  (I have no desire to spark a theological debate here, and if you are tempted to argue this reasoning or that, please don’t, because you would be missing the point.)  But, as a young person, wavering in a desire to know Christ that is being starved by unbiblical “truths”, I can tell you that it was an absolute nightmare trying to measure up to what I thought a Christian should be.  I would spend night after night, wide-eyed, terrified to sleep for fear that if I should die before I wake, my soul, the Lord would not take.  I was convinced that my merits weren't enough.  And in that regard, I was right.  What a pleasing thing it was to learn, so many years later, that God’s grace is nothing to be bought, but something to be savored…  as it is a gift, a luxury, one that leaves me, the most undeserving, so grateful for a God that looks at me, and though I am a sinner, He sees me as holy and pure in light of his Son’s precious blood.  To know that when I come before my Heavenly Father, I do not come bearing a bag of tokens based on merit, just hoping that I have enough to win His grace, but rather I am coming clothed in the righteousness bestowed upon me by my great love, my Savior, Jesus Christ.

Knowing what I now know, that if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive our sins, it is such a blessed thing to hear the promises laid out in Revelation 21:3-4... “And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”

I couldn't tell you half of the time why I feel the way that I feel, as if my heart is turning inside of my chest, a raging torrent of emotion.  But, I can tell you this…  my heart rejoices in leaps and bounds at those words.  To know that not only is there an end, but a culmination…  a culmination of not only my bad days, but also of all of the pain, the sorrow, the loss…  the joy, the elation, the gladness… everything I have ever been through, every rotten choice that I have ever made (and repented of and hopefully grown from), every step that I have ever taken, that I am taking now, and that I will take in the future, the battles raging that are not of this world are all leading to one great VICTORY in Him.  No height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, not even throwing a tantrum that makes you feel like you could easily win the “Worst Mommy of the Year” award…  not a single one of our failures or short-comings will ever be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.  As David Platt so eloquently put it,

“Our.  God.  Wins.”

A Spray Tanned Sofa & "A little bit sorry"

      Okay, so maybe I just need to chill.  I don't know where my perfectionist tendencies stem from, but at this point, you can have them.  I prefer things to be clean, spotless even.  That isn't to say that I'm the best at keeping it that way, but I do prefer it that way.
      When a mess piles up, my brain shuts down.  It overwhelms me. When I find myself staring at three baskets full of clean (I think) laundry that needs to be folded, I don't even know where to begin.  I know you are probably thinking, "Um, it starts by picking up that shirt and folding it."  But, that's not what my brain tells me to do.  When I stand before a huge mess, my palms get sweaty and there's a voice in my mind saying "run far, far away", as if not even the cleaning performance of a lifetime could get me out of this one.  It's as if the laundry monster is larger than I am, and I don't even want to take him on.
      I like rooms to be clean and clear of debris, and when they aren't, I'd honestly just rather not go in them, not even to clean up.  Another sad truth?  I'm also a pack rat.  Case and point, I have a cute little blue and white striped summer dress hanging in my closet that a friend gave to me in September...  of last year.  I have never worn it.  It's a size two, and I thought to myself, this dress will be my reward for getting back into shape, because a size two, I am not...  yet.  The flaw in that logic?  I can only remember one time in my entire life that I was able to fit into a size 2 dress.  I was thirteen years old, attending the sport's banquet after a long basketball season.  Needless to say, I was in tip top shape, and the fact that I didn't have hips yet probably helped tremendously.  Come to think of it, that dress may have been a size 3.  Either way, I still couldn't breathe.  I have since gained two children, and thirty pounds.  Seriously, Della, get rid of the dress!
   
      So, being a perfectionist and a pack rat, what does that mean for a stay-at-home mama of two hyperactive, stubborn lively, strong-willed boys?  That means that I have a mental meltdown at least ten times a day.  I know that no matter how many times I load the dishwasher, there will still be a sink at least half full (optimism?) of dirty dishes.  I know that no matter how many times I take Noah, my sweet, loving little three old, to the potty, he will still most likely stand in the hallway and pee on the floor at least once a day.  I can count on Brandon, my creative four year old, to draw his art on something other than paper, with something other than a crayon...  like, the washer with a sharpie, or the back of the couch with a dry-erase marker.
      Upon discovering all of the little "surprises" that they leave for me, God is teaching me grace, to give it as I have received it, and so, as I walk barefoot through a puddle of pee, I tell myself, "Don't yell this time."  As I stroll through the house picking up the toys that have been dumped out so that they could play pirate ship with the toy basket, and I come face to face with a "dragon", five feet long, drawn on the wall, I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and through gritted teeth I pray, "Dear Lord, please remind me that children are a blessing from heaven..."  (Note to self:  Next time, don't ignore Brandon's request for more paper, no matter how busy you are!)
      Or, as was true in my most recent "discovery", I simply cry.
      Yesterday, from the very start of the day, I had a glaring pain in my head that I was hoping and praying wouldn't become a migraine.  And sure enough, it did.  While nap time is early in our house, around 10:30, I told myself to just stick it out until then, and then I could rest while they were asleep.  But as anyone who has ever suffered a migraine knows, "sticking it out" becomes quite a feat, one that I was losing.  And so, around 9:30, I thought to myself, I'll just put on a DVD for the boys, and I'll go to my room and close my eyes for a few minutes.  I had no intention of falling asleep, and my door was left open so that I could still listen out for them.  I must have gotten too comfortable laying down, snuggled up under my heavy blankets in that cool, dark room.  My eyes popped open to what felt like 10, maybe 15 minutes later.  I looked at the clock, and it was 11:00 a.m.!  Panic, shear panic, set in as I realize that I had fallen asleep and left the children unsupervised for over an hour.  As I sat up in bed, I look over to see that my door is now closed... Oh, no, what have they done?  What have I done?
      I jumped out of bed and as soon as I swung my door open, I see that the bathroom light is on, and as Noah is coming out with a big grin on his face, he sees me standing there, and with his grin turning to panic, he darts into the living room.  Brandon is standing on the bathroom counter, happily sifting through the medicine cabinet.  I don't keep medicine there, but that is where I keep a lot of beauty products and body sprays, supposedly out of their reach.  Without even asking him what was going on, Brandon simply shouts, "Noah has it!"  As I continue toward the living room, the smell of aerosol becomes increasingly evident.  With Noah now hiding under the dining room table, I see, scattered across the floor, various bottles of body spray, hairspray, and oh yes, spray tan.  I haven't used tanner in nearly a year, but once again, my pack rat tendencies have kept me hanging on to that last bottle that I may someday need, and now, my three year old is confessing to me, with pride, that he has spray tanned the sofa.  I look at my sofa, and though I can't see tanner on its dark fabric, I do see large wet spots, and the smell of all those sprays was really doing a number on my migraine.  And so, without saying a word, standing there before two little boys who were just waiting to see what kind of trouble they were in, the tears welled up in my eyes, and I just started to cry.  It was really a moment of weakness, a bit of a pity party, and the confusion on top of the migraine as I wondered how I could really punish them if this was partially mostly my fault.  I just stood there crying until Brandon asked, "Mommy, are you sad?", and Noah chimed in with a big smile, "It's time for lunch!"
      Frustrated, I made my way to the kitchen and began making sandwiches, and they followed as I explained to them that they aren't allowed to break the rules just because Mommy isn't watching.  As we got settled at the table, the boys were very quiet as they ate, and I was still sniffling when Brandon says, very softly, in his sweetest four year old voice, "Mommy, I'n sowwy for sfraying you stuff everywhere."
      Ugh, melt my heart!  And just when I would much rather sulk, I'm quickly reminded to forgive even the four year old.  No sooner have I said, "Mommy loves you, Brandon, and I forgive you," does he pipe up again only to say, "But, Mommy, I'n sowwy just a wittle bit...  not a big 'I'n sowwy', just a wittle one."
      Without responding, I couldn't help but smile at his honesty and feel a swarm of love for these two crazy boys as they smacked on their ham and cheese without a care in the world, no remorse on their faces.  I'm sure, some day, this will be something to look back on and laugh.  But, right now, as I am sitting on a towel that's covering the couch that smells of spray tan...  the couch that I got for free and can't afford to replace...  right now it seems like it just isn't funny... yet.