"You said you would blog once a week and now it's been nearly a month. Just give up."
"Christmas is three days away and you're not done with the projects you haven't even stared yet."
"You have a 1st birthday party to plan and throw and you know you don't have the time."
"Failure."
It's in those still, quiet moments in the middle of the night when my heart starts racing with lists, oh the lists, of all that I believe needs to be done and then fear mounts alongside of the guilt.
Fear of not having a Christmas that measures up to the one I've pinned on Pinterest.
Fear of disappointment in the meager gifts we were able to give to loved ones.
Fear of the simplicity of what our lifestyle can offer drowning in the grandeur of what's around us.
Fear of failure.
I think the thing that I am most afraid of, is of admitting that I am afraid that my life won't measure up.That when I post pictures of Owen's first birthday on Instagram, they won't measure up to the ones I saw on Pinterest. That when my family comes for Christmas dinner, the decorations and table settings won't be as elaborate as what they were on Thanksgiving. That the one simple gift of the "Hug-a-Bible" Owen is getting from Dada and Mama will be irrelevant compared to the toys and gifts given by others.
That my heart will forget that Christmas is about God becoming a man. A small, helpless, fragile baby boy. Who will not be lost noise of the world around him, but will instead humbly and adoringly listen to the Father's words and seek the Father's heart. Who will love me to death. Even death on a cross. Who will pay for my sins of pride and arrogance and comparisons and coveting and discontentment and worship of others' opinions rather than God's.
Oh, Jesus. Please do not let me sit in these fears and lies and lists. Please still my frantic heart and cause the shouting to fade and your words to wrap around me like a warm comforter on a chilly winter night. Be my comfort.
As I seek the face of my Savior, my heart melts and once again I remember that it does not matter if Owen has a perfectly themed book birthday party. That if the crafty decorations I long to make for him go no farther than a board on Pinterest and if guests are only offered chips and dip, it doesn't matter. That if the name cards I want to make to match the dishes I want to use for Christmas dinner don't get finished, it will be more than okay. And that my being a "good" mama is not based upon how excited my son is for the gift he receives from his Dada and me or how elaborate his first Christmas and first birthday end up being.The strain of wanting my life and this Christmas and birthday week to be put together and photo-perfect wears on me physically and spiritually. In my quest for getting things perfect, I miss the tender moments of discovery with my son who would much rather an afternoon with his Mama playing on the rug than a "Happy Birthday" sign made from old books and hand drawn letters.
If I am not able to do the things on my list that I so want to do, Wednesday will still be Christmas and Christ still will be Savior who came and lived and died for my feeble heart.
And if I am able to do the things on my list that I so want to do, Wednesday will still be Christmas and Christ still will be Savior who came and lived and died for my feeble heart.
Praise be. Oh, Praise Praise be.
Merry Christmas!
Sola Dei Gloria
