He drew me close, smiling. His strong arms around me undoing all the tension of the day. Daily. It’s Friday eve and the girls are riding their new-to-them bikes in circles around us, shouting “Look!”. He uncovers my three-week-old-dye and notices my grey hairs, gently brushing the strands off my face.
“You’re looking at my greys!” I said, a little sheepishly, as though after 8 years of marriage I could hide anything from this man.
“Yup!” He smiles with pleasure again and pulls me tighter with a warmth only covenant knows, “I love you!”
“We’re gonna grow old together!” I respond, trying to wrap my legs around his.
“Yes we are.”
And we linger in the satisfaction of us.
In a holy marital moment, the imperfection of life is embraced, and another part of my heart is healed.
I wish I could tell my 18yr old self that love existed.
…
As I strap the Velcro on the shoes of one daughter to nudge her outside, her sister is ramming her bike up against the screen door. By the third ram I lost it on her, stood up and yelled at her through the door, pointing my finger to stop as though scolding a dog. I immediately felt guilt for losing my cool.
4-5:30 everyday can be hard.
Soon my fingers were knuckle-deep in biscuit dough as I fought back tears. “Why am I feeling so miserable?” I asked myself.
As my insides are swirling with questions over my strong emotions, one is asking to help Mommy cook while the other dances around us. Lean in, lean in to hear how He’s answering your question.
And it comes… My frantic need to always have things a certain way to feel safe. Something feels off or not perfect? I must fix it.
And instead of feeling shame, I feel God’s warmth at this revelation. HIS safety. That’s how I’ve come to know it’s Him. It’s like a warm weighted blanket cast at just the right moment. I’m okay. Not broken. Just healing inward and upward. Learning to feel without shame or alarm. Learning to attach to God while the fear of other attachments releases. And I choose again to be okay with the in between.
My quick reaction to my daughter, while perhaps warranted, left me feeling guilty. Who said it was wrong? Every emotion I feel can seem wrong at times.
I take my grey hairs to the garage and tell my 40-something husband my realization of loved imperfection and let out a big sob as I stand there fully seen.
“You don’t have to be perfect all the time,” he lovingly challenges.
Relief rushes in.
…
It’s quiet time and I hear clamouring coming from her room. She’s at it again, I think.
This 1.5 hours every day is sacred time for me, and valuable to them. Yet during this time a tornado can literally ensue. I gently knock, asking, “What are you doing?”
“I’m moving my room around. Organizing!”
Her exuberance is not lost on me, but my eyeballs start to twitch. It’s not balanced!
“I want to decorate, like you Mommy!”
I sob inside just a little of the sweet love of my girl.
“Okay, lovie.”
It lasts for about two months until I ask her again if we could move things to be a bit more “symmetrical” in her room. She conceals.
But something about letting go of the perfect picture unravels another thread in me.
…
And I think …
Perhaps it’s in the actual imperfection of motherhood and marriage where true intimacy is formed. Where vulnerability and forgiveness, or boundaries and wants, that holy healing and abiding truly happens. Somehow, I thought it was only the perfect that created that sweet attachment.
I get back to the business of pumpkin biscuits and imperfection. And learning to love and be loved. Learning. Always learning.
And feeling just a little more seen.
I’m going to tell my 41-year-old self that.
