I have been quiet on my blog for a week because life has been ghastly.
This is not strictly true. I have been ghastly. I have been horrible to my kids. I have yelled and sworn and shaken my fists in desperation at the ceiling. I have called behavior, fact. I have not been kind when I could have been, I have not given grace, I have not been careful with my words. I have been horrid.
The reason is I am overstretched. This is not an excuse, but it is the reason. Recognizing this enables me to write about it. It is not simply a fatal character flaw. I am doing too much. If I add it all together and try to stretch me across it, you get this. Horrid.
I have a trifecta of pressure closing in, and on top of it all I am homeschooling my two beloved kids.
It’s too much. It’s just too much. And today – the horrible-est day so far – I was so horrid I realized I have to stop. To continue is not only to no one’s benefit, it is causing damage.
There is nothing more humbling than a forgiving child. And my children have had to forgive me more than usual recently.
Here is one reason: I have painted FAILURE on my forehead because, over the last two years, so much crap has come our way as a family how can I possibly catch up with curriculum now?
The effect on my kids is to make them feel they’re failing before we’ve even started — because I know I’m failing. I’m letting them down. I’ve reached a position in my head where nothing they do can ever be good enough because we’re not on schedule. “You’ve finished one page? Well good, get on and do the next one!” How could anyone possibly be motivated by that?
I’m angry. I’m caught up in relentlessness. I’m swallowed in the vortex. I need HELP.
The children were with their father this evening, I went out with a trusted pal… and help came. I poured out my heart – to another mom who’s been through the same rites of passage – and she reflected back truth which I so desperately needed to hear.
As I walked back to my car, I passed the church in the parking lot. I love it.
The sign alone just sounds so gutsy: JEHOVA ES MI PASTOR. No messing. And there was a group of men in the lit room beneath it yelling their heads off in a cacophony of prayer. Real passion, really loud, getting yelled out and lifted up for real help to come down.
And I thought, I need that. I need to yell my anger not up to the ceiling with shaking fists, but up to the One who can really help. Who can really forgive. Who can really take my shame and pain and desperation – and do something constructive with it. Even though I’m horrid.
Because He still loves me. And He’s given me tomorrow. And there are a million moms out there who have been here, and we press forward. Right?