It’s the day that the pin drops, but it sounds like a cymbal.
It’s the day that blessings come, but the mess is a distraction.
It’s the day of scratching and straining: desiring more affirmation, yet knowing when it is spoken
the truth is heard, but the lies are the ones sinking in.
It’s the day you wish tears were valuable–because you’d save them all.
You’d buy something pretty.
Use pretty as a bandaid, the cup of coffee: use it to keep going.
It’s the day you feel as though you’re an observer…
watching your choice of action…
hearing yourself say those words…
shaking your head all the while.
It’s the day that the grass looks greener elsewhere.
Even covered in snow: you are confident the green is greener hiding underneath.
It’s the day the mess looks like a mountain; the to-do list, a novel.
Everything just stares you in the face: challenging you.
Daring you to try.
It’s the day you want a do-over.
It’s the day you want to try again.
It’s the day you want to take it all back.
It’s the day you see joy, but it hurts to smile.
It’s the day that doesn’t make sense.
It’s nothing more than the every day, it just feels heavier.
It’s the words you promised yourself didn’t hurt.
But the scabs fell off. They are bleeding.
The insecurities you hear from others begin to well up in you.
The day that makes you stop.
The day that makes you ask
“What needs to change?”
The day that I see once again my perfectionism rearing its ugly head.
Seeing my arms getting stronger because I’m desperately muscling through.
Making the mess go away.
Fixing and straightening and dusting and washing.
It works for a while.
The day. That day.
The day when I see that my muscle isn’t enough. And the muscling isn’t needed.
I come to this place again and again.
A place of just plopping the mess down before Him and letting the tears fall.
A place of knowing I am weak–and that is okay–because He is strong.