“I am not a supermom,” she says. She protests the label as though it were a badge of shame– her own scarlet letter– rather than a comment of admiration.
She hears the word and thinks not of the work she has accomplished today– the floor mopped and laundry folded and schoolwork done. Instead she replays every snapped word, every impatient eye-roll, every failed opportunity to extend grace. She reserves grace from herself as well.
Unlike hers, my house is a mess. Not because I have sacrificed a day of housework on the altar of playdough, fingerpaint, and cookie-baking. My house is not a testimony to engaged mothering, as some would say. It is a testimony to my love of self, of relaxation, of blogs and tweets and facebook status updates. I lie in bed at night agonizing over lost opportunities, just as she does.
We both cringe under the exalted names others stamp upon us. Even as we seek to hide our dust, we chafe with it when others overlook it.
And yet– I know her. I know she is not perfect, that she has problems and weaknesses. I also see her strengths, her heart. I understand when she falls. She is no supermom, but she is a far better mother than she can see.
We are both so afraid to extend grace to ourselves.
We forgive the sins and faults of others, while flogging ourselves for our own.
I do not think the One who formed our dusty frames, who breathed in His life and poured out His blood, desires this for us.
He sees our dust and loves us anyway. And as He gently, gently blows away the dust to reveal the new man inside us– the image of Himself– He gives grace and mercy for each moment.
If the God of all can extend grace to brokenness, who are we to deny it from ourselves?
Supermom? Of course not.
But beloved nonetheless.
Thanks to Kelly for putting thoughts of dust in my heart. And thanks to the one who is no supermom, but who is still pretty awesome.