Merciful Motherhood

He delivered his line with finesse. A piercing mix of sarcasm and contempt. Oh, I know it when I hear it because I have spent a lifetime perfecting it. The art of the secretly scathing reproach is something I do well. In my expert opinion he was a little too overt to be considered a pro yet, but nevertheless, considering his age- if this were the kind of thing to be proud of, I would have been. 

"Real great mom. You sure are teaching us how NOT to yell."

Of course I was mid-yell as he said this. He shouted it up at me actually. I was upstairs and he was down, he was fully able to hear my misguided attempts at behavior correction in my Littlest. Yeah, it was only 6:45 in the morning and I was already yelling at my two year-old. I was yelling at my child simply for acting like a two year old. His expertly delivered correction stung on multiple levels when I realized not only was I yelling, but yelling irrationally. To top it off, he called me out in the very way I detest most in myself yet have somehow managed to teach him the art of: sarcastic manipulation. He highlighted my trifecta of motherhood iniquity, all before 7am.

His words were meant to shame me into better behavior. His words were meant to make me feel really bad for what I was doing, in the noble hope that I would stop. Lord knows, I don't want to yell. Yell at anyone, but especially my baby. For a split second his words worked as intended. I was cut to the core, thrust to the edge of tears and I hung my head in the bathroom. Shame began to well up inside. However, it wasn't a righteous conviction I first felt, because it started with, 

"Why can't you ever get it right Ang? You are a real piece of work." 

Shame likes to lead with absolutes... the always', the nevers' and the evers'- with the criteria being nothing short of perfection. Shame invites me to a secret place where I can go to properly beat myself up. For a moment I almost went there, to the hidden place I have returned to so often it kind of feels like home. 

However, this time I chose not to go. He was right, it was the voice in my head that was wrong. His words contained truthful correction. I was yelling for no good reason and modeling behavior I detest. Of course, I would have rather had him deliver it to me in love and gentleness, but well- sometimes we must look past the presentation to get to the heart.

The truth is I don't never get it right because sometimes I don't yell when I really want to do so.  And overall I yell less than I used to. I'm not yet where I want to be, but I am getting closer. I might have stolen that line from a country song...

Instead of going into the dark place of hiding, I breathed in deep and thanked God for His mercy. It was as if the Holy Spirit nudged, right there in my bathroom as my spirit tried slinking away, if your heavenly Father will not give up on you, who are you to give up on you? #truthbomb Shame throws in the proverbial towel. God in His perfect mercy invites me to get right back up. Righteous conviction always welcomes us back to restoration. Welcomes back with open arms. Shame tells us we best go hide. Every time we mess up, we get to choose which invitation we accept.

On this day, mercy won. So I scooped my baby up and whispered softly to her, "Momma is sorry I yelled. That wasn't nice."

Then I walked downstairs to the boy. I beheld him with my heart for a second. Mercy will let us do this, this beholding of the reality we often look past, that we are all deeply flawed with a million wounds of humanity, but desperately loved and desired nevertheless. In a moment I was reminded of how yelling makes him feel. How it scares him. How loud noises of anger make him hurt. I lowered my voice and said those three magic words which are so hard for me to say sans "but..."

You were right. 

I said, "You were right. I yell when I shouldn't and when I don't want to. I yell even when have I asked you not to yell and have consequenced you for it. I yell when I hate yelling. I am sorry for that." He visibly softened, and nodded at me. I went on, "This is why mommy needs Jesus. Because I will never, no matter how hard I try, be a perfect mommy. I am a big mistake making momma. I can't promise you I won't yell ever again. But I can promise I am trying not to.” He moved in for a hug, "I forgive you," he quietly said.

I want to be a perfect mom. But, if I were perfect- what need would my babies have for a Savior? If I were perfect, they would only need come to me and in my perfection I could masterfully solve every single one of their problems. Heck, in my perfection I might be able to fully shelter them from all potential problems. Then what would they do when I am dead and gone? Or how about this, can you imagine the pressure children would feel growing up under the guidance of a perfect mother? What a complex to foster! Could we agree Freud would have a field day?!

I type this half joking. But the implications are true. I am not perfect. I am a sinner. I have hurts and have hurt others. Also, I am saved by grace. And grace comes out on top, because love has already won. So, instead of modeling for them perfection- I get to model what it looks like to live under the great big umbrella of mercy.  I get to work out my victory day by day, step by step, falter by falter, right under the watchful eyes of family.

The words are in Hosea, and Jesus repeats them again in the New Testament, "I desire mercy, not sacrifice." I have been meditating on these words since the summer. Mercy, to me, is an active understanding of real life. Mercy acknowledges the human condition we all were born into. Mercy without knowing every detail of every situation, trusts that none of us, under any circumstance will get this life on earth 100% right. 

When I stop and really let myself take this truth in, what freedom!

We all know a Perfectionist is the absolute hardest person to fess up to. Confessing to someone who rarely lets on they make a mistake is absolute torture. Especially for another Perfectionist. Contrast a perfectionist with a person who lives under mercy, a person who doesn't hide their mistakes. What a vast difference, right? If we must apologize to someone what a blessing it is to get to say "I'm sorry" to one who actively owns the sins in their own life and chooses to be openly honest about how they are falling, getting up and then trying again and again and again. 

It has to start with me. I need to allow myself to live under mercy before I can genuinely give it, much less model it for my children. The moment in my bathroom, when I nearly let shame hang my head for me, was the real turning point. In that moment I got to decide, as we all must when we have messed up: will I acknowledge my failure and move forward in mercy or will I let it drive me back into the darkness of shame, where I can pretend to have the power to sufficiently beat myself up for not being perfect?

It is absolutely useless to apologize to someone and ask for their forgiveness if I have no space in my heart to let myself be forgiven. To truly accept the forgiveness Christ, in His abundant mercy, offered me at the cross, is to live in a continual state of forgiveness. I can freely ask my children for forgiveness because I am already forgiven, just as I can freely forgive. But my children cannot absolve me. They cannot take my guilt and make it go away. And I cannot absolve them.

No man can redeem the life of another or give to God a ransom for him- the ransom for a life is costly, no payment is ever enough- that he should live on forever and not see decay. Psalm 49:7-8

We can forgive me so we can work together towards restoration, but we cannot remove the blemish of sin. Blemish removal is the work Christ did for me on the cross.  It’s the work that is already done in the name of Jesus. The shame which pops up every time I mess up, backslide or, find myself stuck in all the old patterns, is my reluctance to accept the work Christ did on the cross. Shame is my unwillingness to receive the forgiveness He offers. In a twisted way, my attempts at shaming myself into better behavior is me- rejecting grace.

Shame is mercy resistance.

Perfectionism resists mercy too. Perfectionism is based on the belief one can redeem themselves by trying harder. Perfectionists have mastered the art of wearing shame as a badge of honor.

I don't want this way of living anymore. I want a home that lives squarely under the umbrella of mercy. I want kids who feel free to confess when they sin because they trust they are already forgiven. I want my children to know they will never be perfect, but by the grace of God they are perfectly loved. I want kids who freely offer forgiveness to each other (and to me!) because they know what mercy does: it frees up. It frees them up to be human, to stumble and to fall. Mercy frees us up to drink from the deep well of grace over and over and over again. I want our grace-well overflowing!

I desire a delightfully soggy home, soaked with the splatters of grace;

Fully protected from the rain of shame, as we live under the umbrella of mercy. 

This home I crave, I know it starts with me. I know it begins with my acceptance of correction (however misguided) followed by mercy, time and time and time again. I am not a perfect mom, as my kids have so generously professed. But oh, how I am a mom who wants desperately to dance in grace puddles under the wide and beautiful umbrella of mercy. It is my prayer, my children will dance with me.

Because there is certainly room for all of us under this covering.  This is the nature of mercy;

Mercy multiplies- 

the umbrella will grow bigger, expanding far and wide, if only we let it cover us first. Mercy is the umbrella meant to cover all of the fallen. Heaven knows I am one of them.