A shower. Sounds simple enough, and it was all I really wanted. After working diligently to set-up young children with everything they needed for at least 20 minutes, and rocking my week old baby to sleep, I felt like I had at least enough time to make personal cleanliness happen. Hot, dreamy shower goodness. I could almost feel the water pelting my sore back.
Five minutes later I fulfilled my destiny, and as I stood in the steamy spray I realized it was all I had dreamed of. And more. Yet as I allowed the blanket of water to cascade down my face I heard an awful ruckus from the next room.
Banging. Loud banging. The rough rattling of my unlocked bedroom door. There in my room slumbered my newborn, and if I could hear the beating, booming of an unwelcome intruder, then I knew my baby certainly could. I envisioned her startle response, tiny arms flailing in the air, and I thought I could already hear the shrill cry that would follow.
I hopped quickly out of the shower, grappling desperately for my towel. Dripping puddles of water and soap in my wake I hurried towards the still rattling bedroom door, and realized a torrent of racking sobs accompanied the barrage of knocks.
“Momma, Momma!!” My preschooler wailed, and I pulled open the door while instructing her in desperation, “Shhh, shhh, shhh.”
I listened distracted as she described through snotty sobs the injustice her big sister had dealt out in my absence. The struggle was indeed real in my unavailability, and wars over what channel to watch had caused a meltdown of epic proportion.
As I listened to such nonsense, stealing glances at a fitful baby, the sound of my shower continuing without me in the background, I grew impatient. My hormonally unbalanced, frazzled self-control threatened to boil over. And then it did. Without warning.
The words. The angrily whispered words, full of threats, pitiful pleas, and frustrated mutterings. I watched her face fall even more emotionally distraught, and I picked her up hastily to make distance from the open door.
“You hurt my feelings.” She cried.
After having deposited a child with bruised emotions on the sofa, I stood once again in the hot shower spray washing away the remnants of dried soap. But I couldn’t wash away my guilt. And as I let the water hit me it no longer felt good. It just felt crushing. Or maybe that was the guilt again.
“Oh God, help me!” I whispered behind the shower curtain.
I needed more patience, more time, less frustration, and definitely better self-control. I needed to be a better mother. I needed to feel like I was doing better at this.
Immediately after drying off I found my daughter, the remnants of tears still in her eyes. I took her in my lap, offering my affection, and I picked up a book to read to her.
A Christmas tale, one that spoke of Jesus, and as I read it aloud my own tears developed. Going through the words I was reminded of the gift that was given for me so very long ago, before I was even born.
A gift, that suprisingly, would have been given even if it was just for me.
So many times I fall down, I fall short, and I fall flat with a deafening thud of disappointment. And while there’s definitely room in my repertoire for improvement, today God reminded me that I am enough. Even when I feel less, I am enough. Even when I feel like a failure, I am enough. Especially when I feel the guilt of inadequacy with the tasks He has placed before me. I. Am. Enough.
Enough to die for.
Because He loves me I can always strive for improvement. I can always work to be a better me, one that is more in-line with the character He demonstrates. But even in my desire and quest for self improvement I must never forget the truth that His love offers.
And that is, I am enough.
Dorothy J. says
Thank you Brie for once again hitting the nail (and me) on the head. I forgot today that I am also enough. Praise God for his infinite patience with me when I forget.
And many congratulations on your new baby. May she be blessed with a life of joy as she discovers the endless love of Our Lord. How lovely her life will be with you as her mother.
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you.
Judy Neary says
Thank you, I have a hard time remembering I am enough.