The me and the me I wanna be

After my last post, I've been at a bit of a loss. A couple of things have thrown me. First, it took every bit of a week for me to really recover my equilibrium from the Guatemala trip. Not that I did any mountain climbing there, but there were a lot of late nights and early mornings bookending emotionally exhausting days.

What seems also to have stalled me in my post-writing tracks are some of the seriously nice things people have written in the comments section. This is a paradox even to me, since I really love getting comments (it's not entirely about ego). Yet frequently when I write about God-y things in my life, people respond with the kind of accolades that make me wiggle a bit uncomfortably in my seat.

You know how the Apostle Paul was fond of calling himself the worst of sinners, etc? Well, even as I read that, I figure he had to be aware, at least on some level, that he was The Apostle Paul, aka God Actually Spoke to Me During a Road Trip; Author of Most of What-Would-Be The New Testament; Early Leader of A Little Movement We Like to Call Christianity.

I mean, come on. He knew he was the man.

So, to clarify, when I say I'm really not worthy of some of the praise thrown my way, I'm not saying this in a Paul kinda way. Nor am I suggesting I'm literally the worst of sinners. First of all, I'm not settled on whether or not there's a sin hierarchy. There's that whole a-sin-is-a-sin thing, which still perplexes me somewhat. While all sin separates us from God, I'd rather Roy lose his patience after a long day (a sin) than have him operate an international drug cartel from his garage office (a sin).

I just feel that, while I'm not selling pot to Girl Scouts or dressing up like a Dixie Chick for Halloween, I should state for the record that in some of my more personal, faith-oriented posts, I'm presenting the best of me. Not fake me, but certainly not the way I am all the time. I'm writing about the me I want to be when I grow up. The me God wants me to be. The me I tend to be in starts and fits.

I've clearly shared more about the starts and not so much the fits. For balance, I submit forthwith, a few of my shortcomings fit for public consumption:

Though I come from a fine tradition of Southern-style cooks, I really hate spending time in the kitchen. I do it because it's necessary. But the redundancy of mealtime, for me, is like standing on the shore and watching wave after wave after wave after wave after wave rushing up at me. (Paradoxically, I do love the fellowship that takes place over a meal and consequently enjoy having people over for dinner parties.) No doubt, because of my limited mealtime offerings, neither of my kids are great eaters, and Connor especially has culinary preferences ranging from A to A-and-a-half.

I also suffer from playtime elitism. I adore my children. I like going places with them (except restaurants). I like talking to them. I like walks and chasing them in circles around the house for the purpose of scaring them into muscle limpness. I like swimming and dancing with them and roughhousing a bit. But I really don't like kid board games or coloring. And there's only so much time I can tolerate being the horsy. Or roll playing as the customer in the world's most bizarre restaurant. A few minutes of that type of play and I'm disengaging, no matter how pathetically they implore.

And now Madeline and I have ventured into the lovely mother-daughter experience known as homework time, which involves crying jags (hers, not mine ... yet) and dialogue such as:

Me: Sound out the word, please, Madeline.
Madeline: But the teacher said I am supposed to read it to you.
Me: Yes, but you're just looking at the picture to know what the word is. I want you to sound it out for me.
Madeline (throwing her head back against the pillow, cupping her face in both hands and groaning): I am reading it.
Me (voice rising): Sound. It. Out. If you would obey me and have a better attitude, we'd already be done and this wouldn't be so painful.
Madeline: It is painful!

To which I could only silently agree. I have all the respect in the world for parents who do a good job of homeschooling. Clearly, though, when God looked down from the dawn of time, saw Madeline and devised plans to prosper her, they did not involve being homeschooled by her mother. Because when I get frustrated, I tend to react in a way that ratchets up the tension for everyone. And I don't care if you're five. I'm taking you down with me.

Here's another thing -- and I am being honest here -- ignorant people really irritate me. I know God loves them and I'm supposed to love them. When I ask God to help me be Jesus for anyone in need, I know that includes ignoramuses. But it is just so hard to to be Jesus to people who irritate the fire out of me. (And, yes, I'm being a bit on the dramatic side here, but this is obviously a real area of pridefulness in my life that isn't pleasing to God ... or me for that matter.)

I also find that after meaningful times of spiritual growth, I tend to almost immediately afterward behave poorly. I'm grumpy. I fall out of good habits. I start praying less. It's ridiculous. I'm sure God gets tired of it. I know I do.

God: If you'd just obey me and have a better attitude, this wouldn't have to be so painful.
Me: It is painful!

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