I hate the part I play in the Instagram-perfect-life lie. I’m not that, you guys. No one is. But especially not me.
Sometimes I flash a huge pile of laundry or a messy van: “See, I’m just like you.” But it’s still within the social media filter (pun intended) of what’s acceptable to let strangers into. The rule is: we’ll forgive the less important 10%, as long as you’re the great mom we believe you to be the other 90%.
But often, I’m not a great mom.
I’m trauma informed. I know the methods. I’m aware of what my kids need and I want to give it to them. And then, I just don’t do the good I want to do. I scream back at the screaming kid. I use words of shame and fear, rather than grace and love. I shut down and withdraw. I fail my kids—daily.
You can jump in with your “don’t be too hard on yourself”s and “keep your chin up”s.
But I want to do my best to peel back the facade and be real.
Let you in on the ugly, so the grace is that much more beautiful.
Let you see my mess, so you remember anything looking all-cleaned-up is only, ever Jesus.
His mercies are new every morning. Adoption is forever, and there’s always tomorrow. God’s grace is bigger than my sin. God fills in the gaps of my failed parenting. Jesus died to forgive me and he is transforming me.
These are what I cling to in my failure, and if you learn something from me, I hope it’s this.
.png)
