It was a Sunday morning. And Sunday mornings are hard (anybody feel me?).
There are some Sunday mornings that we just nail it. The baby's bag is packed perfectly the night before, she sleeps well and through the night so we are all well rested, the dogs listen perfectly, the diaper changes and breakfasts go off without a hitch. My husband Garrett goes to church earlier (he's in the band), and Selah and I meet him around 10:25. Church starts at 10:30 and it's just amazing.
But here's what most Sundays look like in our little yellow house:
Someone doesn't sleep well (or multiple someones, as the case may be). We wake up late or tired before the day even starts. We take turns showering at the speed of light while the other feeds the baby breakfast. Husband throws on clothes and runs out the door for sound check. Baby has a blow out or makes a mess or ruins her outfit (or mine, or both) right as it's time to walk out the door. She and I run into church and find our seats on the front right corner as the worship leader says "stand and worship with us" (or, let's be real, sometimes while the first song is playing, but hey, we're doing our best). Her nap time on every other day of the week is around 10, and church starts at 10:30, so every Sunday we are rolling the dice for Jesus. And that's just getting us there- forget about actually making it through the service with a squirming kiddo.
We're doing our best, and it doesn't feel like enough. And the enemy says "you'd be better off to stay home." And, I have to admit, sometimes I wonder if we really would.
On this particular Sunday morning, it all started well. We tag teamed showers and Selah's breakfast and all was fine when Garrett loaded up and headed out to soundcheck.
Selah had a blow out, but it was fine- she was still in her jammies, so it didn't mess up her (super cute) church outfit. I got her cleaned up and put her in her high chair with a little snack in the doorway of the half-bath while I threw on a little makeup.
Aaaaand then it quickly went downhill in the 20 minutes before we had to be at church.
Once she was out of her chair, she picked up something she shouldn't have (I think it was a scrap of paper, but we have to be freaks about these things because #foodallergies and the trial food of the week is not paper, its strawberry). Whatever it was, I took it, and she started pitching a fit.
So there was that. Then about 10 other things happened in quick succession- things that would normally be very small, but all piled up together just made everything boil over. I'm now running around like a chicken, sweating because we are (per usual) late, and now I'm pitching my own little fit. We get loaded in the car and naturally, it starts to rain, so now we're late and we're going to have to park far away and I'm going to have to bring in a baby in the rain by myself from a faraway parking spot. (Note: I know and agree that none of these things is that big of a deal. Ever been in a moment where everything seems GIANT? That's where I was.)
Backing out of the driveway, I yelled, to maybe myself or to no one in particular, "I hate this. I hate who I am on Sunday mornings. I absolutely hate who I am on Sunday mornings." And then I prayed, "Jesus, You know I hate who I am on Sunday mornings. I hate it. Can you please help me fix this? Rephrase- I know that You can, WILL You please help me fix this? I hate who I am right now." I felt my heart prick like it does when Holy Spirit whispers, and He said, very quietly, "who you are is Mine."
Then the enemy came in all loud, reminding me of the hissy fit I had just thrown.
And I drove us the rest of the way to church in silence.
We walked in with just about 1 minute to spare. With a husband in the band, I get to hear the songs we will sing on Sunday several times throughout the week. The band started the first song, and it was familiar but I thought, "huh, this one wasn't on the setlist..." It was Good, Good Father.
So I'm holding Selah and singing Good, Good Father, and we get to the chorus and I. Am. Wrecked.
"You're a good, good Father. It's who You are...
And I'm loved by You. It's who I am..."
That's who I am.
On my very best days and on my very worst Sunday mornings.
I'm loved by You, it's who I am.
When I'm writing and speaking Truth to women and when I'm pitching my own little ugly fit in the car.
I'm loved by You, it's who I am.
I'm loved by my good, good Father.
While we were absolutely helpless, God shows His great love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Jesus Christ died for us. (Romans 5:6, 8)
While we were in the worst spot we could be in, we were His enemies and there was nothing we could do about it, Jesus went to the cross- He tore the veil and made a way.
I fell short on that Sunday morning. Way short. I got real with God about it just a minute after yelling and hitting my hand on my steering wheel (praise Him for the truth of 1 John 1:9), and He reminded me that who I am is His. He told me, but the enemy doesn't like when we remember who we are so he got loud, and for a few minutes, I listened to the loud. Then He told me again. (Note: if you hear Him but then you hear the loud lies and get mixed up, He won't just leave you to it- He will remind you of what He has already said.) God used a changed up setlist to change up my thoughts, transforming me by renewing my mind.
Let Him renew your mind with Truth: He's a good, good Father- that's who He is. You're loved by Him- that's who you are.
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