Reflections

She Ran {a poem about the Proverbs 31 woman}

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Hey long time no see guys! 🐱

There is an element of mystery wrapped up within this post. Possibly unconsciously done…but definitly related to the fact that I have been binge watching Once Upon a Time.

Most assuredly in an effort to drag I mean gracefully carry myself through the month of January.

Anyone else? Any Oncers fans out there? Or anyone so glad that the weather isn’t so horrid? (If your weather is still horrid I’m sorry, spring will come.)

For those of us couped up with an assortment of pets and small children, last week was probably particularly rough for you. It was for me too.

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The weather was impossibly horrid and everyone was holed up inside, stepping on feet, getting on nerves…it was a mess. I was a mess.

I thought back to last September, when I faced an overwhelming situation of a different sort. I had just discovered I was expecting my 3rd child, and I felt 100% in over my head.

But instead of steeping in my difficult thoughts, I wrote them down. Writing poetry has always been a healing therapy for my ruffled feathers and emotions.

I wrote about how perfect I wanted to be, how perfect I was (at times) trying to be. How I dispised what was perfect, but craved it at the same time. I craved to see perfection within myself, which is impossible. Yet I think I needed to write these deep mullings down in order to let the truth begin to sink in.

Shortly thereafter, I began a study on the Proverbs 31 woman, described in Proverbs 31:10-31.

Who she was. Who she could be. Her possibilities and strengths and challenges.

Will I write more on the topic? That remains to be seen…in the meantime, I hope you enjoy these scribblings from last September.

 

She Ran

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How I do try

I sweat those tears

I work

to banish fears.

Beds get made

The workload fades

How I wish!

Memories are messes paid

I search and cannot see

Proverbs 31, bound and full

Inside of me

This brittle, broken woman

Full of holes, the one who ran

Ran from perfection,

Yet always pursued it, deepest inflection.

 

This poem is my own. All photos are from pixabay.

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Motherhood

Perfect Preschool Mom {Myth}

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Once upon a time, there was a myth that I believed. A truth that I thought existed. A lie that I took into the deep places of my heart.

I wrapped myself up in this idea that there is a perfect mom. That there is this super-human, super-woman, crazy-insanely put together person that I could be.

But wasn’t.

Everyone. Ev-er-y-one has something. As children our flaws were wide open. As adults we have learned to cover and protect the hurts, the flaws. And to project our better side.

I have no qualms about admitting that I am not perfect.

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I’m eyeball deep in anxiety most days. My kids make everlasting messes. They like bread instead of my carefully constructed, healthy suppers. Last night I discovered 2 cheesy breadsticks in my kids backpack for goodness sake. We had those 4 nights ago. So yeah. The anti-perfection runs strong here.

I am about a million miles to the side of perfection.

And I know. I know this. “Comparison is the thief of joy.” And yet…the measuring tape never really stays put away.

I measure my own delicately weaved fabric against the grains of another. Another story. Another life that God has weaved together with grace and wisdom.

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I am not her. I am not that perfect woman. Perfect mother. I’m not even a perfect wife, friend, sister, daughter. I am deeply flawed.

 

“The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned”

-from Life is but a Weaving (the Tapestry Poem), original author unknown.*

But my imperfections make me beautiful. I am not a diamond, thrown away because of my flaws. My Lord loves me all the better for my struggles, my pain and discouragement.

I am a flawed being in a flawed world.

And I look at this grand new thing that is preschool. I see women who look like they have it all together. I know they are deeply flawed, just as I am.

The perfect preschool mom is a myth. No one can do it all, be it all.

No one in this world is perfect. We play pretend as if we were girls at dress up, prepared for high tea with our teddy bears.

But underneath, we all struggle.

Each day, each hour of my life is a gift. I will not waste it on useless comparison.

~Rachel

*Update: 3/19/18 Originally I thought that Corrie ten Boom was the author of this poem. As I researched more, I discovered that the author is widely disputed. For more on possible authorship of this poem see here.

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