Are You Still There God? Or Was That the Last Straw?
But not for my children, would I ever truly see how exhausting I, the Believer in Jesus Christ, really am? Or what a good Father He really is?
I know He isn’t, well, recently I have come to know that God isn’t perpetually smacking Himself in the forehead and muttering “Oi vey, Jami, Jami – you will be the straw that breaks this Camel’s back. You are wearing me out, girl.”
Yes, I have low self-esteem, except in incidents where I believe I can single-handedly be the undoing of the Maker of Heaven and Earth and then I am like, “Stand back ya’ll – this is all me.”
I am the Shirley Temple of Universe upheaval. Granted, there was a Holocaust, the attempted total destruction of the Lord’s chosen people, sex-trafficking, terrorism, and starving children – but if I get a speeding ticket, say the F-word, bounce a check, or break my diet with three French fries from one of my kid’s happy meals, well… step aside cause there’s fixing to be some kind of Supreme Being wrath. I will bet there will be climate change and someone’s cat is going to meet with an untimely and gruesome, albeit thought-provoking demise. All because of little ole’ me.
Yes, I am that invested in my folly… the baby Darling – God’s Achille’s heel.
I am unlearning this. But, seriously I am embarrassed at how important I thought I was, in a negative way. I really believed that Jesus was up on high, wholly consumed with my wretchedness and ridiculousness.
What to do about Jami Jo Amerine and her sinfulness and red-hot mess living.
What. To. Do…
When you are in this much anguish to Jesus Christ, you produce high levels of stress hormone. In turn, you eat Cheezits, cry, and yell at your kids. It is a vicious cycle. The next morning you are out of Xanax, and you are bathed in self-contempt and Oreos crumbs. Also, there is likely an empty pint of the new Ben and Jerry’s ice Cream Jimmy Fallon’s The Tonight Dough, lying next to you on your pillow. Yes, your hair needs to be washed.
And if you believe as I used to, this has to be it, God is done.
You bathe in condemnation, your self-hate is nothing compared to that which you manifest He must feel for you. You tap dance through your day believing you are the star of the show, a one-act play, your drama the one scene the Lord just cannot seem to defeat or reconcile.
It’s a shame… He seems so mighty to save.
Que more stress hormones, buy more ice cream…. And Cheezits.
I slept with our five-year-old Sam last night. I use the term slept, lightly. He slept. I blogged and researched where I might find a kidney donor as he repeatedly slammed his knee into my left one causing, what I suspect is permanent damage. We are in a hotel headed to my oldest daughter’s wedding reception, she eloped in June.
In spite of the fact that Sam and I are squashed together in this double bed, he has reached for me 20 times in the night and said, “Mommy, are you still here?”
Every time I answer, “Yes Sam.”
With every jab, kick, and smack he is certain I am right next to him. Still, he pats me, “Mommy, don’t leave.”
And I am not mad at him. He has been through a lot this year. His big sister got married, his big brother became a Marine, his little foster sister was removed from our home – we grieve, and we moved to a new city, where his daddy has yet to join us full time. He is insecure. I am his mommy. I will care for him.
And in the midst of that? My other children have things that I must tend to. A wedding reception and search for a career. A Marine, are you kidding me? He blows things up… for a living, I specifically forbade this, and now… sigh. A college baby who isn’t quite sure. A teen baby who lives in a world that I couldn’t have imagined on the day she was born. I am impossibly potty training another one, grieving the loss of a little girl who needed to go home but will always be my daughter.
And Sam has my attention and my devotion. Every time he calls, “Mommy, are you still here?” I answer, “Yes Sam, I am still here.”
I, a human parent in all my folly and ridiculousness am here. I am cautious, kind, and attentive to these needs.
When did I first believe that I was a better parent than God? God, who calls Himself good Father and sacrificed Himself for me so that we could be together in eternity? When did I become so self-absorbed with my idiocy and obsessed with my sin? Sin He conquered on Calvary, yet I continue to borrow back and wallow in?
If I were to believe He parents as gently as I parent, would I not feel much peace?
And if I were to be parented as well as Sam is parented could I not continually reach through the darkness and find the comfort of a loving Father?
“Father, are you still there?
“Father, please don’t leave.”
“No… never. Not ever. I am right here.”
Oh, but wouldn’t there be much rest?
“Yes baby darling, that’s why I came. Rest baby… rest.”
May your floors be sticky and your calling ordained. Love, Jami
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort.. 2 Corinthians 1:3
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