StoryStar

I am not the most organized person in the world. As a matter of fact, I probably rank very high on the "Most Unorganized List". I detest confusion as much, if not more, than most, so why is my life always a tangled web of chaos? I ask myself this over and over, on my journey to become the perfect mother and wife. I desire to wear that gold star with the words "Mother of the Year" imprinted boldly on its shiny surface. You know the star I mean, the one no one can give me but myself. You see, every magazine in the world could boast of my most compelling motherly attributes, but here, in my own heart and mind, I would still be the largest failure.

Now, how can I reach that place where I can be happy with who I am and what I've done? I have attempted several routes to obtain what I like to call "The Personal Star". Allow me to depict what I have encountered, since I am almost certain that you have visited the same places. I home school my two elementary aged children. Some time ago I decided to undertake organizing my desk. Mind you, this is quite the undertaking for one such as me, but never the less, I stepped out on my journey. While thrashing myself for my disorderly conduct, I filed though the most tremendous pile of papers you have ever seen. We are talking the paragon of paper piles, complete with scrap notes written previous to my birth.

Of course, I had to continually take breaks to encourage (actually scream at) my children to do their school work. Then there was the dog, an 18 month old Dalmatian who makes "Ricochet Rabbit" appear slow moving. He decided my heap of papers needed to be spread out and shred a bit. Have you ever attempted to make a neat pile out of wrinkled, damp, half chewed papers? It doesn't work. At this point I realized I needed a half hour break to really tell myself what a lousy mess I was. Now, six months later, that same assemblage of wrinkled calamity still sits on my desk, but it now has a catastrophic pile which has grown along besides it. Okay, so the desk thing didn't work, that's all right, I’ll attempt organizing the closet.

As I opened the closet door, the landslide of outdated dresses and shoes pouring over my feet immediately told me I was on the wrong path. So, without hesitation, I managed to shove everything back in, shut the door, and jump directly into scourging myself. That is the whole point anyway, isn't it? That's why I attempt these things, so I can have just cause to torture myself. After several hours of merciless siege, I pulled myself together to get started organizing someplace else, but by that time I was so exhausted that I curled up into a ball on the bed and threw myself a big party. I really needed a party, especially one of this type: pity.

After letting my brain have the horrid abuse only I could give to myself, I came to a realization. I just don't cut it. Did you ever come across that light bulb? It jumps up and slaps you in the face every time you hit a point of hopelessness, kind of like an ice cold gust of arctic air. There is no joy in that sudden insight, only an empty unfulfilled feeling. Maybe, if I had gotten done what I started out to do, it wouldn't have hit. Maybe, if I could just gather the strength to be a good mom, like everyone else, I could have had that peace. Or maybe, just maybe, all the organizational skills on the planet couldn't have kept me from it. Perhaps what I really desired had nothing to do with being organized. Wow, what a thought. Could I have possibly gone about achieving that star in the wrong way? Can it be that beating and scourging myself would not make me happy with myself?

I tested it. I thought about the time I was the most angry with my husband. The time I really wanted to wring his neck. The night he forgot to lift the toilet seat. As I relived the fury, I asked myself two questions. Would I have been happier if I scourged him the way I scourge myself? Would I have loved him more if I spewed out all those verbal abuses at him? Both answers were no. First, I would never have the audacity to pour that much venom out on any human being (other then myself), and second, my love for him didn't cease in all my anger. So if this cycle doesn't work to make you happier with the person your angry with, it can't work to make you happier with yourself. Is it viable that I should deal with myself using the same mercy and understanding I use when dealing with others?

This can't be true, it can't possibly be that simple. I'd have to give myself a break. Actually, I could use a break from the torture, even if I deserve every ounce of it. As I struggled with these foreign thoughts, the Lord graciously painted a picture upon my heart. I saw the stripes Christ bore across His back, the scourges He took. It was then I realized all my efforts were in vain. The abuse I inflicted on myself had already been inflicted on the Lamb. He bore my shortcomings, and it is wrong of me to bear them again. All the scourging I deserve for my "disorderly conduct" has been taken, and paid for.

Amazing, God not only forgives murderers and adulteresses, but also unorganized, undisciplined people such as me. I asked Him to take my scourging stick, and assist me in becoming more self tolerant. That sounds odd, doesn't it? Self tolerant, it means letting Him deal with my ungodly attributes, instead of dealing with them in my own abusive way. So, what about the gold star? Let it go, anything you can give to yourself isn't worth it, whether it be gold or pain. Besides, I would probably lose it in all this clutter anyhow. The end.