This is my friend, Alison at "this is not a rough draft". We've known each other since we were both college punks. She is a beautiful writer and has the cutest kid's rooms I've ever seen. And, I think she looks like a lovely, modern Snow White. She has two sweet little ones and ministers alongside her husband, B. I pray that you will be encouraged and moved towards Godliness as you read what she shared.
A Marriage of Many Things
She was the belle of the ball--a confection of curls and ruffles, all dolled up to the delight of everyone. She ate their attention up, and I didn't have the heart to tell her that it wasn't actually her day--it was the girl's over there...you know, the one with the veil.
It was no matter--she danced in her new shoes, smiled at the camera, and proclaimed her complete devotion for weddings.
It was expected, being that she was three years old. But there was also something else expected, and I whispered to her it in the ornate, sparkling ladies' room where I dragged her.
"Do. you.....have to go the BATHROOM?"
I tensed up, watching her eyes straining to see the dancing shadows on the ceiling from the chandelier. She was captivated by this present elegance that she was living in, but I knew better. She hadn't gone the bathroom in hours, and thus, we were one wrong move away from utter and absolute desecration.
As any mother, I had it all played out in my head--every potty disaster that could have happened. The pee, the poop--it was ruining dresses, being paraded down the aisle; there were tears and screams, and everyone was not looking at her--they were looking at me.
Me, the mother, who had been dancing between glory and crap, all day long.
It feels familiar, although that day the level of both were heightened. I'm happy to report that the dress stayed clean, her eyes stayed dry, and my composure stayed (somewhat) sane, but it's a daily struggle--and not just because I'm a mom.
I dance between the two often, yinging and yanging with my humanity--I am a devoted follower of Christ and then falling into the muck of sin. I am dolled up in my best while my flesh nags me to no end. I had tried to be one or the other--dignified or disrespectful, perfect or stained, wonderful or offensive, but sometimes I am, in fact, all of the above.
It's moment by moment that I plea for Christ to uphold me from my human self. To ebb and flow with my need for His shaping hand. I am one wrong step away from utter desecration for all He's entrusted to me, but He upholds me, calls me His own, and even if I ruin it, it's okay. He clothes me with righteousness. Equips me with gifts. And thankfully, within my efforts, He is in them--so maybe, when all is said and done, they won't look at me.
Instead, they will look to Him.
