Imperfectly Imperfect

    As much as I want to be, I am not one of those perfectly imperfect, modern day, stay-at-home moms. You know what I’m talking about? The ones who post pictures of their messy buns (which still look great to me) and the toys strewn about their house and write about “not having it all together but together having it all.” My life, too, is imperfect. But perhaps my life is not imperfect in the “socially appropriate” sense. My kind of imperfect is not really one that you can post all over the internet and not expect to receive some kind of judgment or hand-slap. Perhaps I’ve lost my mind or have some buried desire to be socially exiled. However, I find it more likely that I am deeply, deeply hurting and I’m aching to be known and seen and not lead people on through the lens of social media.    My imperfect is not in the form of toys left out or non-organic macaroni thrown together for dinner instead of vegan lettuce wraps. There are days I cannot get out of bed, get myself a glass of water, or am physically unable to take a shower or get dressed.   My imperfect comes in the form of frequent episodes of irrational, hateful anger toward my “has it all together” husband that I allow to solidify into dangerous words and actions I surely regret. My imperfect comes in the form of my husband seeing me pull away in the car for time alone and wondering if I will return. My imperfect comes in the form of prayerless days and weeks because I’m so tired of feeling like I’m talking to nothingness. My imperfect comes in the form of my husband bawling on his knees, begging God to preserve and restore his wife. My imperfect comes in the form of hours in a day wasted on social media because I choose to not face my own reality.

     My imperfect comes in the form of tears shed over posted photos of friends hanging out and bitterness toward the throbbing loneliness in my own heart. My imperfect comes in the form of anger toward the family and friends who do step in, because surely they can’t have the proper motives. My imperfect comes in the form of hours of pumping (a lack of) breastmilk from my bruised and painful breasts with nothing to show for it, sparking toxic envy toward every mother who has never fought to feed her child. My imperfect comes in the form of a husband walking on egg shells, never knowing if it will be his loving wife or suicidal wife he will meet in the morning. My imperfect comes in fear of transparency, because I have so much to be thankful for and will surely be judged for feeling this way. My imperfect comes in the form of sleeping on the floor of my son’s room because I am so weary of not being the wife my husband needs. My imperfect comes in the form of tearful mornings because the concrete in my veins has left me too debilitated to lift my own son. My imperfect comes in the form of bitterness toward God for “allowing” me to become this person. 

    My imperfect comes in deepest heartache because despite my brokenness and the fullness of our plate, I want so much more. I want to adopt. I want to foster severe special needs. I want to start a ministry for children with special needs at our church. I want to do homeless ministry. I want to invite people over for dinner. I want a puppy. I want to become an ASL interpreter. I want to run one of those inflatable obstacle runs. I want to be a wife who glows and encourages and loves. I want to be a mom who is gracious and funny and creative and feels well. I want so many things and the “it’s not a good time” answer pulls a defiant scream from my gut. There you have it. It’s no secret. I’m really, really struggling with depression. My doctors tell me that it’s because of the stage my Celiac is in. They tell me without Celiac, losing a close brother, graduating college, moving, getting married, teaching, staying home, having a baby (with a health issue), and starting foster care all within a year and a half is enough on its own to make a person  a little crazy. They tell me to give it time. They tell me healing will come. 

    In a sense, I’m only waiting. I’m clinging and clawing and surviving. Yet, I also keep remembering the verse in Esther that mentions being set apart for “such a time as this.” It’s funny how even when we are in the driest of deserts, God is faithful to pull to heart and mind bits of truth He has taught us in the past. This time in my life absolutely stinks in a lot of ways. But there is beauty…my precious boys, my gracious husband, my protection thus far. As much as I’d like to slam shut this chapter in my life, I have to believe God isn’t finished yet. On the days when all I can do is whisper His name, He’s still reigning. Someday I will be on the other side. Life will never be perfect but I have to believe it will be better. Healing will come. For now, my imperfects are anything but perfect. But for such a time as this…they don’t have to be because He is.

-Micah