Sometimes…most of the time…I feel so far from capable.  Even before I read the perfect posts or see the perfect photos or have the rest of the world loudly, clearly condemning me for just not being good enough, I see it.  When I strain with all I am to try to gain some kind of right perspective on these December days that are supposed to be about celebration and thankfulness and awe, and end up feeling inept because I still can’t find the good, I wonder what’s wrong with me.  When I try to explain to my children why it matters so much that God became man, and my words fall flat and they just stare at me with blank faces, I feel defeated.  When I look around our house and see messes and clutter and…unfinished-ness…even though I tried to deck the halls and create some semblance peace and beauty and warmth, I want to just give up.  When I realize that there are only three weeks left until Christmas and I have barely begun to buy gifts, there’s that voice whispering over and over and over…you’re a failure.

And you know what?  I am a failure.  We all are.  Maybe my efforts result in more obvious failure than the efforts of others, but nobody in the history of humanity has gotten it all right, except One.  I can be tempted to think that God cares that my house doesn’t look beautiful or that the laundry isn’t put away or that I might not get the perfect gift for my child.  I am, at times, even convinced that my inadequacies in Bible teaching will handicap my children in their ability to believe and follow after God.  I see my sins and my weaknesses and everything wrong with me and think God must be so disappointed.  Until He reminds me, again, of why Jesus came.  He saw all that I would be long before I was.  He knew the futility of my striving, of humanity’s striving.  And rather than being disappointed, rather than expecting some kind of vain attempt at pulling ourselves up by the bootstraps, rather than giving up on us – on me – He put Himself in the gap left by every failure, every selfishness, every squandered opportunity, because He loved, and loves, anyway.

I doubt that I will ever be able to come across as picture-perfect, despite the unfortunate reality that I will probably try time and time again.  It’s unlikely that anyone will ever look at me, at my life, and think I have everything figured out.  My kids will most certainly grow up with a front-row seat to (and, hopefully, first-hand experience of) God’s undeserved favor being poured out on a sin-stained life.  But God won’t ever be surprised by all that I am and all that I’m not.  He won’t be comparing me or condemning me.  He will be with me, right here, all-sufficient to present this life to Himself as holy, acceptable, and perfect.