Tonight I made a #whitepeopleproblems joke to a friend who isn’t white. He kindly corrected me—#firstworldproblems—as I tried to walk away from the mess I made with my mouth.
Before I made said slightly-racist joke, I ate two servings of chocolate cheesecake. At dinner I ate two baskets of chips. I ate while I talked to my husband about hard things, self-medicating with salted, salsa-ed goodness.
Before that, at the gym, I thought judgmental thoughts about good friends for no good reason at all and fantasized about making more money.
I’ve had a banner day. “Be extraordinary,” my foot.
Here’s the thing about “extraordinary”: I can’t do it. I want to be extraordinary and I try to be extraordinary but it’s just not in me.
I need help. And I need grace.
Every so often (key word: often) I will be ordinary. I will binge on episodes of West Wing. I will take pictures of my kids instead of being present with my kids. I will see a friend’s new kitchen and covet. I don’t want to do it. But I will, because my people, us humans, are ordinary. We’ve been that way for a long, long time.
It’s late, my disappointing day behind me, and I’m reading Romans chapter 8 and feeling hope. I read that “there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” I read, too that God is working in man, even now, making him in the image of Christ. I watch as creation groans, waiting to be liberated with us from our “bondage to decay.” I am reminded that the “Spirit helps us in our weakness” and that God, GOD, is for me. By the end of the chapter I feel like shouting, “We are more than conquerors through him who loved us!”
And all of a sudden I’m feeling extraordinary again. Not because I am. But because He is and I’m His.