The last drop.
This mama is tired.
I could tell you about my non-stop schedule. I could tell you about my calendar. I could tell you about the many things on my plate and how I feel like I'm one moment away from dropping them all.
I could tell you that most days I'm doing my best to give everyone my best and sometimes I really want to throw a fit because I will always take the next thing handed to me because I truly want to make everyone happy (but in reality I sorta want to scream and break it and set it all on fire).
I could tell you that I'm battling what feels like chronic fatigue and I can't tell if it's some sort of old age, exhaustion, introversion, and/or too many responsibilities or a big messy pile of those things combined.
I could tell you that my patience has been worn thin by dealing with individuals who sort of skate with their responsibilities and don't get worked up enough to be their best selves. How they feel it's ok to just do something half-way and don't seem bothered when people are disappointed. And how I get worried for them, because I want to protect them--but I also want to throttle them because can't they see that I'm already overextended and don't have time to save them too?
I could tell you that at least once a week I'm close to tears at the magnitude of raising and teaching children, dealing with adults, and the pressure of balancing work and home, and not being sure how to do it all and survive and create meaningful relationships with my people. And that I'd really like to just take a nap, read a magazine, and set the to-do list on fire.
I could tell you that I exercise on the regular and have run two half-marathons this year. I take my vitamins, drink my water, and try to make good choices and I dislike the way my age is catching up with me. I pray, read my devotions, and journal almost every day, I do my best to encourage, and I am checking all of the boxes on the "supposed to" list.
I could tell you that when I'm still my brain starts yelling at me. My inner monologue is one full of anxiety and shame. I cycle through my regrets and worries, and will sprinkle in the latest way I let someone down. And I will let it fester and beat me down because failure does not sit well with me.
I could tell you that as much as I'd like to be the one holding the half-full glass, most of the time I feel like I'm at the last drop and I'm desperately trying to keep it from tipping over. I like to call my glass "reality" and I tend to squash the folks holding the cup labeled "dreams."
I could tell you these things, but I don't want to trouble you with my concerns. Because the truth is, almost everyone has their own list of things they are dragging alongside of them. And when we start measuring who has the worst load, chances are my load isn't nearly as hard as anyone else's--and sometimes I feel shame for getting upset over non-life and death frustrations.
And, truth be told, all I really want to hear is someone telling me that I'm doing a decent job.
This weekend is one of the big ones in the church. We celebrate the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. On Friday He was crucified, but on Sunday He rose from the dead. We celebrate the life He laid down, the burdens He carried for us, and we are thankful for the forgiveness of sins.
We know these truths. We recite and teach them to our children, we speak of forgiveness and love and mercy. We are thankful for the cross, but sometimes we spend more time focused on Friday. Because when we start sinking our teeth into the fact that His blood was poured out for the most unlovely, despicable, and vile--then we must include ourselves on that list.
And that truth is paralyzing for someone who spends her life trying to manage it all on her own.
I'm not trying to let You down, Jesus.
You can count on Me to do it right.
Except when I don't, and You know I'm still feeling badly about it.
I've got it handled over here, You need to tend to them instead.
I don't want to let anyone down, but I'm barely holding onto my little bag of responsibilities. I cannot fathom literally holding the weight of the world on my shoulders. But my Jesus held all of my unworthiness, He carried my burdens and shame up the hill, and He bore the punishment that my sin deserves.
My cup is bone dry, so the Lord invites me to break bread and drink from His cup. His body was broken for me. His blood was shed for the forgiveness of my sins. His death reminds me of all the ways I can never measure up, and His resurrection reminds me that I was not born to save the world.
That's His job.