This morning at church I was checking L's blood sugar while the congregation sang the opening hymn. The lancet must have been set at deeper setting than usual, as his finger bled profusely after the shunk. Unprepared, I wiped the blood with my hand...cleaning it from his fingers to mine. I looked at my blood stained hands as the chorus of the Easter song rang in my ears, "He is Risen!"
Wiping the blood from my fingers, our mortality sat in grime reality in front of me.
We are mortal.
We are human.
We are imperfect.
Living a diabetic life is a never ending parallel to living our mortal one. Constant corrections.
As I need to make constant corrections to the boys blood sugars, I need to make constant corrections to the way I live my life.
Because I'm not perfect.
I don't know why I picture millions in the world that are perfect. Upon further thought...I'm hard pressed to think of even one.
No one is perfect. Everyone has their own story...their own demons to face.
My mind draws back to my life when I was a new mother. I'm pretty sure the first 10 years of motherhood was me trying to convince others I was perfect. The "perception" that people had of me was paramount to anything else. Years have passed and it seems I'm burning the candle at the other end. I couldn't be perfect, so I've given up.
"Why even try?" I would often say to myself. "I don't have the time or the energy to do the job to my perfectional standard, so I'll sit this one out."
I'm tired of my apathy. I'm tired of shrugging everything off. I have a lot of fight left in me. I have a lot to offer. I stand ready to make a difference...or rather, I'm at the threshold of being ready.
Blood is a powerful image. As I stared at the bright red smears on my hand this morning, I thought of the ultimate sacrifice Jesus Christ made for me. What I do to in regards to the boys diabetes is but a small sacrifice compared to His. I can't use our situation as an excuse to not get involved anymore. I'm so tired of being tired. Life was meant to be LIVED. Imperfectly...constantly correcting our course. I'm not a bad person because I'm not a perfect pancreas. My best is just going to have to be good enough.
I'm mortal. The blood that runs through my veins tells me that.
It is time for me to accept myself for who I am. It is time to open my eyes to my imperfections and embrace them.
I owe it to the Redeemer to appreciate this body, and this mind that I was given. It is time for me to me to get over myself.
He is risen. And so has my confidence.