My week hasn't gone as expected. My semester has finally ended, but the race to the finish line resembled a limp more than a sprint. I submitted final grades and processed my instructor feedback while lying in bed, coughing, feverish, and chilled.
Even though I'm slowly recovering, instead of experiencing happiness and closure with another semester in the books, I feel tired and deflated. Most everything hurts. Food has no taste. Reading hold no excitement. TV seems dull. Mornings blur into afternoons, afternoons blur into evenings, and nights last too long. I've fallen behind on laundry, cleaning, and meal prep. I haven't finished Christmas shopping. I haven't started writing Christmas cards. I have no motivation.
This morning I laid in bed, looked up at the ceiling, and thought, "God, I'm a mess right now."
It freed me to admit this truth. I know I'll functional normally again soon, but at the moment I have nothing great to offer. I'm not productive. I'm not engaging. I pretty much I take up space and cough.
When many good things -- like health, energy, and my contributions to my family -- are stripped away, I'm reminded that I can't base my worth on my performance and productivity. My performance, quite frankly, stinks. And even if I was trucking along, doing my thing, crossing items off my list, and feeling with it instead of woefully out of it, I still shouldn't be basing my worth on my performance.
Performance is a poor measure of worth and significance. It's subjective and fickle, likely to leave you tossed and adrift, anchorless and susceptible to either pride or shame.
So, as I looked up at my ceiling and thought, "God, I'm a mess right now," I sensed God simply say, "I know, Robin. I love you anyway."
It's never been about what I bring to the table. Whether impressive or lacking, my efforts and contributions never are the determining factor of God's love for me. His love is relentless. It's based on His performance of living, dying, and rising again, not my performance.
I could cry at this glorious truth, but it's never wise to cry when you have a nasty head cold.
Emmanuel. God with us. Coming into mess and filth in a manger two thousand years ago, and still entering our messes today.
Image compliments of MTSO Fan (flickr.com)