I was going to have a mouthwatering picture of the cookies my mother has been tempting me with this afternoon, but, due to circumstances that are too dumb to recount, the picture is not here. So, I want you to use your imagination with me. You know those puffy sugar cookies with the thick frosting (usually colored in a bright color according to what holiday is coming up) that are sold at Target and Cub? They’re the ones that kids love to bring in for their birthday treats, the ones that leave you feeling happy and fat.
Well. My mom made those. Out of a white cake mix.
I just polished off three of them, and I’m still waiting for the regret to sink in.
Okay, so maybe I just regret that I’ve already eaten my allotted amount of the top triangle of the food pyramid for the day and can’t indulge again later.
And now, in an effort to get my mind off of the container full of those delicious tempters, let’s reflect on failure. It really isn’t a “nice” topic, per se, but I’ve been realizing how much of a failure I am the past couple days. Now, don’t go feeling bad for me; don’t start thinking that I have no self-esteem and am going to go around hanging my head and always be on the verge of tears. Healthy people are the ones who know that they are inadequate. Even healthier people are the ones who see those inadequacies as ways for God to show how good He is. To show that He redeems us in the places where we fall short.
Here’s an effort at being relatable: does anyone else have days where they feel like 90% of what they said was
b) seen as random by the person to whom it was spoken
c) incoherent or just not well though out
d) all of the above
That has been my week. I’m sure that my late bedtimes and early wake ups weren’t helping me either. I look back on how many things I said that were either a,b,c, or a combo of the three and just want to take a nap, to take a break from being conscious for a little bit. If I’m not conscious, I can’t say stupid things.
And though the thought of just wanting to escape is enticing, the thought that God can redeem my speech to make it useful and powerful and glorifying to Him is much more inspiring. That gets my heart pumping blood faster. It makes me want to take care of my brain better to enable it function on a higher level, to go to sleep when my eyes plead with me to make a day of it. My calculus teacher has the philosophy that “you can sleep with you’re dead!” — as an exhortation to us to stay up late doing our homework instead of skipping the extra problems for extra hours of sleep — but I think that if you don’t sleep, you’ll die sooner. Which is, perhaps, the objective of those who refuse to sleep. It isn’t mine though.
I feel like I’m sitting here, holding out my worthless or inappropriate words in my cupped hands, waiting for God to put His words in my mouth.