I rushed home from the warehouse and beat the school bus by 8 minutes.
My van barely fit into the garage because boxes and containers hadn’t quite made their way to Mercy House yet. I squeezed out of my car and then stepped over baskets of laundry in various stages on my way into the house through the laundry room.
With my purse and laptop bag still on my shoulder, I turned the oven on to preheat it.
I shoved refrigerator chocolate chip cookies into the oven and started tackling the dirty dishes in the sink from the night before.
I checked the clock and with two minutes to spare before kids walked through the door, I took a deep breath and surveyed my life.
A stack of school papers I needed to go through on the bar mocked me; a note on the counter reminded me that my son’s band shirt he needed for a concert was somewhere in the mounds of laundry and that’s when I noticed the crockpot held an uncooked roast and crunchy vegetables instead of the dinner I was planning.
Even the store-bought cookies baking smelled like failure.
By the looks of things, I wasn’t exactly rocking motherhood.
It’s in moments like these I am overcome with temptation to compare myself to other moms I know. I have friends who would never serve their kids break and bake cookies or leave dishes in the sink overnight. I am blessed with women in my life who decorate their homes and kids like pages off of Pinterest. I have friends who’s love language is laundry (bless them) and I know moms who don’t depend on their crockpot three nights a week.
Every time I give in and compare, I feel like I’m not enough.
But then I heard this truth whispered to my heart: My value isn’t in what I do well or don’t do; it’s not in how I measure up against other moms–no, my worth is in who I am.
I am a child of God. He loves and accepts me. He doesn’t wait for me to get it right or do it better.
He whispers deep into my inadequacy and says, you are enough.
I snapped out of my deep thoughts when I heard the school bus stop in front of my house. I met my teens at the door and they looked tired from the day and relieved to see me.
The ups and downs of being a teenager poured out and I listened, nodded and patted arms.
Because isn’t that what we all want? A place to unload all the good and bad; a place to be heard.
“Are those cookies I smell?” my daughter asked. “I hope they are my favorite ones from the store.”
I handed my son his shirt for his concert and told them it was an unplanned pizza night.
They didn’t comment on the piles of laundry or the messy kitchen or judge me for the unplugged crockpot.
They noticed I was simply there and that was enough.
We devoured those warm cookies and I even heard a,”You’re the best, Mom!”
Because mom–it doesn’t matter how you get or give the cookies, it just matters that you do.