“We begin to find and become ourselves when we notice how we are already found, already truly, entirely, wildly, messily, marvelously who we were born to be.”
― Anne Lamott

Why would it be wrong to make peace with myself?

Like accepting myself and taking a deep breath of peace and appreciation into this body would be some form of self worship.
Like celebrating who I am and who God has made me to be makes me a heretic…blasphemous?

The effort that it takes to keep up the self loathing doesn’t seem worth it.
We all hate ourselves from time to time.
It’s a chronic disease.
And every time I get close to believing in the cure,
I am yanked back into doubt.

I would imagine that the creative mind behind all of this would want more of his little creatures.
No parent that I’ve ever encountered, even the really terrible ones, ever wishes for their kids to fail, shrivel up and die for the parents own boasting?
Why am I constantly being told that that is who God is?
A father so ashamed, so disgusted.
Willing to show mercy only to glorify himself and boost his own ego?
I prefer imagining him bending down to watch his children thriving and loving. Blessing, living and growing.
Coaxing us to learn hard lessons.
Beckoning us to see beauty in ashes and strength in weakness…
as he stands firmly with us, providing it.

When I make a point to notice I can see His tenderness everywhere.
In the tears of a stranger mourning an animal.
In the laughter inside the eyes of an understanding and caring friend.
In the kisses, undeserved, from an irritated spouse.
In the quick forgiveness of a child’s love and adoration.
In the loyalty and faithfulness of a dog.
In the loving truth telling that pulls no punches of a sister.
In the apology of a brother.
In the teachable moments grasped by a father.
In the quiet grief of an overweight woman in a yoga class.