WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?
“What were you thinking?”
In response to my inquiry, the dog’s happy-go-lucky expression silently spoke the well-known truth. “I wasn’t.”
Though, she should have been. This was not our first rodeo.
Laughing, despite the fact that I myself was just freshly showered, I turned my back on the dog who was literally leaping for joy. The poor thing had no idea what was coming.
Again, she’s not exactly what one would call bright.
Stalking to the box that held the hose, I grabbed the nozzle and began lugging the entire container towards the center of the yard.
The mud-splattered yellow lab stopped dead in her tracks. And then she began to run.
I guess her memory finally kicked in.
She didn’t get very far, given she was tethered to a stake in the ground, and had managed to wrap a significant length of the leash around the tree. However, the horrifying recollection of her encounter with that hose only a week prior sent her dashing around the yard as fast as she could.
Inheriting some of her intelligence, I began to follow her, the brief squirts of water doing little to the damage that had been done.
“Do you want me to hold her?” My mom offered, standing on the porch and doing a terrible job at not looking amused.
“No,” I waved her off, proving that I did in fact need her help as Oakley looped her leash around the hose, yanking it out of my hand and across the yard. “She won’t sit still, and she’ll get you all muddy.”
Again, said the recently showered girl.
Recovering my weapon, I continued to pursue the yellow bolt of lightning around the yard until finally, she relented to the punishment that awaited her.
Or, opted for the option of taking the perfect form of revenge. Allowing me to spray her down in a close proximity and give me yet another shower.
Wet and wild, she darted into the house, perfuming our home with the enviable scent of wet dog.
I’ve always been a little bit of a perfectionist. Ok, a lot a bit. And recently, that toxic attitude has caught up with me.
Not getting published was the final straw on the top of the towering stack of my preconceived failures. The list of demands for myself was almost as high as my expectations, and I was not meeting either criteria.
I wanted to be perfect. I thought I should be perfect. I worked so, so hard for perfect.
And guess what? I was never going to get it. Never.
Which is exactly what my loving Savior was trying to show me. That I’d never reach it. That it was impossible in this life. That it is never what He expected of me.
Though I hate to repeat the comparison a second time, I have appeared incredibly similar to that dog rolling around in the mud. Though I knew the actions, the habits I had created, my constant need to fight for perfection would only bring me pain, I went back to it again, and again.
“If I can eat right for twenty-one days, I can create a pattern that will last a lifetime. I won’t ever have to start over again.”
“I’ve just got to stop being mad. That’s all. Just don’t get angry about it.”
“Time to focus on the second book. You failed at the first one, you can’t let that happen with this one.”
I’d created a life of extremes, one that always left me feeling drained, lost, and alone.
Which I was, because I’d distanced myself from Him. I didn’t listen to what He thought of me. I didn’t heed His counsel as He watched me return to my mud pit of comfort for the umpteenth time, lovingly shaking His head and asking, “What were you thinking?”
I wasn’t.
I wouldn’t let my Savior be my Savior.
And yet, He never stopped trying to be.
Throughout it all, He’s been following me with the hose, trying to clean me of the lies I’d painted onto my life.
When I have been fighting to be perfect, He has gently been reminding me that I don’t need to be, that such a fact was the whole reason for His suffering.
Each “failure” was a gift, an extension of love, and an opportunity to turn to Him.
One I continually turned down until I had no other option. Until I relented my defeat, came to His side, and let Him wash away my “failures“.
And then, I felt free.
I thought I knew my Savior before. I was so, so wrong.
I have never felt so loved, so empowered, so worthy, so hopeful, so joyous, so connected, and so, so imperfect.
My Savior loves me, flaws and all. He loves when I try. He loves when I fall, coming to Him for help in tending to the mess. He loves that no longer with a weighted heart, I give it all to Him, knowing that He can make more of me, of it, of everything. He loves that my confidence comes from His love, and not from the worries inside my head or those of others.
He loves me. He saved me. He freed me. And because of that, I love Him.
There is one more addition to the end of the Oakley story.
While coming to my room, excited by the prospect of a new blog prompt that had been sent into my head from above, I heard the soft padding of dog feet following me. Which quickly turned into a thunderous roar.
Happy to see her, I patted the seat beside me on the bed, to which Oakley Ann happily obliged. Where, she thanked me for my efforts to clean her by leaving a wet spot on my bed and my t-shirt.
Over the past few weeks, as I’ve continually waged the war with my Savior to keep my perfectionism at bay, I’ve greeted Him similarly. Wetting His clothing with my tears, I cannot thank Him enough for this gift that He continually reminds me He freely gives.
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