I hate my face

and the rest of me as well. But mostly my face. The rosacea is taking over. I took a picture with my phone of me and my youngest daughter, and she looks so beautiful, and I look so very crappy.

I have to be honest here on this blog called the amazing super mom. I have not felt remotely amazing or anything like super in quite some time. The daily grind is really bringing me down. I don't like the look of me or the feel of me.

I was reading a facebook conversation recently, started by a young woman who was confidently stating her updated religious views. She said she is a deist, she believes in God. She likes the idea of a rescuer but has decided that the Bible isn't trustworthy because of translation issues someone told her about. But what she wants is a life that isn't based on rules and a constant trying to measure up, but instead a life that flows out of love.

And I thought, that's what being a Christian is. Or is supposed to be. It is supposed to be a life that flows in and out of the immense love of God. Jesus, living the life He lived, dying on the cross and rising again was all about revealing the love of God. It was about setting us free from all those rules and guilt into living a life flowing in that mighty love.

The facebook poster had not seen that love in the churches she'd been part of or in the Christians she knew apparently. She certainly wouldn't see it in me. Why is that? I've been a Christian for 30+ years. In my brain I know that Jesus loves me. I know I am free. I know I am beautiful to Him. I know He is right and I am wrong.

But when I look in the mirror or hear myself talk or think about how I act, I do not love me.

When I am with Him, focused on Him, listening to Him, I remember. And though I don't feel beautiful, I know He is, and I enjoy Him there. But even that revelation is hard to cling to when I get back to the blow-by-blow of being a human. Harsh words spoken, blank stares from formerly friendly faces, criticism, failure, just the normal uphill battles we all face, all these things wage war on that lovely peace that passes understanding.

I want to be one of those women who carry with them the grace of having looked myself in the face and seen what Jesus sees, of having gone through the fire but not been burned, of having been with Jesus so often and so deeply and authentically that nothing, no nothing, interferes in my nestled existence.

I want to be so saturated with the glorious, universe-sized love of the Almighty that it slimes everyone I come in contact with, in a good way.

But I'm not that girl today. I'm just me. Tripping along, bumping into stuff and people. I feel small (in a fat sort of way) and weak and offensive and insufficient and ugly. And far, far away from the arms of my Beloved Jesus, though they are ever so near.

My very favorite image of Jesus in the Bible is when John the disciple was leaning back on Him during the last supper. There was turmoil, unrest, Jesus was talking about things like being crucified and tortured and betrayed, and John simply leaned back.

There is a quote in one of the Winnie the Pooh stories when the Piglet calls out to Pooh, and Pooh asks what he wants, and Piglet replies, "Nothing, I just wanted to be sure of you." That's the height of my faith this morning. I don't have all the answers. I'm not floating in a sea of the love of God. I can't probably inspire any athiests or agnostics to believe by my lifestyle or world view. I'm just hanging on. I know Him. I know He loves me. But it has not seeped into my all day, every day.

I'm just leaning back, just wanting to be sure of Him who my heart loves.