Sometimes I get sick of myself.
I get sick of my failings and my weaknesses. I get sick of my selfishness and my self-centeredness. I get sick of letting my fears and my insecurities and my anxieties drive my words.
I get sick of not being good enough. Of not being kind enough and giving enough and open enough. Of not being wise enough and gentle enough and forgiving enough.
I get sick of looking out for myself. Of minding my own wounds. Of seeking grace in others instead of being that grace for others.
I try to remember that to be human is to fail, it’s to own weakness. It inherently implies a failing and a brokenness and an inability to reach perfection.
I try so hard to remember that. To stay balanced.
But to stare deep inside, to accept all that is faulty and ugly, is a hard thing to do. It’s hard to bounce back from. It’s hard to live with.
And so I pray for strength and healing and mending.
But still, every day, almost without exception, I find myself seeking understanding before seeking to understand.
And I’m sick of that.