Monday, November 29, 2010

do you struggle with your worth?

Looking at my life, I don't see elaborate qualities.  I see normal.  Mundane. Simple.

Ironically, I like me.  I like the dinners I prepare.  The cookies I bake.  The crafts I create.  When finished, I feel satisfied.  Content.  A normal job well done.

Then the mail arrives.  The front page picture of my magazine, mocking me, with it's super-glittery, oh-so-fancy, perfectly frosted, seemingly inedible snowmen cookies.

I glance toward the jar of freshly baked, non-amazing chocolate chip cookies.  My heart sinks.  And the memory of my husband's smiling, chocolate-covered face disappears with the turning of the first page.

As I dig deeper into the crisp new periodical, I begin to feel unworthy.  Along with an incredible urge to drive to the store so that I may collect all the necessary items in which to conjure up the fanciful confections.  Because doesn't every man want a wife that can fill a plate full of sweetly-laced overindulgences?

As I stand in my kitchen, I'm covered in frosting and defeat.  Burnt smoke swirls into my nostrils, causing them to sting.  Looking at my cookies, I can see that they mostly resemble a strangely shaped snow-monster rather than an impeccably accurate snowman.  The recent distant memory of a chocolate-covered husband slowly emerges from the recesses of my mind.

This causes the sticky fog to lift and I begin to wonder where I am and how blue frosting got in my ear.

I glance toward the jar filled with the less-extravagant cookies and pull one out.  I sit down next to a cozy husband.  The evidence of a chocolaty-pleased palette sits crumbled on his shirt.  And I take a healthy bite.

The homemade flavor rushes throughout my mouth.  I think to myself, that's one amazingly delicious cookie.

I feel satisfied.  Content.  A normal job well done.

Because I am me.
And I was made to be that way.

P.S.  Snow-monsters taste
just as yummy as snowmen.

1 comment:

  1. Your descriptions made me smile. Thanks. :)


Love is to the heart what the summer is to the farmer's year - it brings to harvest all the loveliest flowers of the soul. -Unknown