53. The Woman In The Mirror
Photo by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash
Episode 53
We can be our own worst critics. How do we keep faith and hope when disappointment and regret cloud our hearts? And our enemy can use accusation, blame, and guilt to hobble us.
In this special, first anniversary edition of the podcast, I do a short dramatic presentation of the battle that can rage in our mind. It is only the Sword of the Word that will slay our stinking thinking and enable us to press on with the Lord.
Show Notes
I am hard on the woman in the mirror.
When did I grow so old? So tired? Where’s my smile? Why is it so hard sometimes to draw breath?
A sigh exhales, slow and pathetic, from a well of old sorrows and worries.
My mouth’s straight line droops down. I’d look better with a smile, but when I try, it looks fake. Plastic. Pasted on top of years of bitter pain that hold tight, and regret over clinging habits that refuse to escape with the spent air.
“You’re pathetic,” I accuse. Others have it harder. A cheating husband. Cancer. Destroyed finances. Hateful kids who blame their parents for their own bad choices. What do I have to complain about? That accusation heaps more guilt on top of shame.
Guilt. That I wasn’t the mother I hoped I’d be. I failed often. I let anger rule and weariness direct me. I should have tried harder. Been more fun. Paid for more lessons. Sacrificed more? Given more time and slept less? Was that even possible?
I wasn’t the wife I’d imagined either. Not forgiving enough, or kind, or loving, or so many other things.
Shame. Over what I haven’t done. The messes I didn’t clean. The mountains I didn’t climb.
Another sigh sends lost dreams and unrealized hopes out of my weary heart. I expected to achieve things. Write books. Speak on stage. Produce. Create. Be more. Do more.
A tear rolls down the once-firm cheek of the old woman in the mirror.
“Stop it!” I reach for bootstraps that need yanking but can’t locate them.
I shake my finger at the reflection. “Be thankful. Be grateful.” Just somewhere else I fail. If I trusted my Lord with mustard seed faith, this wouldn’t be happening. But it is. So apparently I don’t. Don’t trust. Don’t hope. Don’ts on top of can’ts and didn’ts.
“Do you just want to become a bitter old woman?”
No. I don't.
“You want everyone to feel sorry for you?”
No. I really, really don’t. Though someone calling to check on me would be lovely.
Fists on hips and feet planted, I locate those pesky bootstraps and yank. “Get it together! There’s work to be done. Life to live. Messes to clean. People to help.”
The woman in the mirror shrugs her shoulders, wishing she could explain how much she wants to do the right thing, how little she wants to feel sad. But the weight of the regrets, the drag of the what-ifs, the accusations of the not-enoughs ...
“Who is accusing you?”
Eyes blink as the quiet question reverberates inside me. Who IS accusing me? My own expectations and assumptions? My tightening jeans? The others who have done more, accomplished more, and looked better doing it? I bet for THEM it's been easy, when for me it's been hard. That thought taunts me.
“What about your enemy?”
My enemy. My enemy accuses me daily. Reminds me of my failures. Places blame on me for my kids’ difficulties. Points out where I didn’t do enough in the past. Where I still don’t.
“Oh, Jesus,” I whisper. The quenched Spirit flows around my heart. Gently. Calmly.
“Jesus,” I speak louder. A faint warmth runs down my spine, encouraging it to straighten. To hope.
“Jesus,” I cry.
“Yes, my child.”
“Do You have any use for me? Do You even want me anymore? Or do you just need someone younger? Someone better?”
“I hold you in the palm of My hand. (Is 41:13) You are My beloved. (Deut 33:12)”
“You know all my failures?”
“I have searched you and know you. I come behind you and go before you.” (Ps 139:1, 5)
“My dreams are dead.”
“I conquered death. (1Corinthians 15:57)”
“My love runs cold.”
“I am love. (1 John 4:8b) You can love others because I love you. (1 John 4:19.)”
“I’m tired. Weak.”
“I bless the poor in spirit. (Matthew 5:3) I invite the burdened. (Matthew 11:28) Come to me. Awaken. (John 11:11)”
“But I’ve failed so much. I’ve failed You. Denied You. Forgotten You.”
“I know. Love My people. Feed My sheep.” (John 21:17) Failure doesn’t disqualify you. Allow Me to restore you. Rebuild you.
A light reflects in blinking eyes. Could it be true? My Redeemer pushes doubt and sorrow aside. There’s not room for those as He refills me.
“Jesus, I want to serve You. If You want me, I’ll do whatever You say.”
“I am the door. (John 10:7) Go through me. I am the truth. (john 14:6) Listen for My voice. You will know it when you hear it. (John 10:14) You are Mine.”
Hope pushes up the right side of the mouth. My breathing slows. Peace floods warm and sure to my edges. Laugh lines grow deep as my smile increases.
“You’re sure I’m not too old, Lord?”
“Be planted in Me and you will remain green and fruitful, even in old age. (Psalm 94:12)”
“What should I do?”
“Make known to others what I have made known to you. Proclaim my Word, through what you do, how you love, and what you say.”
“Yes, Lord. I will.”
I look deep at the woman in the mirror. I see my wrinkles. My sagging throat. My grey hairs. My untoned arms.
And I see my eyes that have cried rivers as I’ve prayed for loved ones. My nose that nustled my baby’s just-bathed deliciousness. My ears that super-sonically heard a sick child through the deepest sleep. My mouth that has frowned and smiled and kissed.
My face tells my life story. My blessed, hard, joyful, challenging, heart-breaking, soul-filling story.
Scarcity and abundance.
Struggle and triumph.
Mundane and thrilling.
Devastation and glory.
And this life isn’t over and it STILL isn’t about me. It’s about Jesus. About His faithfulness that supersedes my failures. His love that covers and heals my bitterness. His death that pays for my sin. His impending return that fuels my hope.
A smile swipes away my wagging finger. A gentle encouragement replaces condemnation. “Come on. We have work to do.”