First it was the cookies-slash-brownies-slash-biscotti.

(Ooh, biscotti. As I write this, I’m enjoying a cup of afternoon tea. Pardon me a minute while I retrieve a chocolate biscotti to dip in my English Breakfast Tea. Yes, this is how my brain functions. And no, it’s not pregnancy. I’ve always been this way.)

Then it was the cracked monkey bread pot.

I had to tear up my list of "things Heather screwed up" because it grew longer than Santa’s list. Some of these mistakes have been minor, like messing up a knit hat that I had to then take apart and start over. Other mistakes will cost us more money than I’d like. I’m failing people left and right. This is what they mean by "epic fail." Tolkien couldn’t catalog it all.

Then I look at my schedule for the next week, all the expectations I have for myself for getting things done and making people feel special. The failure is inevitable.

But a funny thing happened yesterday. (This time, it was not on the way to any forum.) I gave up. I wiped away my tears (and the trailing mascara) and said, well, I won’t tell you what I said because sometimes I use words that might offend others. But in essence–okay, fine. I’m a failure. At first, the giving up was a giving in. I’m done, I thought. (No, this was not a reference to my belly button dream.) I can’t handle the truth.

But in the midst of this pity-party (complete with party hats), truth seeped in. "Okay, fine" became real. I will fail myself and others. I won’t get the things done that I’d like to get done. And maybe for that Tuesday morning gathering, I’ll use a pumpkin bread mix instead of making it from scratch like I’d prefer. That’s okay. Maybe my friend will feel just as special with tea and from-a-box pumpkin bread instead of the from-scratch pumpkin bread and cranberry scones I had planned. Maybe I’ll make a simple favorite, like chili, for the dinner I’m hosting Tuesday night instead of the complicated meal I’d planned. Maybe I’ll only read the apropos chapters for my teaching on Wednesday instead of the entire book as I’d hoped.

My pity-party evolved into a glimpse of God’s grace. He doesn’t bestow his joy and love on me based on my perfection, after all. Maybe I shouldn’t withhold my joy and love when I can’t be perfect.