Sometimes it’s hard for me to put on pants. I’m clumsy and I struggle to maintain balance on one leg while inserting the other into my clothing. Also my yoga pants are a little too small… I blame my 1 year old.
It doesn’t often occur to me. Most mornings, in regards to pants anyway, I’m a “normal” all-American mom who wakes up and downs just enough coffee to allow for basic human function. I don’t even think about pants. Here’s hoping my autopilot remembers to put some on.
And then there’s the days that I’m both Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates. This morning, I went into my closet and pulled out Old Navy fitted athletic pants. And then I remembered that I’m not allowed to wear pants. That pants means I am on the broad road to destruction. That I have willingly allowed myself to fall for the lies of the enemy and am being carried away by apostacy. I allowed the gateway drug of pants to lead me towards Jezebel paint and shearing off my glory, as well as defacing myself bodily. In the time it took me to walk across my room, I played my mantra back to myself. I am 2015 me. I am an autonomous adult. My eternal life is not attached to the fact that the clothing on the bottom half of my body has a separate compartment for each leg. The woman who birthed me into this world is not my conscience, the Holy Spirit, my salvation.
It wanted to trip me up today. I had a strong moment. I chose to believe what I know and trust what I question to a God who I am learning loves my heart so much more than what I put on my earthly body.
I’m learning how to remind myself when I forget. Or rather when I remember. Rewriting, re-wiring, replaying. And hoping that one day I’ll wake up and remember what I know and forget what I should never have been taught.
And I trust in the bigness of God to be bigger than me.