What Looks Sweet But Really Isn’t

It all started with a little seed that began to grow. A little seed that I voluntarily watered.

Looking to the right or the left can be oh, so, entertaining and keeps you up to date with the latest but it also can drive your soul mad with stacks of to-dos and shame of knowing you really don't have what it takes to live or look like that.

When people talk outright about comparison it fails to register sincerely with me. But when you go one step deeper and mention the root of comparison — that rubs my Achilles heel.

It doesn't take much to make me admire you and fall in love with your glam and beauty. Or to admire your poise or ease of conversation. All to quickly I see you and imagine your life and how perfectly dreamy it must be. How your hair is perfected even in its natural haphazard fray. How your husband must adore you, communicate perfectly with you and is never to silent. How your kids are at better ages and stages than mine and play with friends fairly.

Oh, to be Anne Shirley with and E.

My imaginative self, flustered and flowing down a hallway of ill truths and stories I created in my head which water the seed I carry.

The seed of me = less then.

A seed turned weed, now nasty but I hide and harbor close to my chest. Watering it constantly.

I'm not enough and so phooey with the whole lot of you and phooy with your Instagram feeds and stories. Phooey with your perfect white teeth, plexus slim bodies and hot Nike kicks for which you run marathons. Phooey with your white Joanna Gains walls and succulents that stay alive. Phooey with your better-then-the-mall-thrift-store finds and too cute for words dressed kids.

Y'all make me retch with jealousy and I'm going on strike.

So I dump a heavy bucket of water on my little seed that is no longer little but lanky and viney and crawling all over the house making it harder to hide. So I purposely Instagram a bad picture of my house or do a nasty selfie Instagram story.

Immediately I feel wickedly happy that I'm not perfect only to be followed short seconds later with regret. Too proud to delete my mess I shared I walk away not feeling any more Christian or content with myself.

I turn my back on the 'cool' image beast that eats me inside out and hug my prickly, poisonous weed. Letting it flutter against my nose and eyelids.

Instead of comparison, its shame. Instead of happy for others, I'm loaded like a baked potato with steamy pride and cheesy pity for my meager looking life and lack of popularity factor.

If what I'm sharing rings true for you, it's time. Time to call a spade a spade. This plant is a weed. And, pride is pride. Sin, sin.

I've got it. You've got it. No one's cleared.

It's crazy how pride can lie deep beneath the layers and we choose to believe its humility. When I convince myself I'm being real or glad-I'm-not-letting-social-media-get-the-best-of-me, is really quite the opposite.

I wish I could remember that God has another plan for me. Not one of putting myself down to make me feel better or perfecting what little popularity or social media acceptance I do have. His plan doesn't focus on the image I hope for or how many likes I have accumulated. His plan focuses on my heart. Where I'm afraid to go most times. Because it's easier to dwell on the triggers then my relationship with God.

Don't let your sin of pride, smoothed over with false humility like a lush thick layer of chocolate icing on brownies hide the truth.

It's looks sweet but really, it isn't.

(eating a sweet affagato: Texas pecan caramel sea salt gelato with a shot of espresso at Moroso's on my birthday)

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