99 Shades of Crazy

I’ve kind of had a theme song going for this baseball and softball season—99 Shades of Crazy, by JJ Grey and Mofro. No, it’s not Christian, and it has a bad word in it. But the title fits me lately. These days I don’t know if I’m bringing the right child to the right place, and I’m hoping that none of my clothes are inside out when I get there. Like Grey, I feel like I’m headed for Chattahoochee on a turnip truck. As the kid’s schedules get busier, life still needs to go on. So I was thrilled that an old neighbor from the earlier days of our marriage called to see if she could stay a night to visit with us while she was in town. I was only bummed that it was the same night as my daughter’s volleyball fundraiser at a mediocre pizza joint. But my neighbor was happy to go with our crazy flow. However, my normal crazy turned a shade right before dinner. We had done the whole hustle of picking all three of my kiddos up from their three prospective schools. I had also managed to bring a couple extra teenage girls home spontaneously. That’s when I learned from my daughter that I was wrong about the fundraiser night, it wasn’t until the next evening. Of course, that is an evening that we already have two ball games on the schedule and now I have no plan for dinner. My family and friend offer me grace all around, and we had a great evening together despite my crazy. Little did I know that the following morning would bring another shade of crazy! As I’m whirling lunches and backpacks at my children, shooing them out the door, my dad calls. While chatting, I put together a gift for my son to take to his teacher and run outside to turn the sprinkler on for the garden. While my overnight guest is still asleep, I beckon the kids into the car, we back out of the garage…and I backed right into her parked truck! Forgot it was there. Dang. As I ruminate in my disheveled state of affairs, I wonder how to greet my guest with the news that she will be leaving worse off than she came. What kind of hospitality is that? I doubt she she envisioned herself leaving my house with insurance information. Even worse, it wasn’t her truck, it was a loaner from her kids while in town. I went through all the “if onlys” and had to accept that it is what it is. When I told her, she cracked up laughing. Grace again. These aren’t the things I share on Facebook. I don’t update my Twitter status with my latest shade of crazy either. But this is me. Sometimes I can be a complete moron. Speaking of Twitter, those little curious blue check marks by some people’s name have been a mystery to me until now. And the other day I saw a tweet advertisement that claimed you could be verified in exchange for a retweet. Verified? For what? Well, I’m sure that you already know that the blue check is Twitter’s way of validating to all your followers that you are really you. But this is only necessary if you are super Twitter popular. How ironic that a blue check mark will verify you as you post every clever one-liner you can think of. How authentic is that really? I just gave you a little glimpse of my authenticity above. I can be a total screw up. I don’t mean that as self-loathing language or a manipulative humble-brag. Authentically, I am a human being made in the image of God who fails often and sins even more often. Like Paul, I am identified as one who laments over continuously doing what I don’t want to do, and not doing what I do want to do. And like Paul, I need deliverance from this body of death. This self-realization leads me to my ultimate hope and verification—the imputation of the righteousness of another. Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord (Rom. 7:25a)! Twitter can keep it’s blue check.