I'm a Christian. And I'm not perfect. That's right, not even a little bit. I sit in meetings and get distracted by daddy-long-legs gangbangs, I laugh at my 3 year old when he falls off the bed, I whinge, I moan, I throw insults around without knowing what they actually mean. All in all. I am flawed.
Sometimes, I make inappropriate jokes about church halls being hotter than hell, which is ironic (if you think about it). I wonder if God gets overwhelmed when everyone prays all at once. I question whether falling to the floor in a fit of 'Holy Spirit' is actually holy at all.
I wonder what is mental health and what is devil whispers. When that fog of gloom descends I hide in my bear cave until the outside world is a little less challenging, until I have the strength to say f*** off devil. Then I remember, good Christians don't swear.
Sometimes, I enjoy sex with my husband. And I mean really enjoy it.
I am flawed.
God knows, He made me this way. I am not perfect. But I am perfect too Him, who knit me together in my Mothers womb. He, who knows every hair on my head. He, who let's me fall, over and over, just to help me back on to my feet, on firmer ground with a stronger heart. He, who listens to my prayers, to my fears, and He, who gave me the joy to laugh at inappropriately sized vegetables. Always.