Why I'm not a failure

I'm not finishing my master's degree this semester. I'm supposed to. But I'm not. I haven't told my professor that yet, but it's going to have to happen soon. I started the program a week before I found out I was pregnant with Stella. Besides the two semesters I took off to have both Stella and Pippa, I've taken classes every semester since. It's been a lot of work. I've learned a lot. I've met great people. My education is helping my students. I'm glad I've done it thus far.

Richard says I thrive on juggling 12 plates at the same time. That's probably true. Until now. I don't want to juggle anymore. I feel sort of silly saying it, but I'm about one paper and project away from finishing. I put a lot of pressure on myself to do all kinds of things well. Probably comes from being an athlete as a child and feeling a drive to perform better than everyone else. Not finishing this graduate work makes me feel like a failure. I know in my head I'm not. I'll finish eventually. Probably next semester. But there is a nagging down deep that makes me feel uneasy about not doing the thing I said I would do.

But I don't want to. I want to enjoy my family. I want to know at the end of the night, after the girls are in bed, that I have nothing else to do. No papers, no research, no list. But I feel the nagging every time I go without working on the paper, the project. I feel this way often. I feel a pressure to be something perfect, someone that makes no mistakes, needs no rest, can withstand all things.

I went to church last weekend. It must have been on purpose that I heard this sermon, because I don't make it to church often. Ugg, not perfect.

Stella reading all by herself when
 she woke up from her nap.
Not a failure.

Pastor told the story of the bleeding woman. I've heard this before. When I was reading the scripture along with the sermon I got stuck on the verse after the woman touches Jesus' cloak. He calls her, "Daughter." Actually, I didn't make it any further. I thought about my own dad and how he answers my phone calls with, "Hey daughter." I thought about how my step-dad's voice sounds when he introduces me as his daughter. There is no disappointment. There is no expectation that I would be perfect. It's easy. It's safe. It's comforting. I thought about my own daughters and how they could do nothing, absolutely nothing in life that would make me feel like they were failures.

Pippa is so dang cute.
Not a failure.

And then I thought, if my own earthly fathers can make ME feel this way, if I feel this way about Stella and Pippa...then Jesus...well, I just can't imagine. I can't imagine how he must feel about me. How deep, how wide, that love is for me. But if He would call the bleeding woman in the crowd His daughter, then wouldn't He call me daughter too?

I cried in church. I always cry in church. Not perfect.

I cried because I know He doesn't think I'm a failure for not finishing my master's this semester, for wanting time to myself, time for my family. He doesn't think I'm a failure when I mess up, or give up, or stop juggling. Not perfect, not able, not, not not.

I am His daughter. I am enough.