Little Wren Writes

“I am a work in progress.”

This is a lovely little phrase which basically means:
Sometimes I am an absolute mess.

Not the charming kind of mess either. Not “Oops, I forgot where I put my keys again!” Although, yes. Frequently. I mean the less Instagrammable kind. I get things wrong. I overreact. I say things I regret. I make decisions based on emotion and then, approximately seventeen minutes later, think, “Well. That was spectacularly unwise.”

I can be impatient. Defensive. Stubborn. Selfish. I can know exactly what the mature, sensible, emotionally regulated response would be…and choose something entirely different. Sometimes I don’t even choose badly accidentally. Sometimes I know better. And do it anyway. It’s terribly inconvenient.

I would really prefer all the difficult parts of my story to be caused by other people. It makes the narrative much cleaner. Unfortunately, there are chapters where I am very clearly the problem.

I think we have two common responses to our own mess. The first is to minimise it.

“It’s fine.”
“Everyone does it.”
“I was tired.”
“They started it.”
“Technically…”

Whenever I begin a sentence with technically, there is a reasonable chance I am about to defend something I probably shouldn’t. We are remarkably talented at explaining ourselves to ourselves. I can build an entire legal defence in my head.

Exhibit A: I was stressed.
Exhibit B: they were annoying.
Exhibit C: I had not eaten lunch.

Your Honour, clearly I am innocent. Case dismissed.

The other response is shame. And shame doesn’t minimise the mess. It magnifies it. It takes, “I did something bad,” and quietly turns it into:

“I am bad.”

I didn’t just fail – I am a failure.
I didn’t just hurt someone – I ruin everything.
I didn’t just make an unwise choice – this proves there is something fundamentally wrong with me.

Shame is very dramatic. It has absolutely no chill. One mistake and suddenly it is narrating an eight-part documentary about why you are the worst person who has ever lived. Neither response helps very much. Denial says, “There is nothing to deal with.” Shame says, “There is no hope of dealing with it.”

Mercy says something completely different:
“Yes. This matters. And no. This is not the end of your story.”

Mercy is one of those church words I’ve heard so often that I sometimes forget how astonishing it actually is. Mercy isn’t God pretending our mess doesn’t matter. It isn’t God looking away. It isn’t Him saying, “Oh well, nobody’s perfect.”

Mercy looks directly at the truth. All of it. And chooses compassion. That’s confronting. Because mercy means I have to stop doing two things I am quite good at: pretending I’m fine…and believing I’m beyond hope.

Neither is the gospel. The gospel tells me the truth about myself. I am more broken than I’d like to admit. And I am more loved than I know what to do with. Both are true.

At exactly the same time.

There is a story Jesus tells about a son who makes an absolute mess of things. We call him the Prodigal Son. He demands his inheritance while his father is still alive – which is essentially saying, “I’d quite like your money now; the inconvenient part is that you’re not dead yet.”

Then he leaves. Spends it. Ruins everything. Eventually he’s sitting with pigs, hungry enough to consider their food appealing. This is generally a sign that the five-year plan has not gone particularly well. And finally, he decides to go home. He prepares a speech. I love that detail because of course he does. I’d prepare a speech too (in fact most of my car trips to and from meetings are preparing little speeches in my head). He rehearses how he’ll explain himself. How he’ll apologise. How he’ll negotiate a lesser position.

“I’m no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.” He’s trying to work out what he can do to earn his way back into the house.

But his father sees him while he’s still a long way off. And runs. Before the explanation. Before the son has demonstrated that he’s changed. The father runs. Throws his arms around him. Kisses him. Calls for a robe. A ring. Sandals. A feast.

The son comes home expecting consequences to be the first word. Instead, the first word is mercy.

That doesn’t mean his choices didn’t matter. They did. Mercy isn’t the absence of accountability. Sometimes mercy looks like apologising. Making amends. Changing behaviour. Getting help. Accepting consequences. Having uncomfortable conversations you’d rather avoid by moving overseas and changing your name.

Mercy doesn’t erase responsibility. It makes responsibility possible without shame destroying us. Because if my worst moment is not the final verdict on who I am, I can actually look at it honestly. I can say,

“I did that.”
“It wasn’t okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What needs to change?”

“What needs to change?”

Without adding,
“Therefore I am irredeemable.”

That’s freedom.

I’m learning there is a difference between conviction and condemnation. Conviction is specific. “That thing you did was wrong.” Condemnation is sweeping. “Everything about you is wrong.”

Conviction invites me towards God. Condemnation tells me to hide from Him.

Conviction says, “Come into the light.” Condemnation says, “If anyone really knew, they’d leave.”

One produces repentance. The other produces shame. And God seems far more interested in restoration than humiliation.

Jesus was remarkably good at telling people the truth without crushing them with it. He could say, “Go and sin no more,” while simultaneously making someone feel safe enough to remain in His presence. Truth and mercy weren’t competing values for Him. They belonged together.

I have had to start learning to extend some mercy towards myself. I find that much harder. I can understand mercy theologically. I can explain grace. I can tell another person that their worst decision doesn’t define them. Then I make a mistake and apparently all previous theology is temporarily unavailable. Suddenly I’m holding an emergency board meeting in my brain.

Agenda item one: Why Renee Is Terrible.

Motion carried unanimously.

It’s exhausting. And it’s honestly unfair on myself. Self-compassion doesn’t come naturally when your internal critic has been given a microphone and apparently an unlimited speaking allocation. And when the self-critic has kept tabs since she was 4…of not just your failures but of the words of others? Gee, it’s hard to ignore. I’m learning, slowly, that endlessly punishing myself doesn’t make me holier. It just makes me tired.

Repentance says, “Turn around.”
Shame says, “Sit here forever and stare at what you did.”

Jesus keeps inviting me to get up.

Maybe that’s why one of my favourite descriptions of God comes from Lamentations:

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning.”

Every morning. I love that. Not once a year. Not when I’ve finally got my act together. Not after a sufficiently impressive streak of good behaviour.

Morning.

After morning.

After morning.

New mercy.

Apparently God already knew I’d use yesterday’s supply.

I don’t want to romanticise mess or excuse it. Because the reality is that some messes hurt people, some require real repair, some need professional help, some need confession. And some need changed patterns rather than another apology. “Sorry” without change eventually stops sounding much like repentance.

Mercy doesn’t mean refusing to grow.
Mercy gives us somewhere safe enough to grow from.

I don’t have to become a better person in order to convince God to move towards me. He has already moved towards me in Christ. I change because I am loved. Not so that I might become loveable.

So yes. I’m a work in progress. Some days the progress is impressive. Some days we appear to be revisiting material from several semesters ago. Occasionally I imagine God looking at me thinking, “Interesting. We are doing this lesson again.” (I’m sure some of you do that anyway.)

Holiness isn’t a perfectly upward line. It’s a thousand small returns. Notice. Confess. Receive mercy. Repair what needs repairing. Begin again.

And again.

And again.

Not because the mess doesn’t matter.
Because mercy is bigger.

I will make mistakes. I will need forgiveness. I will occasionally require someone who loves me to say,
“Renee. What on earth were you thinking?”
And sometimes the correct answer will simply be,
“I genuinely do not know.”

But I am learning that I don’t have to hide the mess from God. He’s not surprised. He’s not standing at a distance waiting for me to clean myself up before I come home. The Father is already running down the road. And there is something deeply freeing about knowing that when I make a mess of things, mercy gets the final word.

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning.” Lamentations 3:22–23