I’m just not good at them. I do everything right: cut and peel the potatoes just so, boil perfectly salted water, mash them by hand with a masher. And yet, they turn out lumpy every time.
And so I quit making them. Rice and cous cous and toast from the toaster just turn out better. More perfect.
But Joey loves mashed potatoes. And so, tonight I made them. Lumps and all. And you know what? He ate them. Every last bite.
For some reason, I’m so terrified of the lumps in my life. As if imperfections make me less lovable, less human, less godly. But the truth is, God came for me because of my imperfection, not in spite of it.
I’ve lived so many days trying to put forth this perfect vibe– trying to be the perfect mom, the perfect wife, the perfect friend. And I fail. Daily. And honestly, I’m tired of trying to hide the lumps. Of going out of my way to prove that I’m worthy, I’m right, I’m perfect. Because I’m not. And it’s time to stop worrying about the lumps in my mashed potatoes. And in my life.