"Damaged" Memos from the Postpartum Trenches

I remember once hearing a metaphor that compared newborn babies to a raw lump of clay, claiming that over the years our parents mold us into who we are and that inevitably they leave behind fingerprints and deep impressions. I often wonder what scars I might be leaving on my children, when I lose my temper, for example. Popular psychology tells us that it's all mom and dad's fault, that they are responsible for our strengths and weaknesses, that they damaged us. The truth is that we're all damaged people.

In my case at least, the damage is largely self-inflicted. I will soon begin my third decade of life, and I cannot pretend that everything wrong with me (or anything wrong with me) is mom and dad's fault. My damage came from my own psyche, from beliefs I held early on and never questioned, from decisions that I made that I shouldn't have. I was born with a particular personality (nature, I think, not nurture), one that sometimes protects me and sometimes holds me back.

I am grateful that I am damaged--or at least that I recognize that I am. It means that I know I need a Savior, One whose strength is made perfect in my weakness.