I’m standing in the shower the other morning, still groggy with sleep, still furious from yesterday, and the day before. Furious with God about these feminine dilemmas that don’t make sense, the desperate longing for more and the impossibility of getting it.
This girl who’s passionately in love with solitude, independence, adventure, creation, exploration, endless hours of private thought—He gave her a life of clutter and stress, of endless tedious demands, small precious troublesome hands and voices always tugging her out of herself, four or five people constantly dependent on her for health and happiness, someone always needing to know where she is.
Oh, forgive my ingratitude… but all this churns inside me. I must change who I am, and I cannot.
How to find my place in this script, obviously written for someone else? Does God take delight in giving us the lives least suited to us, so that we are forced to learn humility, roundedness, selflessness?
Standing there in the water, desperate to hear from Him, desperate from a several-day stalemate of no communicado, I begin talking.
Jesus, I don’t even know how to come to you; but here I am.
(Keep talking, keep talking. Just start somewhere. Don’t let the wall come back…)
Thank you that you see me. You see my beauties and my flaws, and you love me. You made me.
Here I stand, unclothed in every way…
Thank you that you see the inside of me. You see…
Jaw dropping slowly open. The logical progression of thought becomes overwhelming.
You see my beauties and my flaws, and you love me.
You made me.
Suddenly my bluff is called. Suddenly my anger is melting into tears, mixing with the water running down my face.
Can it be that all I most cherish and defend inside my soul, all I most hate and want to change, is precious to you? your fingerprint on me? Can it be that this impossible mix of gifts and callings was carefully crafted, tenderly given, meant to be held sacred?
How is it that I never found this thought before in all my life? Can it be that as my face is His, my hair, my body—of Him and for Him and precious to Him—so is my solitude, my independence, my adventure, my femininity, my inwardness?
Nothing was given without purpose. Nothing is wasted. Nothing is unseen. Nothing is rejected.
I am not wrestling with character traits, able to be built up or torn down. I’m wrestling with who I am at my core, the unchangeables given to me without my asking.
All that I am is precious to Him.
He made me.
He sees me.
He loves me.
It doesn’t take away all struggle, but I get to rest in His arms instead of crossing swords.
He loves me.