We all ache to know who we are. We seek and strive and grasp for identity, for the next personality, the next wardrobe, the next life style, ripping them off each other like we rip down old wallpaper. What is it about striping down to our real and raw selves that make us even more desperate for the next, the next, the next. We pad ourselves with layers so that no one can get through, can see through, to see under. And it is no wonder that before we fall asleep at night, we are exhausted. We are drained by the consistent desire for more, for better.
And I’m tired, of it, of aching to know who I am. More often then not I’m scared to start to know. Because if I’m honest, I am petrified of that journey. I’m don’t want to feel lost. I hate limbo, tension, it’s where I feel most weak. But maybe that in-between, that road, the moment before arriving is where God’s perfection overcomes my imperfection, where being brave means being okay there for a little, learning to rest in who exactly He says I am.
I wonder what it would look like to embrace the wildness of that bravery, the journey, the in-between, where I feel lost and vulnerable, half in and half out, human and limit-filled, screaming out, “who am I” when I think I am alone and find out that I am not, that someone was there.
Those are the tensions I want to embrace, bones and all. I want to learn to embrace the wide open, exposed, transparent places, to actually lean on them. I want to come undone, to stall out, to find the charged awareness of what it is like to be human, to feel that vibrant vertigo. Because then, in those moments, I will come face to face with the stranger I see in the mirror. And I think I’ll like her a lot.
But I don’t know if I am there just yet.
I am a creative, not because of anything that I do but because I am made in the image of God himself. He is the creator, the one from whom all creativity flows. And if I truly believed that, I don’t think I would doubt myself so much, that I myself come from the most perfect Word there could ever be. I am made in God’s image. His eye on the sparrow, is on me too. He has spun me and woven me and, something my favorite bible teacher says, crafted and chosen me to make His invisible characteristics visible on this earth. Because of Him, I can hope for glory. I have been entrusted to hold that glory in my fingers, to watch it dance like wildfire, to hold it close to my beating heart and hear the way they move together.
I want to breathe in and fill my body like it’s my home. I want to know myself, to know the yellow pillow that is sitting in the corner of the attic. I want to know which floorboards will creak when stepped on or which sink drips a few times after the water is turned off. I want to know these things the way I know the back of my hand, the one freckle that stands out darker than the rest.
I want to know who I am. Not who I am shaping myself to be in the light of certain strange and weird pressures, who I am now, underneath it all. Because then, as I stand on that welcome mat, I can breathe and know that I am home.
j. k. walker | @jessicaawalker