I am thirsty for an adventure.
It's something that comes up in my life over and over again, and I'm notorious for just letting the moment (the long, agonizing, sometimes weeks-long moment) pass, but I have such grand imagination for adventure. I can picture myself doing all of these awesome, incredible, indescribable things that I would love to do just for the thrill of being out there, doing them.
The adventure doesn't have to be outrageous, though a few of those are definitely on my list. I'd love to go ziplining through some natural expanse - the mountains, the woods, something. (There is a zipline in downtown Indianapolis for the next ten days, but I will not be taking that one in. I want to set my feet on solid ground, not spend 20 minutes climbing an artificial tower for 15 seconds of heart-stopping thrill. It's just not as...adventuresome or dare I say? romantic...as I dream my adventures should be.)
Break: Ok, I said romantic. And I meant it. There's something romantic in adventure, at least in the way I ideate it. Something about the way these moments bring us closer to God and closer to ourselves. They are just...intimate. Enhanced by the way they defy words. You can never tell anyone in enough detail what your adventure has been like to make them understand and know it for themselves. It's highly personal, completely intimate, and it's something I believe God calls on in each one of us to get us to open up, to embrace some bigger story, and to just be.
There's nothing else to do on a real adventure than just be. Just be where you are. Who you are. Fully in yourself but completely lost outside of yourself at the same time. Wholly present to the moment and the circumstance. Because it's adventure. That's what it's like.
There are other adventures in my fantasties. Ziplining, as I mentioned, is one of them. But riding a horse. Rafting on a river (an opportunity I once passed up for the chance to sit in, admittedly, a really upscale movie theater and watch a terrible movie on a hot day). Riding a boat. Or something more simple like hiking through the mountains, climbing a rock, climbing a tree (which I haven't done since I was a kid, but fondly miss). Just the chance to get out and do something.
Then, inevitably, I get UP and do dishes with the longing for adventure still in my heart.
You always see these people that thrive on adrenaline. Adventure isn't about that for me. It's quite the opposite. It's a chance to harness my energy and have less of it. A way to still myself. A way to escape the pressures of paradigms and preconceived notions and the stresses of just living day to day. An invitation to a new viewpoint, an eye-opening experience that lets you see something in a new way and then you realize you see everything in a new way. It really is that romantic thing for me.
And it's more than that.
The more I taste an adventure, especially when I can talk myself into letting it so close that it's almost tangible, the more I realize the power of shadows in my life. The way I have lived in bondage for too long to things that never should have defined me but often did anyway. Adventure...it's like cutting that final cord. That last little bit of everything that keeps you chained to something you never wanted to partner with. That last string that you're holding onto to hold yourself back. Adventure requires that you let go.
And as God has worked so incredibly in my life, He has invited me to greater adventure. I believe for this very reason. Because He knows I need it to let go. A dramatic statement of saying I'm tasting the life, Lord, and I'm loving it. And I don't need anything else.
Then we fall in love all over again overlooking a sharp cliff before He spreads my wings like an eagle's and I soar. I just soar.
If we're being honest, the love itself is an adventure. It is that same invitation to empty myself, to be passionately involved in something incredible, fully present and fully outside of myself all at the same time, deeply in love and trusting something bigger than myself because I am surrounded by it. SURROUNDED by it. Surrounded by Him.
If we're being honest, the love adventure is fantastic. It doesn't need anything else to get my heart racing and my breath steady and my life buzzing.
But what kind of action movie would that be?
You know, I think we grow up with a set of beliefs about ourselves and our world that may not fit with reality. I've always avoided certain things because my mom was afraid of them or my dad didn't like them or for whatever reason, but I've recently found that maybe I'm not afraid of them. Maybe that's just a thought that got planted in my head one day, and I never questioned it. And I can't let the unquestioned fear define my life. In the same way, I think we get locked into feeling like we have to be who people have always thought we are, who they told us we are our should be, or who we have convinced ourselves we are. But those aren't necessarily true definitions, either. So an adventure is a chance to do something radical that maybe even I wouldn't expect myself to do. Because I refuse to live a prisoner to the shadows, to inadequate answers, to stereotypes or misguided definitions. Sometimes, I say "I'm not" and then catch myself because maybe I am. Maybe..I just never was, but that doesn't mean it isn't in me. Adventure is a chance to touch that.
How about you? What adventures do you dream of taking? How do you set yourself free to embrace the fullness of your life and of God's presence?
Friday, January 27, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Numbers Game
I have one of those Biggest Loser-type scales. No, not the oversized, declare your weight to the world type; just the kind that likes to dance around a number before finally settling on something. And while that's all good and suspenseful on television, naked in my own bathroom is neither the time nor place for suspense.
Now, I'm not the type of girl to really subscribe to numbers. We are all-too-obsessed with them in our culture. Are you a size 10 or a 14? Maybe a 2? It's just a number. So why are we so concerned with what one scale says? And they're all different. Let's not fool ourselves - the scale at the doctor's office says something different than the one at home, which is different than the one at the hotel or the friend's house you're visiting, which is very different than the mandatory truck scale on the interstate. (I don't recommend this one; the attendant usually frowns.) And a size 6 at one store is another brand's size 10. So who is to know what a number says?
As someone who has, in her life, been both scarily underweight and clinically 'obese,' I can tell you this: What really matters is how you're rockin' it in those jeans, sister. What really matters is how you feel when you look in the mirror. What really matters is everything immeasurable - your confidence, your love, your beauty. These can't be quantified in numbers.
Yet there's something about the numbers, which is why I come back to this: when I'm standing on my Biggest Loser-wannabe scale and it's searching for a number, is it wrong that I jump off when it decides to start climbing by ones? I mean, there's no telling how much higher it will go. If we're just adding on pounds by the second, I'd rather not see where that train stops. I'll just take the ballpark average, subtract a few for good measure, and slap it on my driver's license.
Then rock it in these bootcut jeans with curves in all the right places and the size tag ripped out. Hey, it's just a number.
Now, I'm not the type of girl to really subscribe to numbers. We are all-too-obsessed with them in our culture. Are you a size 10 or a 14? Maybe a 2? It's just a number. So why are we so concerned with what one scale says? And they're all different. Let's not fool ourselves - the scale at the doctor's office says something different than the one at home, which is different than the one at the hotel or the friend's house you're visiting, which is very different than the mandatory truck scale on the interstate. (I don't recommend this one; the attendant usually frowns.) And a size 6 at one store is another brand's size 10. So who is to know what a number says?
As someone who has, in her life, been both scarily underweight and clinically 'obese,' I can tell you this: What really matters is how you're rockin' it in those jeans, sister. What really matters is how you feel when you look in the mirror. What really matters is everything immeasurable - your confidence, your love, your beauty. These can't be quantified in numbers.
Yet there's something about the numbers, which is why I come back to this: when I'm standing on my Biggest Loser-wannabe scale and it's searching for a number, is it wrong that I jump off when it decides to start climbing by ones? I mean, there's no telling how much higher it will go. If we're just adding on pounds by the second, I'd rather not see where that train stops. I'll just take the ballpark average, subtract a few for good measure, and slap it on my driver's license.
Then rock it in these bootcut jeans with curves in all the right places and the size tag ripped out. Hey, it's just a number.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Strong Women
Growing up, I fit firmly into what you might call the ‘tomboy’ category. I had two older brothers, no sisters, and a dad who only wanted to do those outdoorsy, blow-em-up, get your hands dirty kind of activities. I played sports, built forts, shot guns, went fishing (as long as I didn’t have to touch the bait), spent days down on my hands and knees scrubbing rust off the chassis of a 1960 Chevy Bel-Air my dad, brother, and I were restoring. And I loved every minute of it. Cuts, scrapes, bruises, grime, dirt – they were part of the package, and I never complained.
In all that time, I *might* have owned a dress. Maybe.
Things didn’t improve as I grew up, and I felt very much outcasted by my peers. The girls didn’t want anything to do with me because I didn’t wear makeup, dresses, skank jeans, or low-cut tops. Or a bra. There, I said it. It wasn’t in my style niche; these things would prohibit me from getting dirty. There wasn’t a way, as I saw it, to embrace my love of getting into things and keep that feminine appearance the other girls seemed to want. I was more comfortable in sweat pants, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes. And besides, I didn’t want to let all the substance out of my brain to fit in with the popular girls. They weren’t that important to me. (Still aren’t, not that it matters.)
The boys were interested in hanging out, which was fantastic. I sat in their booth at lunch, played role-playing card games, talked about Legos and video games, etc. But I was still a girl and couldn’t be one of the guys. They’d take trips, but their moms didn’t want a girl tagging along. They’d hang out in the basement of one guy’s house for pizza and games, but it was awkward to be a girl there. It’s like they understood that on a practical level, I was more like them than a girl, but I was still…a girl.
And everyone thought I was a lesbian. It must have been the boots.
But as I entered adulthood and got some independence under my wings, I was fortunate to meet what I considered strong women. To be honest, I had always looked up to similar women in my youth – my elementary librarian, my fifth grade teacher, my middle school science teacher. They were strong, and feminine, but they weren’t overly airheaded. They were both grounded and confident, but with that finesse that made them definite role models for a young girl looking to be something more than a “tomwoman.” I really wanted to settle down one day with a husband who would cherish and love me, tell me I’m beautiful, hold me in his arms, and be the father of my children. (I still want that, so if you’ve seen my future husband, let me know.) But I also very much wanted to not lose that part of me that shoves her hands down the tank of a toilet in the bathroom at church because the flapper is offset and the thing won’t stop running. I LOVE that.
Then something strange happened. I embraced my body, my curves, and my budding femininity. I tapped into the longings in my heart for the same things every woman wants – those tender, beautiful things that make you feel like a princess. I started looking in the mirror, picking a wardrobe that emphasized the way I rock this body, and walking with greater confidence. Pinks and browns and greens and soft colors and letting my hair grow out just to make myself feel beautiful. To be that woman that I knew I was designed to be. To look in the mirror and see raging femininity and beauty…and then to kneel down in the mud and change a friend’s flat tire. To not worry about getting grime on my pretty clothes because hey, they are just clothes.
I’m fairly certain that today, I am approaching all I wanted to be. That is, I am a strong woman. I am able to balance those things that make me feel beautiful, make me feel womanly, make me feel worthy, and make me walk standing tall, confident in my identity with those things that I just love to do. In the past few years, I have ditched all but one “workin’ girl” outfit from my wardrobe (an old pair of paint-covered torn sweatpants and a mission trip shirt with all kinds of work stains on it) and am overflowing with sweaters, blouses, bootcut jeans, belted-waist tops, khakis and slacks, and yes, even a skirt. A skirt! And an awesome dress with brown tights to wear underneath. And one pair of tennis shoes, aside a couple pairs of sandals, some conservative flats, and a pair of wedges. But in the past two years, I have also: laid a new floor in the whole downstairs, replaced the windshield wiper motor in my car, put in a new garbage disposal, hooked up the new gas oven, hung and mudded drywall, painted two houses, cleaned the gutters, replumbed the toilet, put in a new kitchen faucet, built my own headboard, and that’s just for starters.
I’m thrilled to have found a way to be who I am on both ends of the spectrum, both a strong AND beautiful woman. And I get excited when I put my hands to a new project and get a little grime on me.
The only thing that’s really different now, I guess, is that I cuss like a sailor when I break a nail like a girl.
In all that time, I *might* have owned a dress. Maybe.
Things didn’t improve as I grew up, and I felt very much outcasted by my peers. The girls didn’t want anything to do with me because I didn’t wear makeup, dresses, skank jeans, or low-cut tops. Or a bra. There, I said it. It wasn’t in my style niche; these things would prohibit me from getting dirty. There wasn’t a way, as I saw it, to embrace my love of getting into things and keep that feminine appearance the other girls seemed to want. I was more comfortable in sweat pants, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes. And besides, I didn’t want to let all the substance out of my brain to fit in with the popular girls. They weren’t that important to me. (Still aren’t, not that it matters.)
The boys were interested in hanging out, which was fantastic. I sat in their booth at lunch, played role-playing card games, talked about Legos and video games, etc. But I was still a girl and couldn’t be one of the guys. They’d take trips, but their moms didn’t want a girl tagging along. They’d hang out in the basement of one guy’s house for pizza and games, but it was awkward to be a girl there. It’s like they understood that on a practical level, I was more like them than a girl, but I was still…a girl.
And everyone thought I was a lesbian. It must have been the boots.
But as I entered adulthood and got some independence under my wings, I was fortunate to meet what I considered strong women. To be honest, I had always looked up to similar women in my youth – my elementary librarian, my fifth grade teacher, my middle school science teacher. They were strong, and feminine, but they weren’t overly airheaded. They were both grounded and confident, but with that finesse that made them definite role models for a young girl looking to be something more than a “tomwoman.” I really wanted to settle down one day with a husband who would cherish and love me, tell me I’m beautiful, hold me in his arms, and be the father of my children. (I still want that, so if you’ve seen my future husband, let me know.) But I also very much wanted to not lose that part of me that shoves her hands down the tank of a toilet in the bathroom at church because the flapper is offset and the thing won’t stop running. I LOVE that.
Then something strange happened. I embraced my body, my curves, and my budding femininity. I tapped into the longings in my heart for the same things every woman wants – those tender, beautiful things that make you feel like a princess. I started looking in the mirror, picking a wardrobe that emphasized the way I rock this body, and walking with greater confidence. Pinks and browns and greens and soft colors and letting my hair grow out just to make myself feel beautiful. To be that woman that I knew I was designed to be. To look in the mirror and see raging femininity and beauty…and then to kneel down in the mud and change a friend’s flat tire. To not worry about getting grime on my pretty clothes because hey, they are just clothes.
I’m fairly certain that today, I am approaching all I wanted to be. That is, I am a strong woman. I am able to balance those things that make me feel beautiful, make me feel womanly, make me feel worthy, and make me walk standing tall, confident in my identity with those things that I just love to do. In the past few years, I have ditched all but one “workin’ girl” outfit from my wardrobe (an old pair of paint-covered torn sweatpants and a mission trip shirt with all kinds of work stains on it) and am overflowing with sweaters, blouses, bootcut jeans, belted-waist tops, khakis and slacks, and yes, even a skirt. A skirt! And an awesome dress with brown tights to wear underneath. And one pair of tennis shoes, aside a couple pairs of sandals, some conservative flats, and a pair of wedges. But in the past two years, I have also: laid a new floor in the whole downstairs, replaced the windshield wiper motor in my car, put in a new garbage disposal, hooked up the new gas oven, hung and mudded drywall, painted two houses, cleaned the gutters, replumbed the toilet, put in a new kitchen faucet, built my own headboard, and that’s just for starters.
I’m thrilled to have found a way to be who I am on both ends of the spectrum, both a strong AND beautiful woman. And I get excited when I put my hands to a new project and get a little grime on me.
The only thing that’s really different now, I guess, is that I cuss like a sailor when I break a nail like a girl.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Platform
For as long as I have pursued my gift of writing, I have been at constant war with a measurable angst in the deepest of my passion. It has been this talk about platform recently that has helped me to understand what my trouble was.
I had been trying to build my platform to fight my own demons, rather than simply building a brand. In doing so, I trapped myself in that platform and lost the essence of all I was.
Let me explain:
My time and my culture convinced me that I could never be what I’m passioned to be, that I could never be a voice in my world. Who am I, the world seemed to be asking, that anyone should listen to me? Once they found that beneath gifted words, I was nothing special, they would scoff at my every word.
So I began “building my platform” by painstakingly poring over every thought that passed through my head. How could I make it beautiful? How could I make it powerful? How could I make it poignant enough that I could be that writer that people started quoting in the halls, whether they could remember where they’d heard the quip or not? That, to me, was the definition of success: to be oft-quoted. To be watched and followed and friended for those little lines that, I hoped, spoke to my credibility.
I became so focused on proving myself as someone to be listened to, as a brilliant writer and a beautiful wordsmith, that I was terrified of saying anything normal. I cringed at the thought of using social media to say anything so mundane as, “Beautiful rain today” or “Watched a fantastic movie last night.” People became accustomed to me living in the philosophical, and I felt myself fading away into the shadows. My “platform” was costing me my humanity.
My writing suffered. My life suffered. Somewhere in the depths of the remnants of my past, I was there, craving a dance with my passion.
There had to be a balance between my platform and my life.
I determined to take my life back, to build my platform but to regain that ability to live outside of it. There was a beauty in the simplicity of simply living that suffocated under my platform, and when I let that break through and sink into my being, my passion lit up.
Since freeing myself to live a human existence and not just my platform, I find that people are more interested in what I have to say because they finally see some authenticity behind my words. Readers respond when they see your humanity beneath your platform, when you connect with them person-to-person.
Here are four tips to help you live authentically beside your platform, rather than under it - practice that will enhance your life, your gift, and yes, even your platform.
1. Read – inside your discipline. A worship minister friend once told me he savored the days when he wasn’t leading worship because they gave him the opportunity to be ministered to rather than doing the ministry. Reading others who share your passion does not threaten your gift; it feeds you.
2. Spend time outdoors. The trees, the sun, and the sky don’t care a lick about your platform. There is no pressure to perform. You don’t have to be the guru. You can simply be a part of a beautiful creation. Dance if you want.
3. Always carry a journal. When a thought hits me that I want to remember, I need to write it down. Otherwise, I’m going to let it run obsessively through my mind until I find a place to do something with it. That way, I won’t forget. But in that time between having the thought and doing something with it, I miss out on everything happening right in front of me. If I can write that thought down right away, it’s somewhere I know to go back to it, and I can live authentically and fully in the present moment.
4. Be Yourself, Not Your Platform. There are some anomalies in all of us, things we enjoy doing but can’t explain why. Things that people might raise an eyebrow at. Do them anyway. Don’t lock yourself into appearances at the cost of something that brings you joy. Authenticity is credibility, and those who follow you will appreciate your realness.
How do you keep balance between your platform and your life?
I had been trying to build my platform to fight my own demons, rather than simply building a brand. In doing so, I trapped myself in that platform and lost the essence of all I was.
Let me explain:
My time and my culture convinced me that I could never be what I’m passioned to be, that I could never be a voice in my world. Who am I, the world seemed to be asking, that anyone should listen to me? Once they found that beneath gifted words, I was nothing special, they would scoff at my every word.
So I began “building my platform” by painstakingly poring over every thought that passed through my head. How could I make it beautiful? How could I make it powerful? How could I make it poignant enough that I could be that writer that people started quoting in the halls, whether they could remember where they’d heard the quip or not? That, to me, was the definition of success: to be oft-quoted. To be watched and followed and friended for those little lines that, I hoped, spoke to my credibility.
I became so focused on proving myself as someone to be listened to, as a brilliant writer and a beautiful wordsmith, that I was terrified of saying anything normal. I cringed at the thought of using social media to say anything so mundane as, “Beautiful rain today” or “Watched a fantastic movie last night.” People became accustomed to me living in the philosophical, and I felt myself fading away into the shadows. My “platform” was costing me my humanity.
My writing suffered. My life suffered. Somewhere in the depths of the remnants of my past, I was there, craving a dance with my passion.
There had to be a balance between my platform and my life.
I determined to take my life back, to build my platform but to regain that ability to live outside of it. There was a beauty in the simplicity of simply living that suffocated under my platform, and when I let that break through and sink into my being, my passion lit up.
Since freeing myself to live a human existence and not just my platform, I find that people are more interested in what I have to say because they finally see some authenticity behind my words. Readers respond when they see your humanity beneath your platform, when you connect with them person-to-person.
Here are four tips to help you live authentically beside your platform, rather than under it - practice that will enhance your life, your gift, and yes, even your platform.
1. Read – inside your discipline. A worship minister friend once told me he savored the days when he wasn’t leading worship because they gave him the opportunity to be ministered to rather than doing the ministry. Reading others who share your passion does not threaten your gift; it feeds you.
2. Spend time outdoors. The trees, the sun, and the sky don’t care a lick about your platform. There is no pressure to perform. You don’t have to be the guru. You can simply be a part of a beautiful creation. Dance if you want.
3. Always carry a journal. When a thought hits me that I want to remember, I need to write it down. Otherwise, I’m going to let it run obsessively through my mind until I find a place to do something with it. That way, I won’t forget. But in that time between having the thought and doing something with it, I miss out on everything happening right in front of me. If I can write that thought down right away, it’s somewhere I know to go back to it, and I can live authentically and fully in the present moment.
4. Be Yourself, Not Your Platform. There are some anomalies in all of us, things we enjoy doing but can’t explain why. Things that people might raise an eyebrow at. Do them anyway. Don’t lock yourself into appearances at the cost of something that brings you joy. Authenticity is credibility, and those who follow you will appreciate your realness.
How do you keep balance between your platform and your life?
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Precious Jewels
For a couple of weeks leading up to Christmas, I laid in bed wrestling with the images of special gifts. Those precious trinkets and tokens given from one to another that somehow seal a treasured relationship, a place of honor, or a special love.
In those moments, I could not get my dad out of my head. Dad and I had an awkward relationship, to say the least, and it left a lot to be desired in a little girl's heart, but there was one thing my dad knew how to do: he could convince me I was special. Not to the extent that I felt special, walking around like a proud peacock and spreading my feathers, confident in my place in anything. Just in the way that there was something just under the surface, something secret that made me somehow special to him. And so leading up to the holidays, I was thinking of those special gifts and particularly with the image of precious jewelry...and it absolutely disgusted me.
There was something dirty in that mental image, something less than settling, something that finally had the strength to question a special relationship and the meaning behind a father giving his daughter precious jewels. Maybe it was something about my knowing my relationship with the man, the "secrets" shared, the odd sense of...something. Relationship? I would hesitate to call it love, though I loved him with a daughter's heart. Still do (a ransomed daughter's heart, as my true Father has answered so many of my unspokens), perhaps more now.
And I was thinking about the oddity of a father giving his daughter the jewels or the tokens of a love that he should have reserved for a wife, for a true lover. It was just creepy; it made my skin crawl, and something in my heart pained in those moments before I fell asleep with these images on my mind.
Then, as He is so often to do, my true Father spoke. He spoke in such a way that I could not deny His voice or His presence. He said, "Perhaps it isn't so creepy. Perhaps it isn't absurd. For I...I have these jewels for you, my daughter. And I would be honored if you would wear them."
It wasn't an easy surrender, not by any means. How could I accept a token of a love from a Father when these less than glorious images of a corrupt earthly relationship were holding a death grip on my heart? Literally keeping me up at night in the season of gifting, tormenting something in me that began to see clearly and yet was so enticed by the offering of an honest Father.
How to reconcile the gross with the godly?
For days, He worked on my heart. Mostly in those weak hours before I went to sleep, when my heart was still and the world was quiet and I was able to process, side-by-side or simultaneously, the image of the precious gift of a father with the unspeakable precious gift of my Father. Where love took on a new meaning, a real meaning, and I could see the honor in the gift. Even the gift of precious jewels.
Praying, following, listening to my Lord, I began shopping. Browsing for that fine jewelry that was too good for me, that made me feel too special, that stood and questioned that lingering part of me conflicted between filth and love, between brokenness and humility, between being convinced and being cherished. It was tough. Really tough. There were a few things I was drawn to immediately as my heart cried out, "This is beautiful!" then followed with "...too beautiful for you." Those questions of purity and wholeness that have long lingered in my heart were far from silent, screaming for answers and demanding I take a step back from what I knew God was calling me forward to.
What I knew was of Him.
And I put those jewels down, left them behind, and went home to think on it. To pray on it. To consider...
To consider a life where His love speaks louder. Where His grace answers. Where His mercy shows. To consider a life of being His, marked by a gift of treasured jewels, of something beyond beautiful that does not, in fact, contradict anything in me. It only contradicts the pain and the lies that have too long held me back.
It speaks in truth, and it is an honor to wear His gem.
So with God by my side, I found that jewel He chose to honor me, at least in this moment. I wear it around my neck, knowing as I run my fingers over it that we share a pure love, without need for convincing or for secrets or for questioning. We share something wonderful and blessed, as my Father has answered the heart of His daughter and shown worth, wonder, and beauty within. And without.
With this token, Lord, I am honored to be marked as yours, to know this as a sign of something incredible that is not tainted in the least. To embrace your grace, your mercy, and your love without question of my worthiness, my purity, or my place as your beloved daughter.
So this is what love is.
Maybe it's not really creepy for a Father to gift His daughter precious jewels. At least, not in this case.
In those moments, I could not get my dad out of my head. Dad and I had an awkward relationship, to say the least, and it left a lot to be desired in a little girl's heart, but there was one thing my dad knew how to do: he could convince me I was special. Not to the extent that I felt special, walking around like a proud peacock and spreading my feathers, confident in my place in anything. Just in the way that there was something just under the surface, something secret that made me somehow special to him. And so leading up to the holidays, I was thinking of those special gifts and particularly with the image of precious jewelry...and it absolutely disgusted me.
There was something dirty in that mental image, something less than settling, something that finally had the strength to question a special relationship and the meaning behind a father giving his daughter precious jewels. Maybe it was something about my knowing my relationship with the man, the "secrets" shared, the odd sense of...something. Relationship? I would hesitate to call it love, though I loved him with a daughter's heart. Still do (a ransomed daughter's heart, as my true Father has answered so many of my unspokens), perhaps more now.
And I was thinking about the oddity of a father giving his daughter the jewels or the tokens of a love that he should have reserved for a wife, for a true lover. It was just creepy; it made my skin crawl, and something in my heart pained in those moments before I fell asleep with these images on my mind.
Then, as He is so often to do, my true Father spoke. He spoke in such a way that I could not deny His voice or His presence. He said, "Perhaps it isn't so creepy. Perhaps it isn't absurd. For I...I have these jewels for you, my daughter. And I would be honored if you would wear them."
It wasn't an easy surrender, not by any means. How could I accept a token of a love from a Father when these less than glorious images of a corrupt earthly relationship were holding a death grip on my heart? Literally keeping me up at night in the season of gifting, tormenting something in me that began to see clearly and yet was so enticed by the offering of an honest Father.
How to reconcile the gross with the godly?
For days, He worked on my heart. Mostly in those weak hours before I went to sleep, when my heart was still and the world was quiet and I was able to process, side-by-side or simultaneously, the image of the precious gift of a father with the unspeakable precious gift of my Father. Where love took on a new meaning, a real meaning, and I could see the honor in the gift. Even the gift of precious jewels.
Praying, following, listening to my Lord, I began shopping. Browsing for that fine jewelry that was too good for me, that made me feel too special, that stood and questioned that lingering part of me conflicted between filth and love, between brokenness and humility, between being convinced and being cherished. It was tough. Really tough. There were a few things I was drawn to immediately as my heart cried out, "This is beautiful!" then followed with "...too beautiful for you." Those questions of purity and wholeness that have long lingered in my heart were far from silent, screaming for answers and demanding I take a step back from what I knew God was calling me forward to.
What I knew was of Him.
And I put those jewels down, left them behind, and went home to think on it. To pray on it. To consider...
To consider a life where His love speaks louder. Where His grace answers. Where His mercy shows. To consider a life of being His, marked by a gift of treasured jewels, of something beyond beautiful that does not, in fact, contradict anything in me. It only contradicts the pain and the lies that have too long held me back.
It speaks in truth, and it is an honor to wear His gem.
So with God by my side, I found that jewel He chose to honor me, at least in this moment. I wear it around my neck, knowing as I run my fingers over it that we share a pure love, without need for convincing or for secrets or for questioning. We share something wonderful and blessed, as my Father has answered the heart of His daughter and shown worth, wonder, and beauty within. And without.
With this token, Lord, I am honored to be marked as yours, to know this as a sign of something incredible that is not tainted in the least. To embrace your grace, your mercy, and your love without question of my worthiness, my purity, or my place as your beloved daughter.
So this is what love is.
Maybe it's not really creepy for a Father to gift His daughter precious jewels. At least, not in this case.
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