You See Me

You saw me when I was invisible, new and awkward and shy. When the full force of the teen years came crashing down on me, opening my eyes to the subtle, vicious world of girls with their silent competitions, their quiet jabs, and their outward smiles with inward put-downs and pride. When I was the outsider who was too quiet, too reserved, too different to fit in and match their airy confidence and effortless grace. When they plunged their energy into makeup and boys, and I lost myself in daydreams and books. You were whispering to my heart then, but I wasn’t listening. You saw me but I didn’t see You, because I was too busy studying the way they dressed, the way they acted, the way they looked—and then looking at myself and seeing that I did not compare.

You knew me when I knew everything (nothing), when I strove to prove myself to a world that seemed to pre-judge me every day of my life. When I proudly focused on the intellect and determination You had given me, and chose to use them to make myself seen and heard. When I soaked up praise from friends and family and professors and employers and coworkers like it was all that mattered, and when I worked and overworked myself just to taste it again. I told myself that I knew who I was and what I wanted and what You wanted, and if I only worked hard enough and accomplished enough, I would continue to be liked and loved and respected and admired. I would be accepted, even by myself. I was someone I could be proud of; I could conquer my insecurities by masking them with good grades, awards, and success.

You were with me when I was angry and when I was hurting, sometimes angry with You, sometimes at others. When I carried the weight of my pain and others’ pain on my shoulders like it was my burden to manage, like I was strong enough to hold it up on my own, like I could touch and heal others’ hearts with my own sheer strength of love and will. You waited for me when I stormed to my room to cry and ask You why You would let my grandmother be diagnosed with breast cancer so advanced it had spread into other areas of her body. You were there when I was scared, uncertain. You whispered soft words to answer my shouts and remind me that You were holding her hand and mine and that we didn’t have to be afraid. You stood next to me when I visited my mom in the hospital and nearly broke down to see her so sick and frail-looking, as if it was some strange reminder that I was now an adult and the mother who had cared for me all those years now needed me to care for her. I wanted to cry when I brushed her hair because she was too weak. You stayed by my side when I was abandoned by various “friends,” when my friend turned her back on You, when hurtful words and actions began to stack up in my heart and break it, to pile up in my mind and define me. When college guys only noticed me for my body or for what I could offer them, when my personality wasn’t enough because it was unnoticed, unappreciated, or forgotten—when my heart was played with, torn, crumpled up and left behind. You walked with me when I dragged my depressed brother around, fiercely telling myself that I would carry his pain with him, that I wouldn’t leave his side. You said, “Let go,” and forced us to spend time apart, and then met him with glorious healing. You gave me a chance to face my own sorrow, sitting with me in my car when I finally crumpled down in sobs that racked my body and almost made me sick. You said You had everything under control. Not me, not me.

You had a firm grip on me when I lost myself. When all-nighters and long days of work and classes and interning and homework and socializing and an unknown sickness all piled up and stole who I was. When I escaped to my car to take long drives because the stress and the uncontrollable emotions and the exhaustion drove me to be alone so I could think, so I could cry. You were with me when it seemed like all I did was find places to hide and cry alone. When I was lonely. When I escaped to a bathroom stall to hide my tears, when I bottled up the pain because I was ashamed of it and didn’t want my parents to worry. When I snapped at my friends in fits of anger, when I felt like I couldn’t function without extra sleep, when my mother told me something was wrong and I denied it. When I was diagnosed and told I’d be on a pill all my life, when I finally, tiredly accepted that something was wrong, and opened myself up to feel the resulting depression for what it was. You sat with me on my bed as I curled up and refused to face the world. You knew that I’d been sick all along, that my sickness ran deeper than vitamin deficiencies or thyroid conditions.

And You were there when I let the fear take control, when I once again submitted to the need to impress others, when I let go of my dreams and who I was and tried to make myself someone else. You were there when I tried to sleep away my day because I hurt too much to face it. You were there when I couldn’t eat because my heart was making me sick. You were there when I ran into dead ends, watched my dreams crack and break and fall through my hands. You were there when I couldn’t see You anymore, couldn’t hear You. You were there when I didn’t know who I was and didn’t know who You were. You were there when I was sure no one else would accept me because I didn’t have my accomplishments anymore, because I had been abandoned before and every expectation and thought screamed that I had failed and wasn’t good enough anymore. You stayed with me when I blamed You; You loved me and You held on.

You’ve been here all along and even now I get distracted. Sometimes I focus on my sicknesses with despair and wonder how they can ever be healed. How can You see me when I spend so much time making You invisible? How are you still the One who sees me, who loves me, who defines me, who accepts me, who comforts me, who finds me, who heals me, who saves me? Your grace has carried me this far and takes my breath away when I see now, as I look back, how You have worked. You have always been here, always whispering, always holding on, even when I nearly let go. You are my confidence. You make me loved and good enough. You are my grace. Though my words are insufficient, they are for You, my feeble offering of praise. Help me to see You, just as You have seen me all my life.

God Is Personal

And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being.

~Genesis 2:7~

When I was little and read verses about God creating the earth, I basically took it all for granted. "Yeah, yeah, God created the world, animals, and people, duh," was my attitude. "He's God." However, as I look back on the way I subconsciously imagined the creation process as I read the words, I realize I had a tendency to think of God in impersonal terms. The God of Genesis was more like the God I grew up thinking of whenever I actually did take a moment to think about God (which wasn't often). He was good and caring and wanted me to do good things, but He wasn't personable, not the kind of guy you'd sit and chat with for a long time. A quick, "Hey, I'll listen to your prayers and make sure you're OK, but I have a lot of other things to do," from Him was more of the attitude I pictured receiving from Him. 

Whenever I thought of God creating the world, I thought of "that Big Guy in space" hovering over the Earth and speaking things into existence. When He "formed man of the dust of the ground," I'd picture one of His giant hands reaching down from far above the ground and making a human. 

Still, though I thought of God creating the world in a "hands-off" fashion, it bothered me when Christians would argue that perhaps God had used evolution to create the world. For one, I thought "That's not what the Bible says, and if you can't believe one part, how can you believe the rest?" But the other reason I hated that idea was the fact that it made my God so...impersonal! 

"Jesus isn't like that. He's involved in every aspect of our lives. He came to earth to live and die for us; He physically spoke to and touched people as He healed and interacted with them. He wants a personal relationship with each of us. He's not 'hands off.'" 

So...why in the world did I let my "Genesis God" picture stay glued in my brain when my New Testament God was nothing like this? It didn't really strike me until today... creation is personal. Creation means God was there. Speaking. Touching. Physically. 

Genesis says that God walked in Eden with Adam. If He walked on Earth, He wasn't just some "Big Guy in the sky" for Adam. He was right there beside Him. Accessible. Personable. A friend. I like to picture Him walking alongside Adam like Jesus walked alongside the disciples. 

That made me rethink my idea of His creation of man, too. Sure, He used His voice. He is the Living Word. But...why this giant hand reaching out as if God is "too important" to get too close to us? Maybe He was standing on Earth as He did it, stooping to scoop up dust into His hands. Kind of like how Jesus stooped to write in the sand when He told the accusers of the woman caught in adultery that the one without sin should cast the first stone. Or like when Jesus formed clay in the dirt and used His hands to apply it to a blind man's eyes. He was hands-on there; He wasn't afraid to get "too close" or get His hands dirty. 

And He physically breathed the breath of life into Adam's nostrils, too. That's a personal creation. That's a God who cares enough to get close to us and be involved in our life. No careless tossing around of words or arms-length creation or involvement. That's a God who cares about every little detail of who we are. That's Jesus, and that's the God of Genesis. 

Creation shows the character of God. Watering it down to a distant creation or  a process of initiating evolution makes God distant. It doesn't do His character or His love and care for us justice at all. That's what bothers me about evolution and my "old way" of viewing creation, and I don't want to ever, even subconsciously, let myself think of God that way. I believe in a God who cares about every little detail of His creation...the God the Bible describes.

You See Me

You saw me when I was invisible, new and awkward and shy. When the full force of the teen years came crashing down on me, opening my eyes to the subtle, vicious world of girls with their silent competitions, their quiet jabs, and their outward smiles with inward put-downs and pride. When I was the outsider who was too quiet, too reserved, too different to fit in and match their airy confidence and effortless grace. When they plunged their energy into makeup and boys, and I lost myself in daydreams and books. You were whispering to my heart then, but I wasn’t listening. You saw me but I didn’t see You, because I was too busy studying the way they dressed, the way they acted, the way they looked—and then looking at myself and seeing that I did not compare.

You knew me when I knew everything (nothing), when I strove to prove myself to a world that seemed to pre-judge me every day of my life. When I proudly focused on the intellect and determination You had given me, and chose to use them to make myself seen and heard. When I soaked up praise from friends and family and professors and employers and coworkers like it was all that mattered, and when I worked and overworked myself just to taste it again. I told myself that I knew who I was and what I wanted and what You wanted, and if I only worked hard enough and accomplished enough, I would continue to be liked and loved and respected and admired. I would be accepted, even by myself. I was someone I could be proud of; I could conquer my insecurities by masking them with good grades, awards, and success.

You were with me when I was angry and when I was hurting, sometimes angry with You, sometimes at others. When I carried the weight of my pain and others’ pain on my shoulders like it was my burden to manage, like I was strong enough to hold it up on my own, like I could touch and heal others’ hearts with my own sheer strength of love and will. You waited for me when I stormed to my room to cry and ask You why You would let my grandmother be diagnosed with breast cancer so advanced it had spread into other areas of her body. You were there when I was scared, uncertain. You whispered soft words to answer my shouts and remind me that You were holding her hand and mine and that we didn’t have to be afraid. You stood next to me when I visited my mom in the hospital and nearly broke down to see her so sick and frail-looking, as if it was some strange reminder that I was now an adult and the mother who had cared for me all those years now needed me to care for her. I wanted to cry when I brushed her hair because she was too weak. You stayed by my side when I was abandoned by various “friends,” when my friend turned her back on You, when hurtful words and actions began to stack up in my heart and break it, to pile up in my mind and define me. When college guys only noticed me for my body or for what I could offer them, when my personality wasn’t enough because it was unnoticed, unappreciated, or forgotten—when my heart was played with, torn, crumpled up and left behind. You walked with me when I dragged my depressed brother around, fiercely telling myself that I would carry his pain with him, that I wouldn’t leave his side. You said, “Let go,” and forced us to spend time apart, and then met him with glorious healing. You gave me a chance to face my own sorrow, sitting with me in my car when I finally crumpled down in sobs that racked my body and almost made me sick. You said You had everything under control. Not me, not me.

You had a firm grip on me when I lost myself. When all-nighters and long days of work and classes and interning and homework and socializing and an unknown sickness all piled up and stole who I was. When I escaped to my car to take long drives because the stress and the uncontrollable emotions and the exhaustion drove me to be alone so I could think, so I could cry. You were with me when it seemed like all I did was find places to hide and cry alone. When I was lonely. When I escaped to a bathroom stall to hide my tears, when I bottled up the pain because I was ashamed of it and didn’t want my parents to worry. When I snapped at my friends in fits of anger, when I felt like I couldn’t function without extra sleep, when my mother told me something was wrong and I denied it. When I was diagnosed and told I’d be on a pill all my life, when I finally, tiredly accepted that something was wrong, and opened myself up to feel the resulting depression for what it was. You sat with me on my bed as I curled up and refused to face the world. You knew that I’d been sick all along, that my sickness ran deeper than vitamin deficiencies or thyroid conditions.

And You were there when I let the fear take control, when I once again submitted to the need to impress others, when I let go of my dreams and who I was and tried to make myself someone else. You were there when I tried to sleep away my day because I hurt too much to face it. You were there when I couldn’t eat because my heart was making me sick. You were there when I ran into dead ends, watched my dreams crack and smash and fall through my hands. You were there when I couldn’t see You anymore, couldn’t hear You. You were there when I didn’t know who I was and didn’t know who You were. You were there when I was sure no one else would accept me because I didn’t have my accomplishments anymore, because I had been abandoned before and every expectation and thought screamed that I had failed and wasn’t good enough anymore. You stayed with me when I blamed You; You loved me and You held on.

You’ve been here all along and even now I get distracted. Sometimes I focus on my sicknesses with despair and wonder how they can ever be healed. How can You see me when I spend so much time making You invisible? How are you still the One who sees me, who loves me, who defines me, who accepts me, who comforts me, who finds me, who heals me, who saves me? Your grace has carried me this far and takes my breath away when I see now, as I look back, how You have worked. You have always been here, always whispering, always holding on, even when I nearly let go. You are my confidence. You make me loved and good enough. You are my grace. Though my words are insufficient, they are for You, my feeble offering of praise. Help me to see You, just as You have seen me all my life.