Who am I?

I can almost feel the endorphins flooding my bloodstream. Feet rhythmically brushing the pavement. Wind dancing around my face. Breathing. Moving. Racing. Sweating.

I’m a runner.

Oh how I have missed being able to say that!

My feet and breath have slowed to a walk but my mind has just started running. My post-workout smile falls. I watch it disappear in the long grass. My face now a frown.

I have always needed something to define me.

I thought I resented the designation of Pastor’s Wife – the pressure, the connotation, the expectation. Yet now that it no longer applies, I feel exposed. Naked. Vulnerable. The safety net has been ripped away and suddenly there is just me… In plain sight. Precariously aware that I have nowhere to hide.

Who am I?

Always defined by my roles. My job. My husband. My fitness.

I answer “How are you?” with news about my husband or my child or my relatives. Holding up these shields, deflecting attention away from my fragile heart.

I don’t want this.  

I want to stand up straight. I want to look you in the eyes. I want to stand bold, clear of the shadows. I want to cry openly and not feel ashamed. I want to stand firm on both feet. I want to confidently speak and not constantly fear rejection. I want to be free of these chains that hold me back.

But I don’t know how.

I yearn to experience the worth I know I have. I crave to live like a beloved child who has her Father’s approval and it’s enough. I hunger to meet the world with the deep knowing that Christ in me makes me a precious, priceless vessel who has something to give! Who has limitless worth! I am an oasis of hope, love, grace and mercy that I myself receive in overflowing avalanche, every day.

Father, I need You to hold me. I need You to whisper truth in my ear. I need to feel Your presence. I need Your hand in mine.

Every second.

I need You.

Come.

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2 thoughts on “Who am I?

  1. Thanks for sharing. You have a friend in Bonhoeffer. Good company that.

    Who Am I? by Deitrich Bonhoeffer

    Who am I? They often tell me
    I stepped from my cell’s confinement
    Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
    Like a Squire from his country house.

    Who am I? They often tell me
    I used to speak to my warders
    Freely and friendly and clearly,
    As thought it were mine to command.

    Who am I? They also tell me
    I bore the days of misfortune
    Equably, smilingly, proudly,
    like one accustomed to win.

    Am I then really that which other men tell of?
    Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
    Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
    Struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
    Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
    Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
    Tossing in expectations of great events,
    Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
    Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
    Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.

    Who am I? This or the Other?
    Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
    Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
    And before myself a contemptible woebegone weakling?
    Or is something within me still like a beaten army
    Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

    Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
    Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!

    Like

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