Small Gift Saturday: Freedom in the New Identity

My hands move so fast I don’t even realize what they are doing- building ice castles that melt into puddles, scavenging for materials to hide the shame, enslaving themselves to endless work. The idealistic outcomes and lies drive me forward, a little girl chasing the wind like a fool.

I escape under the covers, hoping to zap the chaos with emptiness. But my mind is still jittery, darting from side to side. Shutting doors. Knocking on others. Knocking down Others.

I tried, and the failure made me believe that I didn’t try hard enough. So the cycle continues. And in a hollow bed of wilted daisies, the ground drops and I go down in the mines of disappointment, revealing my heart’s wants and my feet’s failures. And even so, I try harder to dig myself up to breathe.

But the air was made out of grace—all along. The Creator laid the foundations and gave the oceans boundaries. And to a feeble child of dust, he sews air into my lungs that is made out of golden grace. There is a reset button, a button that winds me up to ground zero. That reverses the frightening free-fall drops and instead promises life and rest.

Would not my success be me moving forward, or growing taller, but instead bending lower. Looking up. Leaning. Laying down. Soaking in the nutrients from the vine.

Direction is deceiving. And growing higher is a lie. But abiding is certain. Outcome is and never will be dependent on my effort, or my ability, or my control. As if going through a fire, the deception that my worth is based on what I do and how I do it, is being scorched out of my mind and my heart.

Return, O my soul, to your rest. Instead, I can lean into the process of my work, engaging fully, leaving the light on late at night, or turning it off without getting anything done. I can muster up the deepest courage to lie down and let go, and then get up only once the Spirit leads me.

He makes me lie down in green pastures. And they are rich and robust with that earthy, gritty green smell that elates my senses with the perplexity of roaming, replenishing, resting.

And with sleep being shaken off, I wake up with the identity of Beloved. When I follow, I’ve found joy in being led because I trust who is leading me. In these moments of clear sight, a glimmering ray of delight shines on my path of serving, helping, working- even if no one sees me, indicating a slight but drastic transformation in the state of my heart. It is only because I can depend on His perfect, pressure-less outcome. His final cry, “It is Finished,” followed by the final victory where He sits down. Freedom. Fly.

So, today. I can’t determine the end result. But I can be determined to come. To follow, confidently. To be available. To be willing. To hold loosely. With hope, I can wait. And instead of being enslaved to my efforts—positioning myself towards a seemingly all-satisfying destination or manipulating a promising outcome—I can engage in the process of beginning again. Whether I am blind, or with sight, the point, and the only unshakeable reward I have, is calling on Jesus, everyday, and on the final day.