Tuesday, 23 June 2009

  • Inadequacy

    I sat in a circle of girls on the hard floor of my friend’s dorm room. They were all looking at me. Suddenly I felt quite inadequate for what I was about to do. I squirmed and stared at the floor.

    I’m telling them my life story tonight. Why does my story matter?

    I fought the urge to tell them I was postponing my testimony until some other night. I get that feeling a lot in small class settings–like I can’t compete with what everyone else brings to the table. Like I’ve got nothing to offer (and I love pitching in if I can). I choose silence instead, absorbing what others say and trying to become more like them.

    I have trouble recognizing my gifts and talents until someone else tells me about them. It’s easier to believe what I know I’m not than profess to be a certain kind of person that I know I can’t live up to. Sometimes I think my low self-esteem is mistaken for humility.

    I’ve fought all my life for the good opinion of others to make up for my poor opinion of myself. I’ve got nothing to offer them.

    The other night, I was reading and came across the phrase “loved before you were born” in reference to God’s love for us. I questioned. I frowned. I battled the phrase. I didn’t believe it, though I knew it was true. Head knowledge, not heart knowledge. What reason could God have to love me before I existed, before I was tangible, before I could do or be anything good? How am I adequate, deserving of God’s love when I’m just another human being?

    Supposedly, we exist for God. We were made to live with him; we can’t live without him. Supposedly, we all have this little space, this individual key to God’s heart. We have something to offer God that he needs, but if we don’t offer it, we leave an empty space in his heart.

    I only give pieces of my heart, pieces of myself, to the people I love. It’s how they know I love them, and the empty space is how I know they love me. It’s like we exchange chunks of ourselves. If they plug a little bit of themselves back into me, I feel their love. If they don’t return it, I’m left wounded and vulnerable with my chest open before them, missing the piece they’re withholding. That’s embarrassing. Not to mention messy.

    God can exist without us, but it hurts him. He gives such a large portion of his heart to us that he requires us to give our entire heart in return. That’s where I hesitate. I clutch mine, still bleeding and wounded. It’s all I’ve got to hang on to, and I’m not sure that if I give it up it won’t just die. I’m not sure that if my heart dies, God’s can sustain me.

    God loves me for no good reason. I’ve been seeking answers for the reason Jesus died on the cross. The best thing I can come up with is that it was how he ripped out a chunk of his heart and offered it to us, to sustain us while our fading hearts are dying. It was how he said I love you. It was how he proved that he’d take the bullet for us.

    So Jesus, I said I’d give up my heart, that I’d trade my old heart for yours. But I’ve been hanging on to mine, afraid to make it vulnerable. I’ve been saying I love you but haven’t given you any of myself. Honestly, I can’t take care of my heart anymore. It’s not worth giving to anyone. It’s damaged, dying, and irreparable.

    Let’s trade.

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