I recorded my second podcast yesterday with two delightful kindred spirits, and today, I surprisingly awoke with a sore soul. Like the day after a round of heavy weightlifting, I plopped down in my chair early this morning and was instantly reminded of the old soul-wounds I hadn’t felt for quite some time, the ones I’d almost forgotten existed.
Yet, here they are, aching in that good/bad/familiar old way. They make me grimace when they’re jostled, yet it feels strangely satisfying to be reminded of their presence, for these wounds, I know, are the portals to my humanity, humility, and, ultimately…to God. They highlight my weakness in the best possible way. Because—just like weightlifting—this feeling lets me know I’m alive. They remind me I’ve pushed myself. Exposed myself in a manner that has caused a little soreness. Created a few tiny soul-tears in need of mending.
However, at this very moment, this vulnerability is uncomfortably twisting and morphing into embarrassment, and I cringe as the words I recorded yesterday come back in full force to haunt me.
These old wounds seek to remind me: I am not, nor will I not ever be…good enough.
Yet, even as I notice their message, I curiously observe something different: the old wounds are attached to an even older narrative, but with time and age, a new story is taking shape—one that is large enough, mature enough, to contain both an old lie and a fresh truth.
The old lie informs me that this not-enough feeling is perilous. It’s bad. Very bad. And I must do anything to avoid it. It anxiously urges me to distract myself and find a way, any way, to convince myself and everyone else that I am actually enough. Surely, I must be enough. Here, let me find a new way to prove it.
But the emerging truth is that, to a large degree, I realistically and honestly am “not enough,” which rightfully means that I am still evolving. Still becoming. And I am gradually learning to be at peace with this feeling of incompletion (a word I am finding to be more accurate and grammatically correct than “not-enoughedness”) rather than desperately clawing for all I’ve yet to become. The fear of insufficiency still lurks, but more and more, I’m simply noticing it and casually shrugging it off with an island-y Jamaican-type attitude that suggests, “Chillax mon, it’s all irie.”
Slowly, “not-enoughedness” is somehow transforming into a more pleasant and tolerable “incompletedness;” for if I am not yet “finished cooking,” that means there’s still room for growth, for uncovering undiscovered traits within myself, for learning new skills, meeting new friends, stepping out tentatively on a limb, trying something challenging, feeling timid, relieved, vulnerable, embarrassed and nervously laughing, then strengthened, renewed, exhilarated, and proud.
After all, I am human. I am simply human. I am marvelously human. I am a woman in the process of BECOMING, and through the fragile veil of “not-enoughedness,” I am catching breathtaking glimpses of this evolving wild-woman—a woman I have yet to meet, a woman I have yet to befriend, a joy-filled, exuberant woman I am learning to cherish and love.
For, even deeper still, beneath all of my many complexities, here is where I meet Christ. He is there—prompting, molding, guiding, filling in the gaps of all I perceive to be lacking, reassuring me that my weaknesses are precious in His sight, that they are not only tolerable and acceptable, they are also…beautiful.
My wounds, my heartaches, my vulnerabilities—these are the portal, the meeting place, the intersection that tethers me to Him, the point where He wraps me in His proverbial arms and reminds me that in my weakness, He is strong, that His grace is exceedingly sufficient.
Even—and especially in my weakness—He whispers in words beyond hearing that I am, indeed, His beloved.
