Embroidery: Why Must We Change Ourselves

Through accepting my identity, the Father could then smooth out the edges, transforming me into the woman who I was created to be.

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Embroidery:

She looks at

Me

I see a face full

of Hope.

How can I be

content

in an embrace

of ideals?

The thread goes

through the

Eye.

I care not to be

Bound

to her.

Knots caught on cloth,

she won’t let

go.

Holding me back

as I try to

glide

through soft velvet

of discovery.

Anchored.

 

The common response, “Nice to meet you,” has bumbled through my head like a humming fly, leaving traces of doubt and dissatisfaction.

Identifiers such as charismatic, agreeable, and graceful are all wonderful words in themselves, but the moment I started to adopt different admirable traits to please others was the brief yet potent incident where I lost myself. I threw out my quiet yet confident nature for a flashy and insecure consolation prize.

Unfortunately, when I was a child, I would pray at night for God to transform me from a decisive and introverted girl into a popular and illustrious woman. I would read stories surrounding female characters who were known for their serene temperament and berate myself for my spirited nature. I remember surveying people in the midst of them observing me, wondering if they thought I was “too reserved” or if they liked who I was. I started tampering with my identity, just little nips and tucks here or there in order to try to fit into the stiff mold I had made for myself.

There were times when my facade would crack, and a witty response or confident remark would erupt, intruding on the mask I made for myself. I felt insecure about the juxtaposition of my identity; I could not make peace with my aloof nature and the natural ease of speaking my mind. I thought I either had to be meek or boisterous; the thought of a healthy middle ground never crossed my mind.

I wanted to be the woman that everyone defined as: “If you don’t like her, then there is something wrong with you.” I became a mirror, lacking dimension and reflecting what anyone said about me.

After graduating from high school, I joined YWAM in hopes of finding my identity again; packing up my life in one suitcase, I boarded a plane by myself that carried me clear across the country. At the age of eighteen, I discovered what it truly meant to be alone and hungry. After four months of inner turmoil, I broke. I was sitting on my little cot in Bali, Indonesia reading The Shack by William P. Young. There is a scene in the book when Mack witnesses an interaction between the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in the kitchen. It is a simple vignette, but like Mack, I realized what true love looked like through this simple illustration. With a whoosh, I threw the book across the room while screaming, “Nobody loves me!” and as I choked on my own wails of despair in the coarse pillow, I heard a whisper like leaves swaying in the wind, “But I do.”

Just as Cain offered up an unsatisfactory offering of second best fruits, so did I when I would taper my disposition to seem more amiable in order to please someone else. I started to allow the Father to speak His truths over me in my writings. I would begin each journal entry in anguish, and by the final pen stroke, I would let a piece of the mask fall away. He would then wash away the dirt of self-hatred.

Through accepting my identity, the Father could then smooth out the edges, transforming me into the woman who I was created to be. I could be gentle yet strong, patient yet quick to take action, and reserved but engaging.

I could sense the Father asking me to cast aside my need to please others, which diluted my character and daughterhood. It has been five years since I threw the book against the wall and metaphorically cast aside a false version of myself. I am now secure in the fact that the Father loves who I am.

Yet I still struggle with the fear that I will not be accepted or deemed worthy by those who I aim to make a good impression on. Waves of fear still come that try to uproot my belief in myself, and each time someone says, “Nice to meet you,” I question if it’s really true. The twinge of self-doubt, however, does not hover for long.

All I need is the Father’s acceptance; the rest is just icing on the cake.

 

Written by Gloria Biggers

 

 

 

Featured Image by Oscar Keys

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