I once said–I don’t like the journey most of the time. I hate it. It hurts and it’s hard and sometimes I just want out. But I think that we would lose, if we didn’t have the journey. We wouldn’t know how to appreciate heaven if we didn’t go through all of this hell. I only know enough to realize that, if I want to reach being fully alive, I have no choice but faith. There is nothing else to keep me here, to push me through.
My life was one of words. I would tell you–I am a scribbler, whose thoughts are best expressed through adjectives and phrases and punctuation marks. I would not go so far as to call myself a writer, although many would disagree. I’m characterized more by my unfinished works and half-embodied ideas, scraps of stories and parts of poems. Maybe one day I’ll be a writer, but I’m okay with being a scribbler right now. It fits my personality and style, and best expresses my aims. I’m not trying to create some lofty version of literature. I’m just a girl who blogs about her life.
But who is this girl? Not long ago, she couldn’t answer that question fully, even if she tried. The longer she lived, the more she realized that she was a stranger to herself. The image in the mirror wasn’t what she recalled, the things she did didn’t seem to be in her character, and the way she thought suddenly seemed odd. And maybe these weren’t bad things. Maybe she’d started a journey to discover what’s worth living and fighting and dying for. And maybe, just maybe, she was worth something in all of that.
Still, if you pressed her for answers she would say something like this: I (sometimes) live in the real world. I love listening to music because it lets me breathe. I love laughing because it lets me live. I love writing because it lets me (almost) feel. I like cooking because food is good, but also because it has to be done a certain way and I’m picky. I drive with the music all the way up and the windows all the way down. I stay up too late and sleep too much. I read and write and sing and draw. I run in the rain and sing in the sun and dabble in the dirt. I’m broken, but I’m free.
Her identity, who she is at her core, is far more than any of those things. She doesn’t forget, but she does misplace the truth more often than she wishes. This is her space to rediscover that truth, to live it, to embrace and accept it. It is her space to be honest, with her fears and her hopes, her dreams and her struggles. This is the line to her anchor, to the faith and hope and love that she clings to. She is Beloved, child of God, daughter and treasure, beautifully and perfectly created to love and be loved. And nothing she does will matter, none of it will, unless she lets go of everything she is and everything she has been given, surrendering it to God so that it may be used for His purposes, however He sees fit. In doing so, she will fulfill her identity as Beloved, her purpose of loving others to the glory of the One who Loves her.
Once a Stranger,
Still a Scribbler,
The (Strange) Scribbler called Beloved