Last night, Elsie and I met four of my girlfriends for dinner and shopping on Franklin. Somewhere between the server thinking we were at least a decade older than we actually are and our second basket of bread, the topic of the decade picture came up. My mind wandered back to where I was at this time in 2009, and I told them I really wouldn't want to post a picture.
In 2009, I was heavy. Physically, mentally...heavy. One month to go but not sure I'd make it out with a degree, panic attacks and sleeping too much and losing my temper and sobbing and zero confidence after being torn down even more...heavy. I was engaged to the love of my life who I'd marry a few months later, but what I tend to remember are the shame and pain and guilt from that time and that situation. I remember the way the symptoms of ADHD and major depression and anxiety all came together in the worst way at a time I needed to be my best. I remember the pain of the criticism. The times spent huddled in the fetal position in a corner of a tiny bathroom trying not to hyperventilate when I had to face another day. I remember the elation I felt on my last day in that place, the black and silver ballet flats I wore as I ran through the mud to my car, feeling like if I didn't run fast enough, it might swallow me up.
Last night I left the shops on Franklin and plugged my church into my GPS, hoping for an unfamiliar route. Our life group was meeting. Matt and Jack were already there. I had the new Zach Williams album playing.
I followed the directions to the road my church is on, but it was still fairly far away. At a crossroads, I was surprised to see something I recognized in the dark. Then it dawned on me. The very place I'd been ten years ago was staring me in the face, on the same road as my church. The song playing was "Under My Feet." I restarted it and heard:
"You might not recognize me now
Those chains that once surrounded me are laying on the ground
You can't keep digging up my past
You may have had a laugh or two but you don't get the last
You might not recognize me now
Maybe I was blind but now I see
Maybe I was bound but now I'm free
Maybe you need reminding
You're under my feet
Maybe you're a lie that I don't need
Maybe you should listen when I speak
Maybe you need reminding
You're under my feet"
Tears streamed down my face as I thought about those words. That this place was just a stop along the road to where I am now. That when I struggle with my identity and my self-worth, it's time to remind the demons they are under my feet. That who someone thought I was ten years ago doesn't matter. That what I tend to think of myself doesn't matter. As I just took away from a Louie Giglio sermon, I don't get the last word on me. What matters is who Jesus says I am today. Redeemed. His banner over me is love. Not worthless or incompetent or condemned or failure. When the Father looks at me, praise God He doesn't see the times I failed miserably. He doesn't see the times I lost my temper or ran late or didn't stay in the margins or do everything as perfectly as I desperately wanted to. I stand forgiven for my failing and my striving. My identity should never be dependent on who I was a decade ago or how well I do today or anything transient.
In the last ten years, I walked down the aisle to meet the man of my dreams. I have grieved great losses. I have fallen head over heels in love with two babies, and watched that same incredible man become an even more incredible father. I've traveled the world and bought a home. I have had a career. I have left a career to find a joy and fulfillment I didn't know was possible. Along the way, I made every single friend I saw last night, each of them a treasure to me. I have battled my demons time and time and time again--always surviving to fight another day in His strength, not my own.
I don't know what these roaring 20's will bring, but as the old song says, "I know who holds tomorrow, and I know who holds my hand." Ira Stanphill
In 2009, I was heavy. Physically, mentally...heavy. One month to go but not sure I'd make it out with a degree, panic attacks and sleeping too much and losing my temper and sobbing and zero confidence after being torn down even more...heavy. I was engaged to the love of my life who I'd marry a few months later, but what I tend to remember are the shame and pain and guilt from that time and that situation. I remember the way the symptoms of ADHD and major depression and anxiety all came together in the worst way at a time I needed to be my best. I remember the pain of the criticism. The times spent huddled in the fetal position in a corner of a tiny bathroom trying not to hyperventilate when I had to face another day. I remember the elation I felt on my last day in that place, the black and silver ballet flats I wore as I ran through the mud to my car, feeling like if I didn't run fast enough, it might swallow me up.
Last night I left the shops on Franklin and plugged my church into my GPS, hoping for an unfamiliar route. Our life group was meeting. Matt and Jack were already there. I had the new Zach Williams album playing.
I followed the directions to the road my church is on, but it was still fairly far away. At a crossroads, I was surprised to see something I recognized in the dark. Then it dawned on me. The very place I'd been ten years ago was staring me in the face, on the same road as my church. The song playing was "Under My Feet." I restarted it and heard:
"You might not recognize me now
Those chains that once surrounded me are laying on the ground
You can't keep digging up my past
You may have had a laugh or two but you don't get the last
You might not recognize me now
Maybe I was blind but now I see
Maybe I was bound but now I'm free
Maybe you need reminding
You're under my feet
Maybe you're a lie that I don't need
Maybe you should listen when I speak
Maybe you need reminding
You're under my feet"
Tears streamed down my face as I thought about those words. That this place was just a stop along the road to where I am now. That when I struggle with my identity and my self-worth, it's time to remind the demons they are under my feet. That who someone thought I was ten years ago doesn't matter. That what I tend to think of myself doesn't matter. As I just took away from a Louie Giglio sermon, I don't get the last word on me. What matters is who Jesus says I am today. Redeemed. His banner over me is love. Not worthless or incompetent or condemned or failure. When the Father looks at me, praise God He doesn't see the times I failed miserably. He doesn't see the times I lost my temper or ran late or didn't stay in the margins or do everything as perfectly as I desperately wanted to. I stand forgiven for my failing and my striving. My identity should never be dependent on who I was a decade ago or how well I do today or anything transient.
In the last ten years, I walked down the aisle to meet the man of my dreams. I have grieved great losses. I have fallen head over heels in love with two babies, and watched that same incredible man become an even more incredible father. I've traveled the world and bought a home. I have had a career. I have left a career to find a joy and fulfillment I didn't know was possible. Along the way, I made every single friend I saw last night, each of them a treasure to me. I have battled my demons time and time and time again--always surviving to fight another day in His strength, not my own.
I don't know what these roaring 20's will bring, but as the old song says, "I know who holds tomorrow, and I know who holds my hand." Ira Stanphill
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