I have always been a dreamer, a creative, and a feeler.
When I was a kid, I would always rush to do the things required of me in my life so I could get back to my stuff, the dreams and books. At school, I’d race through worksheets and put my head down on the desk and let my mind wander. Sometimes I’d imagine I was somewhere different than where I was; sometimes I’d just pray. But I always wanted more than my reality. Not that my reality was bad; I just wanted something different.
The hardest part of growing up is not the physical responsibilities — the bills or cooking or doing laundry. It’s staying true to who you are when the world screams at you every day to be someone else. The adult world tells me to be practical and complete all the things I need to do perfectly and not feel so much. And for a while, I listened.
I learned to shove my voice down into a box inside my chest. I learned to handle my emotions, to develop a counterfeit version of myself who drill-sergeant-ed the emotive part of myself to be more rational. I didn’t cry all the times I wanted to. I didn’t express all the words in my heart. And as time went on, I had a sort of numbness. A disappointment in God. A sea of gray.
And I never even noticed all of this until my church started a fast this year. For ten days, I ate only vegetables, fruit, nuts, and brown rice, and I cut out all media except books. And for the first few days, I was miserable. I vacillated between being on edge and anxious and being bored. I struggled to pray and read. I felt dry.
I didn’t even notice that my prayer life was lacking until I was forced to give up my creature comforts. I was using these comforts to medicate my soul until I was numbed out and unaware of some of my deeper issues. The main issues being, I didn’t trust God, and I couldn’t come to him as my true self because I was shoving my true self down. Not only that, but I had a lot of disappointment over life circumstances that I hadn’t exactly resolved.
Before the fast, I thought things were okay because I was at least doing all the right things and trying. I was striving so hard. Striving to go to church, to worship, to hear even a sliver of what he had to say. But what the fast taught me, oddly enough, is to stop trying so hard. To move from a spirit of doing to a spirit of being.
I think the point of my fast was to realize how inadequate I am on my own. To fail. I didn’t fail at the guidelines of the fast; I never cheated or anything. But I saw very quickly how my own strength wasn’t enough to get where I wanted to go with God.
I read a verse recently in Psalm 44 that summed up my realization perfectly:
“Only by Your power can we push back our enemies; only in Your name can we trample our foes. I do not trust in my bow; I do not count on my sword to save me. You are the one who gives us victory over our enemies.”
Our personal weapons don’t win the war; only God’s power can do that. You see, Christianity was never meant to be a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps faith. It has always been a practice of open hands and open heart, a waving of the white flag, a continual admittance of inadequacy and a continual practice of vulnerability.
I was trying to be my best for God. But God didn’t want my best. God wanted me. Without all the striving and without all the attributes I’ve tacked on myself to please the world around me. He wanted the original dreamer, creative, and feeler.
I buried that part of myself so deep that I almost lost it. But in the fast, I felt the chains of the expectations of others break off me. Not only that, but I gained the realization deep in my heart that I can trust God. I can trust him. He can take everything I have to offer. I’ll never be too much or not enough for him. He will always take me as I am and care for me. He will always love me.
He whispers to me,
Enjoy your one wild life. Dream. Feel. Be.
Don’t let the world steal the precious treasure that is your heart. It is the greatest gift you have, and it makes life worth living.
Stay soft and passionate.
And most of all, let me love you, the real you.
