One of my dearest friends in the world left me a voicemail the other day. Her name is Abigail.
Abigail is, what girls around the globe seek to be; funny, exciting, and sharp, with long legs, blonde hair, and green eyes as bright as her wit.
“What if I am not who they think I am? Worse yet, what if I am not who I think I am?”
- What part of who I am is made up of a percentage of perception?
- What part of what people see is made up of fear?
- What part is made up of skills learned to survive in a world where destruction lay beneath vague smiles and veiled intentions?
What part is me? When I’m tempted with bad intentions, or if I’m laying my life down for a brother; good or evil, which part is who I am?
“And I just wonder,” she leaves off, “I wonder what part is me. And I wonder who I am at my core?”
Don’t we all, to some degree, suffer from “The Abigail Complex”?
That intense hunger to figure ourselves out and categorize our behaviors into something concrete, and definable. Something tangible and controllable. Something solid and explainable.
Who am I? Why was I made this way?
What is my DiSC letter? Myers-Briggs? Temperament?
Nature or nurture? Do I have any say in who I become? Does my personality dictate the kind of character I have… or is it the other way around?
Knowable, but unknowable.
Seeable, but unseen.
Inexplicable in all His ways.
Logically, if I was made in the image of a mysterious God, it would make sense that there are facets of myself that I can’t even begin to breach an understanding.
But, we don’t usually think of it that way.
We don’t ever think of ourselves as stewards of our own souls; guardians of the gifts we’ve been given. We prefer to cling to the notion that we are owners of our own minds, or captains of our own destinies. We want to be intimate with our inner beings. And we can be… to a degree.
As created beings, we are subject to the possibility that perhaps we are a little less informed about the creation than our Creator. I, for one, do not know how many strands of hair dangle from the top of my head. (Matt. 10:30)
I couldn’t tell you honestly that I remember every time I’ve sat, or rose or every thought I’ve had today. (Psalm 139:2)
I know nothing of myself before my second birthday (Jeremiah 1:5), I didn’t teach myself to wipe my own tush and couldn’t tell you how my lungs understand they need to keep moving even after I’ve fallen dead asleep.
Yet, I think “I should know myself best.” Maybe that just isn’t so.
I may not know. I may never know. But I know the One who does.
To answer Abbie’s question, “What part is me?” Girl, maybe it’s all you. Every part of it, good or bad. Maybe none of it is. But maybe, just maybe… none of that really matters.
Maybe it’s not the knowing that matters quite as much as the being known.
Food for thought.