I am not young. I am not old. And I do not even feel middle-aged anymore. What I do know is that I have quite a few years under my belt.
The blessings of my life have been many: I’ve been a wife, a mother, a daughter, and now an Oma! I loved my college years and completed my post-graduate degree after I married. I’ve worked more often than not—from high-stress roles to low-stress ones, and even seasons with virtually no stress, both full-time and part-time. I have had wonderful bosses, and I have had difficult ones.
I never thought I would find a man who truly understands me, but my husband does. My parents have graciously walked with me every step of the way. I spent 22 years homeschooling our children. One thing about raising children outside of a group-think environment is that they don’t think like the group—which I prefer, even if it can be challenging at times. When they graduated from high school, I felt as though I had graduated too, and the biggest test for me was when they headed off to college. Truthfully, I was nervous, hoping I had done enough.
Like all college students, they worked through assignments, exams, and long nights of papers. When they graduated from college, I felt that same sense of completion again. And I am happy to say that, despite going through the university system, they emerged as thoughtful, critical thinkers—millennials, and even one Gen Z. And how that happened is a story of its own, rooted in their integrity.
But I am growing nostalgic. Life has not been without hardship. There were difficult seasons. We tragically lost my brother to an automobile accident, faced cancer and other illnesses, and I suffered from a life-altering illness of my own, among other hard times. But we rested in God’s promises that He would never leave or forsake us, and He has not.
So that was the being and doing of my life, a story that holds both struggle and deep joy. But if I were to peel all that away, who am I?
That would take me back to my 7-year-old self, standing alone in the rear pews of a sanctuary with beautiful, old stained-glass windows in shades of blue, green, and yellow. After service one Sunday, that little girl watched those kneeling at the altar, including my parents, trying to understand why they prayed, why they cried, and what made them different from her. I did not understand their tears. I soon dismissed my young concerns as something I would worry about when I “got big.” However, that 7-year-old self could not shake the feeling that she desperately needed something—something she couldn’t name.
Thereafter, one memory became fixed in my mind: our family sitting in the second row at church one Sunday. I remember it so vividly because we usually sat in the back. But that day we were late, and only the front seats remained, just a few feet away from the place that had captured my attention weeks earlier.
I do not remember the service. I do not remember what was said. All I remember is sitting there with tears streaming down my face. I did not know why I was crying, only that I could not stop.
My dad looked over and whispered, “Why are you crying?”
“I do not know. I do not know,” I whispered through tears.
He scooted over and quietly began speaking. Although I had not known why I was crying, he did. He soon led me in a prayer to accept Jesus Christ as my Savior. At that moment, my tears of sorrow turned to tears of joy. The weight on my heart lifted, and my spirit felt light and free. My joy that day was indescribable.
Beyond any doubt, that tear-filled day of sorrow, then joy, was my defining moment. The light I found on that day has guided my path and anchored my soul ever since. I did nothing to earn it. I simply accepted the gift freely given to me.3
So, who am I?
Can I speak well? No.
Am I a great conversationalist? Not necessarily.
Am I the life of the party? Absolutely not.
Do I make a great first impression? Hardly.
Am I anything this world finds intriguing? I haven’t found that to be the case.
Then who am I really?
All I know is that I am an undeserved daughter of the King with all the rights and privileges He gives.
Dec. 28, 2022
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