To be laid bare before someone, fully known and fully accepted is my desire.
It’s a beautiful picture of love in my mind.
But still, that kind of raw open vulnerability is the exact representation of my biggest fear.
Just trust me. Don’t be deceived by my lofty language. I am not good. I know me. You may not, but oh I know painfully well. I have dimples not on my cheeks but thighs. I have stretch marks like battle scars displayed and smattered across my body in random to remind me of the nights when God just wasn’t enough. I needed something else to numb the pain. I’m guarded because I don’t like being hurt; rejection flies like a thousand arrows airborne all settling on one target, me. The only way I can think to protect myself is to build a fort of whatever scrapings I can hold on to. I don’t like not measuring up. I find some sort of solace in the misfortunes of others; “at least its not me”, “at least I don’t live like that”. I am quick to think I am the reason, rhyme and realization for a problem and sometimes even the solution. I impulsively steal God’s glory. I take it to fuel the insatiable appetite to feel worthy, the being deep within me that needs to be feed like a ravenous wolf at mealtime. The catch is the more I feed it, the more discontent it becomes. The more I provide, the more it requires day in and day out to satisfy its ever growing hunger. I feel rejected when people don’t react the way I think they should. I manipulate situations to try and get the outcome I want. With every twist and turn of manipulation I discredit the power of God and deem my efforts to be more effective. I compete to be the best and in doing so my identity wraps itself around my accomplishments with such stealth that I don’t realize its shift in allegiance until only after my pride crashes to the ground leaving me broken hearted and gasping for air to breathe. No, no do not be deceived. I am not good. I am not good enough and I will never be.
So isn’t it a miracle, no even more, absolutely ludicrous that God, the maker of heaven and Earth would choose to associate with me? How insane? How laughable? That He turns his face towards someone who has turned her back on countless others? And this is the mystery that continues to baffle me and somehow manages to rush uninvited tears, glazing my eyes each time. That somehow, the God of the universe sees me laid bare, stretch marks and all. He sees each scar, blister, defect, and disfigurement. He sees it all. I am laid bare before him, with nothing to cover my shame and He says He loves me. He takes my sin and shame upon himself and replaces the brittle pieces of fabric I try to pass off as righteousness and replaces it with a royal robe, sewn with the gold of angels and embroidered with the love of Christ. He lifts me out of the mire I have tried and toiled to be free of and in the same breath breathes new, holy, life into these dry bones. That’s the miracle. He cradles me in his arms and wipes my tear-strewn face. He cleanses my feet and wraps them in bandages made of the finest linen. He tends to me like a mother to her newborn child. His eyes look deep into mine, knowing all, seeing all, and in that moment I know that nothing in this world could ever change that look in His eye.
Yes, to be known fully is my deepest desire and Christ has satisfied it in such a way that is too glorious for me to even attempt to describe. I am still prone to wander, like a child with the violet robe of the king who is enticed toward the allure of the world beyond the great stonewalls of her Father’s kingdom. But oh God! I pray, I beg and plead that even in my wandering, that you would continue to be faithful, lock my eyes with yours, and gently lead me to the way everlasting. Remind me of whom you have made me to be. Capture my thoughts and captivate my attention even until I am old and gray.
To be laid bare before someone, fully known and fully accepted, is my desire. Lord, let that desire be satisfied in you.
Thank you for being laid bare before Him. Because that surrender has led to sacrifice – the sacrifice of letting others see you vulnerably. When I see one of His children being open, it compels me to be open before Him. Laid bare completely. I come to Him yet I still hide some parts. He doesn’t push me to share the wounds with Him but in the silence, there’s an unspoken beckoning to let it go… My wounds are safe in His hands. My fears are destroyed in His eyes. Just saying “His hands” and “His eyes” is a testimony of His grace. For He made Himsef human that He may empathize in my weaknesses… the Lord of the universe could’ve chosen to not have hands to hold mine or eyes to look into mine. He’s the sweetest most precious friend. I’m forever thankful. So thank you. Had you not posted this, the praise I’ve been longing to release wouldn’t have been written. Keep writing. Love you Sophie!