Remaining for Identity
Walking up and down the grocery aisles. Squeezing melons. Reading ingredients. Comparing brands. I found enjoyed resentment in these tasks. Escaping the day-to-day by chopping and cooking. Sizzling and sauteing. Stirring and blending. I found myself ashamedly proud of my accomplishments. For it was the culmination of my precious solitude devoured in a matter of moments. My solitude expression was for fleeting enjoyment and vanishing nourishment.
If you would have asked anyone who knew me when I was a child, you would have been told how friendly and social I was. How much I loved to be around people. How chatty I was. And I was chatty. So much so that at summer camp, I was given many a nickname: motor mouth, chatterbox… well, you get the picture. This put some layers of expectations on me as I continued to grow and mature—expectations of leading people and being social. Alas, I was awkward. Often ridiculed.
Many of the people I found myself being around and talking with were adults. I don’t remember many friendships with peers I connected with, outside of the small handful that I considered close. We would have sleepovers and long, into-the-night conversations. Outside of these close “best friends,” I don’t remember many other peers of my childhood.
I was supposed to be extraverted, talking with everyone, connecting with everyone. I was told I was a “natural born leader,” a title I came to resent. Instead, what I longed for was to be seen. To be noticed. How would others see me if I didn’t fulfill what they wanted to see in me? How would I ever be known if I wasn’t all things to all people? My desire for a few authentic connections led me to seek out these connections in relationships with boys. It most likely is why Bob, my husband of 16 years, and I eloped after a short seven weeks. We connected deeply. When he looked into my eyes, he saw me. That was all I thought I needed, to be seen. I was attaching myself to another person in hopes they would bring me the nourishment I sought.
Over this year, I’ve been studying more and more of the various personality profilings available. Specifically, the Myers-Briggs and the Enneagram. These tools have brought an enormous amount of freedom. Looking over my years, I can look back and see how I naturally gravitated towards solitude. When I didn't have that time of solitude, that time for myself, how I would completely break down. Often these were my moments of deepest sorrow. I can look back and recognize it was not these moments of solitude that led me down a path of sorrow. Rather it was in the moments of not being seen, noticed, recognized. Sometimes the two coincided, which might have caused some of my confusion.
Flipping through the pages of The Road Back to You or browsing through The Enneagram Institute, an epiphany appeared - to recognize all the struggles I’ve had over the years, all because I was searching for this missing piece. I couldn’t see myself, so how could anyone else see me? Mostly I believed the false truth My Savior doesn’t see me. I would sing the songs in church, and I would study the Scriptures during the week. I would listen to podcasts, and I have been a part of groups for years, all in a search for my missing piece. But my effort-filled searching left me depleted, much like my extravagant meals: a brief moment of satisfaction and pleasure, all to vanish without a trace.
Intentionally, I have pursued the path of healing from this untruth. To know I am fully seen, I must set aside sweet time to remain in Christ. Alone. No one else can heal this. He is the source that provides nutrients for my otherwise withering spirit. Jesus does not just bring life, but he brings thriving joy! When I forget the routine of remaining, I fall back into my old flesh. I seek out attention from people around me, exhausting them and causing me to wither once again. So, I embrace my need for aloneness with my Savior so he can revive my withering spirit to bear His fruit in my life.
“I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.”
— Jesus of Nazareth
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