the born-again identity
Sometimes I try too hard to find out who I am. I study myself, I look for patterns in my likes and dislikes and experiences, but the answers I find are only illusions.
Because my identity is hidden in Him. I am His, and nothing on this fragile, transient earth can define me. I am not defined by my talents. Or my clothing. Or my friends. Or the books I read. Or the movies I watch. I am not a singer, a writer, a dancer, a geek, a grammar nazi, an anglophile, a cowgirl, a Chestertonian, a poet, a friend, a speaker, a wearer of pearls, or a bearer of words. I am His.
And that is the only answer that will ever satisfy. It’s the only category in which I will ever belong. Everything else is a mask, a costume for my short time on life’s stage. Everything else is a lie.
He is, therefore I am. I am His. I am His. I am His.
“I am in Love, and out of it I will not go.”