Daddy Loves Me

Precious pigtails frame her pixie face, brown eyes laughing slyly at me even as her mouth forms a pout. She is determined to get her way and to have fun doing it, at whatever cost to my sanity. She knows cuteness is on her side.

Fortunately this morning, in spite of her readiness to rebel, harmony reigns, and we sit on the couch reading books, her favorite pastime and one I particularly delight in…when I slow myself down and take the time. Lately I have been distracted and discouraged, feeling far from God and therefore disconnected with everyone else. As usual, the tasks of each day seem to swallow up all my good intentions to simply be a blessing to my kids.

I’m reading the same book for the fourth time, mouth working but mind elsewhere, when she suddenly stands up and looks out the window. “Where’s my Daddy? Where’s my Daddy?” she demands, as if suddenly and painfully aware of his absence.

My heart twinges as I think of her Daddy, coming in after work each day to sweep her up in his arms. They sit on the floor and cuddle, talk, and wrestle while the house fills with her giggles. He is intentional in his delight of her.

“You love your Daddy, don’t you?” I ask.

She smiles a slow smile, full of more meaning than it seems a two-year old could comprehend. “My Daddy loves me,” she whispers.

The tears come readily to my eyes. She knows she is delighted in. She is so confident that her Daddy cherishes her, and her mission each day is to wait for that moment when Daddy comes home.

This is how it is, my Abba whispers to my heart. Though you would deny my love, it is there for you. I delight in you. You are my girl.

What is stopping me? How can I be like my little girl, delighting in the love of her Father? I need only to believe that His love sees me as precious and prized. I need only to come and sit with Him on the floor, forgetting everything else in the joy of being loved.

The following words were written a week ago, and I'm publishing them here in an attempt to jump start my writing and find my way out of this spiritual slump. I recognize that they are self-absorbed and obsessive, but bear with me...

“You need to find your identity. You need to know who you are in Christ.”
Thus I told myself in the darkness of a depression over circumstances that had, I thought, robbed me of who I was. I had never before given much thought to my identity. I simply was, a person living on this planet, accepting life as it came to me, enjoying what I enjoyed and taking pride in what I could do well.
Those things I could do well, I suppose they were what defined me. I was glad that I generally pleased people, that people were happy with what I did and did not do. And overall, I was happy with myself.

And then suddenly those things I did well, I couldn’t do anymore. Couldn’t run, hike, climb, bike with my husband. Some days I couldn’t even open a jar of baby food. Couldn’t bounce out of bed in the morning ready to conquer the day. Couldn’t keep up with the list of the day’s demands or with people’s expectations. And the disease that claimed my body seeped into my soul. My thoughts and actions were no longer pleasing but ugly, twisted, hurt and angry. The weight of my myriad failures pulled me ever deeper into the darkness of despair.

The day I finally decided to climb out of that hole, I told myself I needed to know who I REALLY was. “Find your identity in Christ” sounded like the right answer. Trouble was, I had no idea what that really meant. To me the phrase evoked the picture of an army of little Christ-clones, identical in piety and purpose, but sadly faceless, voiceless, and passionless. Like the hordes of stick-soldiers in Star Wars destroyed willy-nilly by every weapon raised against them. I knew that this was an inaccurate picture, but the real version eluded me.

The truth was that I was now defined by my disease, and the idea of “finding who I was in Christ” was a pathetic attempt to accept the “new me,” the sad, weak, pitiful me. It was my conciliatory gesture toward a God who, in my mind, had effectively stripped away anything in me that was of any worth, commanding that I be “complete” in Him. Only now I saw myself as second-hand goods, on the path to becoming “holy,” perhaps, but much less “me.” And much less interesting. I had nothing to offer anyone, not even myself. I was ugly, boring, empty. This is what Christ wanted?

I set about trying to discover what it meant to find my identity in Christ, inwardly loathing the words. Trying to accept who He said I now was. Only I was not listening to Him. I was hearing what I had always heard and thought was true.

You are not worthy.

You are nothing but a wretch.

You will always be nothing but a wretch, and you’d better be glad that God loves you anyway.

Before, I had always been able to cover my inner wretchedness with a layer of pleasing performance. I may have been a wretch, but I was a competent wretch. I could handle life. And maybe God didn’t really see me as so wretched when I was doing so well.

But now I was exposed. And angry. God, if I am nothing but a wretch, why bother? I’m glad You love me, but I do not understand this kind of love, a love that loves without any reason to love. Why would You want to love a wretch? Why would You go to the trouble to create a world full of wretches and then love them, making sure we all know how wretched we are and how little we deserve Your love?

This is the problem I was refusing to face, putting my fingers in my ears each time it whispered. I didn’t want to blame God for creating me a wretch and then loving me, but in my heart of hearts I believed that was so. I knew my sin was to blame as well, but underneath the sin, the wretchedness was still there. I didn’t know if I wanted to be loved by a God who just thought of me as a wretch.

I do not know how or why I believed this of myself or of God. I think maybe many of us do. But then the Scriptures began to speak:

You are beloved.

You are fearfully and wonderfully made.

You are holy.

You are royal.

You are chosen.

You are My friend.

You are very good.

You are delightful.

I could not find the words, “You are a wretch.” “You are ugly.” “You are worthless.” Sure, I am a sinner. My heart of darkness has infinitely separated me from the God of love. But the truth is that I am valuable. I am priceless, precious, prized. God looks at me and His heart swells with love, because I am beautiful, unique, a sacred, holy creation. He is not sighing, rolling His eyes, and saying, “Well, yes, you are a wretch, but I’ll love you anyway.” He is delighting in me, singing over me, holding me in His arms and stroking my hair, kissing my cheek, whispering in my ear. I am His girl. Because I am beautiful.
Not sure I believe all of this quite yet. I still want to be the old me. Still have a hard time seeing how this new me is better. But maybe I am trusting more. Maybe I see that God grieves the losses as much as I do, but He sees some hidden beauty I do not. Some part of me He wants to unveil. I want to believe that the new me is the Princess Me, the one created before the foundation of the world, the one destined to grace the hallways of heaven and to make the heart of my Father smile.