Recently, I was checking my newsfeed to make sure that America still existed and saw an interesting headline about reading. (Admittedly, I’m not sure whether to call it a headline or not since I really think the article was not news. In our information deluge, it’s hard for me to determine what to call some of these things that are included in my newsfeed, especially since most of it is hardly newsworthy.) In the article, the author shared that she thought of herself as a reader but recently realized that she doesn’t actually read.
That’s when I had a similar epiphany. I think of myself as a Writer, but let’s be honest: there are many days that I chose watching tv re-runs over writing. I, too, think of myself as a Reader, but since my overseas move, I read less and less. (In my defense, I keenly dislike reading on a screen and brought only five books with me.) I think of myself as a Musician, but I more often choose to relax by taking a walk instead of picking up my guitar. (My primary instrument is piano, which didn’t fit into my suitcase when I moved; the guitar could at least take the place of my carry-on.) A new co-worker and I met over lunch the other day, and she asked me how I spent my time. I opened my mouth to casually say, “Oh, I read and write and play the guitar.” But no words came out. My neglected blogs nudged me in the elbow. My novel draft cast me a dirty look. Speaking of dirt, a thick layer of dust muffled my guitar’s laughter. And my five lonely books seemed to be crying for their families packed away in storage halfway around the world. Apparently, who I think I am is different than who I say I am. Words are powerful. So often I doubt positive words that other people say about me, choosing to believe that they are just being polite or kind. Instead, I treat the negative words I say about myself as Gospel Truth. “Oh, I’m not an adventurer.” “That’s so unlike me.” “I am not a kid-person.” “I could never do that.” And, yet, a friend recently challenged me on my tendency to box myself with these words of power. Instead of pointing to how I feel about kids or adventures, she pointed to my actions. I say I’m not an adventurer, but I moved halfway around the world and regularly (albeit accidentally) embark on short adventures over here. I say that I’m not kid-person, but I absolutely love joining my friend for family dinner, which naturally includes her kids, who inexplicably like me. Much of what I have done this past year are things that I claim are “not me.” But apparently, they are because I did them. I’m still musing over this new Me, feeling a little like Peter Callahan as he tries to figure out whether he likes Jell-o when the hospital orderly brings him lunch. This much I know: although I longed for Bilbo’s invisibility ring, I hosted a social event for fifty people this weekend. Although I would rather engage in an intellectual dual with the dragon Smaug than teach small children, I volunteered to teach small children at camp this summer. Perhaps that is because in spite of all my self-identifiers (Teacher, Writer, Socially Awkward, Coward, Invisible), I remember the only identifier that changes all of the others: Follower. Who I am in Christ is far greater and different than anything I am on my own. Only in Him can I be a People-person or Brave. Or perhaps, the truth is that in Him, those labels and their power diminish because He enables us to change and be what we are not.
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