i am/you are

A few weeks ago, after a particularly difficult few days feeling attacked by fears and doubts and anxieties of my heart, my friend Jill suggested to me an exercise to combat the Liar’s taunts. That morning, she wrote a list of statements beginning with the words, “I am,” a list of who God has created her to be. It was stunning, and profound, and beautiful. She invited me to write one as well, which I’ve shared below along with a companion piece, “you are,” a list of things I know to be true of my Jesus.

As Jill extended the invitation to me, I want to invite you and encourage you to do this also, especially if you are finding yourself berated with fatigue, anxiety, frustration, and overall exhaustion. I hope this might be this to be a really fantastic tool to help you abide in the truth of the person you are made to be, even in the midst of a season of seemingly endless change.

If you write one, and you’d like to share it with someone, you can always share it with me. Thinking of you all.

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i. i am

I am a child of the maker. 

I am an artist, like my maker is. 

I am the home of the Spirit, the mystery that lives inside of me that I wish I could figure out. 

I am a daughter of a brave woman and a driven man, a sister, and a wanderer in green pastures and over mountains. 

I am a lover of ordinary things, like the ocean, and the sunlight in the kitchen, and oatmeal, and tea. 

I am a seeker of hidden stories, the real ones under the surface. 

I am a storyteller, a musician, a poet, a mover, given a gift of weaving together the fabric of my life into something I want so desperately to be beautiful. 

I am hemmed in, behind and before. 

I am carried on the wings of the dayspring and ride in his boat, too, if the journey is over the water. 

I am hovered over by the same great mystery that hovered over the endless sea, the same that taught me to say yes like another girl, once also overshadowed. 

I am full to the brim with questions. 

I am learning to wait in the silence of the morning. 

I am abided with, absorbed entirely. 

I am in process, in the middle, and that is okay. 

I am a small green branch among beautiful branches, fiercely connected to a very kind, strong, persistent vine. 

I am a wildflower in a field, planted by streams of water, though sometimes I want to tear off my roots. 

I am a friend. 

I am designed to be filled up with laughter, with a really good meal, ordinary glories, with conversations, a kind word, with sunlight, and the comfort of touch. 

I am healed by song and washed anew with tears I am learning to let fall, and with a sacrifice I want to comprehend, but for some reason, cannot. 

I am a fighter, my inadequacy made strong by the maker. My life is not defined by its size or how loud it sings. I want many stars, and I don’t want any dots, but my maker is taking everything off my skin and making me soft again. 

I am utterly known, entirely taken care of, abundantly loved. 

I am nearly always afraid, but never alone. My maker is still making me brave, still making me fearfully and wonderfully and will not leave my small life by the wayside. 

I am molten, I am clay, I am a bold of fabric, a piano key, a seed, the ink in this pen, the paint on the tip of a brush. 

I am shaped to be more like my maker, made clean, anew, again. 

half moon bay, one of my favorite places in the world

ii. you are

You are speaking, now. 

You have gone out before me, calling ever so softly and faithfully. 

You are caring, and gracious, one who laughs when you listen and cries, too. 

You listen, completely, and respond in kind with incredible generosity. 

You look me in the eyes when you speak to me, instead of playing the cruel prank where you tap the person on the opposite shoulder of the side you’re actually standing on. 

You hold the weight of the world, and the weight of my heart. 

You see the people I forget to look for, hear the stories I don’t bother listening to, fight for the cause that is out of my grasp, forgive the sins I simply will not. 

You are made of paradox, the “yes, and” woven into the wings of your robe. 

You are not in the wind, or in the fire, but in the soft drizzle of the rain, in the way it smells when it forms puddles on the sidewalk. 

You are in the quiet touch of my pen on the paper, in the steady breathing of Piper on her bed, in the firm hug of a friend. 

You are in the quiet breeze over the sea. 

You are not noisy, but when you make noise, it’s on purpose and not just for the sake of sound, of muddying the water. 

You splash in the puddles for the fun of it, not to get us wet when we don’t want to be. 

Your words are lovely and tender, not mean-spirited or aggressive (though sometimes firm.) 

Sometimes I echo the words of my friend, and your friends, too: “speak to me in such a way I can hear it!” 

And then, most of the time, you do. 
And then, your song touches me- the hem of your robe brushes my fingertips, a conscious giving away of your abundant power, in melody, in the unexpected twist from major to minor and back again, in inhale and exhale, in the glass of water in the middle of the night. 

You are in the words I need to hear, specifically placed, in the sunset, and the daffodils. 

You speak in the morning light and the smoke from the chimney and the frosted rooftops. 

You speak in the thread you use to knit me together, in the fabrics you chose especially for me. 

You speak in bird song and my own song and the song of the seasons. 

You are a mystery, a majesty, my inspiration. 

You are a sweet shepherd. 

You are abundant. 

You are proximate. 

You are.