Teacups and Transformation: Embracing God’s Love for the Real Me
My 13 year old daughter has this habit that drives Cody crazy. No matter how many insulated cups she has, she is constantly grabbing a teacup to drink her water from. When I was unloading the dishwasher last night, I thought to myself that we had washed an extraordinary number of mugs in that load. Then, this morning, I woke up and grabbed a mug for my own drink of water. This triggered my memory, and suddenly I was 12 years old again, standing in the kitchen of the house I grew up in. We had this cabinet near the sink that had 3 shelves full of coffee mugs. When I was small I would climb up the trash compactor (I guess I am that old!) and onto the counter so that I could grab a coffee cup for whatever I was drinking. This would irritate my adoptive mother, because I was notoriously clumsy, but also because ceramic cups weren’t for children. I struggled with drinking from plastic from a young age. Don’t ask me why, and to this day, there is just something lovely and cozy about drinking juice, water, or kombucha from a pretty mug.
This has left me thinking about two things- the first being that my oldest daughter has picked up more than just my freckles and organization skills (or lack thereof). She has picked up idiosyncrasies that I have had since I was a small child. Things that I thought I had left in my past, that I don’t often think about, are now presently things that challenge me as an adult and mother. The second thing that has been on my mind is that maybe I’m not as different as I thought I was. I became a Christian as an adult, and I ran forcefully into my new life as a believer. I believed that my baptism transformed me, and my past was so traumatic that I told myself I was brand new. The good news about this mindset is that it helped me move forward in my new life with Christ. The bad news is that as I grew in my faith and entered into vocational ministry, I dumbed down parts of myself that I felt wouldn’t be accepted in the church. This included things like how I dressed, what my hair looked like, and even what kind of music I listened to. In finding my eternity, I lost a lot of things in myself that I actually really liked. I believed that I needed to blend in to a religious social club that would not accept me for who I really am.
Christianity does a really good job of giving itself a bad reputation, and I can see where I brought some of those fears with me. I had a bit of religious OCD, fueled by church leaders who told me that “secret sin and shame” were causing my miscarriages and other family struggles as a new Christian. I purged my life of anything that could be considered sinful, even when it really wasn’t. I was radically sacrificial, but it was mostly done seeking the approval and acceptance of those around me. When we started attending our church in Florida after leaving Ohio, I was catapulted into volunteer roles that became paid, and felt so repressed and controlled. I actually had to sign a lifestyle covenant and NDA in order to have that job. I was forbidden from drinking any alcohol, using swear words, and doing anything that might be considered “bad behavior” which ranged from the size of tips I left at restaurants to how ripped my jeans were. I was told that anything I wrote or created while working there was the property of the church, which made me stop writing and creating. I became someone I didn’t recognize.
I used to proudly tell others that I am nothing like the lost girl I once was. The girl who lied compulsively, abused her body in many ways, and lived in a constant state of anxiety; the one who searched for meaning in all the wrong places… she’s not really all that gone. It’s not that I have returned to my old ways, but rather that by denying her existence, I rob Jesus of the transformative work He has done in me. Rejecting my old self doesn’t serve my testimony, and in the end, it didn’t make anyone like me. In fact, now that I have left that toxic church after over 5 years, none of the people I fought so hard to be close to even talk to me anymore. I believe that disowning my old self caused me to be less likable, authentic and relatable, and I believe that the people who are still living in the indoctrinated and cult-like world at churches like my old one are causing themselves to be the same.
Jesus didn’t come to save us because we were good. It’s not like Santa Claus who brings you what you deserve at Christmas. My weak attempts at goodness will never make me deserving of the immense gift that Christ offers. Church is a hospital, and each person in attendance has suffered tremendously, sinned grievously, and is in great need of a community that loves them, holds them accountable, and disciples them. The example that I set, and the examples I had set for me, did not open the door for authentic interaction or meaningful relationships. Changing my style to suit the Pinterest board at my church didn’t make me stand out as the light of the world- in fact, it dragged me so deep inside my head that I became a muted beacon, tasteless salt.
The thing about identity is that we can’t give it to ourselves. There is no such thing as “self made”. We are who we were created as, and we must grow into that. I have loved drinking out of tea cups since I was a little girl, I have loved bright clothing and wacky haircuts and tattoos since I can remember. I have even enjoyed a well placed, emphatic swear word on occasion (when speaking life and not death). I sometimes have a glass of wine or two, and I don’t always tip more than 20%. And my jeans are sometimes very torn. I’m obsessed with overalls and quirky shoes and I don’t wear many accessories. I love music with screaming in it, but I love classical and instrumentals, too. I read Jane Eyre for the first time in the third grade and I read it all the time as an adult (it still makes me cry). I’m a chaotic, colorful, silly, playful, teacup drinking child of God, and I know with all my heart that He sees those things in me and loves them. Those are the things in me that make me “like the little children”. Those are the things that have been in me all my life, the things I haven’t left behind, the things that make me weird and awkward, the things that make me “me”.
Just like I smile when my husband grumbles at my teenager when she pulls down a mug and quenches her thirst, God is smiling down at us. We let Him down continually, and yet we are precious enough to Him that He died for us. What else in creation plays like a human child, with great imagination? What else in creation feels as deeply, is as open and authentic, as vulnerable and precious? We are His children, our names are engraved on His hands, and He knows us intimately. Even when other people don’t like us, He does. He knows who we really are, even when we deny our innate “made in the image of God-ness” and cover up our true selves, He sees us. He loves us. I will keep using mugs and rest in the assurance that He accepts my quirks, uses them for good, and is molding me continually to be better in Him. Not growing up fully, but preparing for eternity through sanctification, through the eyes of a precious child.
