Might we owe God the favor of trying to see ourselves as Christ saw us while hanging on the tree?
I'm that girl—well, that woman, too, I guess.
I grew up in a Christian home.
I went to a Christian school.
I went to a Christian four-year college.
I went to a Christian school for my Master's.
I was the church pianist.
I was the youth group leader.
I was always Mary in the Christmas plays.
I was singing the solos in the choir.
I was hiding eggs for the church Easter egg hunt.
I was hugging the widows on the front pew.
I was stacking the Operation Christmas Child boxes.
And I was miserable.
When legalism is the foundation for your faith, your house isn't the one on quicksand (Matthew 7:24-26), but it's the tall tower like Rapunzel's. You're trapped hundreds of feet above everyone else, peering down on others with a sense of judgment. Deep down, this judgment toward others is a shoddy attempt to mask how harshly you judge yourself... and how harshly you think God contends with your unrighteousness.
Grace is on the ground, though, where the messy people are. Tucked away tall in my tower, I never got my footing on the freedom to forgive others and myself. So I never imagined how much more God would, and was always, forgiving me.
This lifestyle makes self-loathing quite easy—natural almost. After all, you're isolated from grace, forgiveness, and everyone you judge. You're left alone with a bitter, fearful, wary you. At that point, what is there to love about you?
Why would God ever want a girl who's made herself captive to her self-criticism?
Can I Write a Love Letter to Myself?
Thankfully, I'm five years into accepting that grace and perfection can't coexist and that God doesn't require accolades but a malleable heart. Yet, if I'm honest, I still cringe at the idea of "self-love." Perhaps it's because this idea is plastered on culture's trendiest sins in an attempt to ignore accountability, or perhaps it's because I still wrestle with accepting the girl in the mirror.
Since recovering from a legalistic mindset, it's still easy to make myself pay for my mistakes, even after acknowledging that God's grace has forgiven all. Loving myself isn't something I deserve, I quickly tell myself. I can't use grace as a scapegoat so I can get off the hook so easily. My Christian life should be packed with the sort of sacrifice that doesn't make room for self-love.
Do your thoughts race like mine? Do you find it hard to accept that forgiveness is so freeing? Are you great at giving grace until it's required to give to yourself?
If so, with Valentine's Day a few weeks away, do you honestly think you could write yourself a love letter?
I know I couldn't—at least not one I would believe.
What If I Write Myself a Love Letter?
But if I think of all the freedom and forgiveness and grace God so willingly gives to me, why wouldn't He want me to love myself? Of course, this doesn't mean God wants me to love my sins and shortcomings, but He desires that I see myself as He sees me—beloved, bought, and born into His family.
Until we fully accept this love God gives to us, we can't extend it to others. We can't give what we don't have. And we can't have what we don't accept.
God has placed an abundant life in our laps, but if we shun it out of fear, embarrassment, or shame, we will never tap into the fullness and glory God bestows on us.
Might we owe God the favor of trying to see ourselves as Christ saw us while hanging on the tree?
I think so, and until we put on Christ's loving lens, I'm not sure we will appreciate the radical love of the Father that prompts us to not only believe in but to do the impossible in His name.
So what if I write myself a love letter? Will it feel uncomfortable? Sure. Will it feel like a lie? Of course. But what if God uses this simple act of obedience to speak to pieces of me that shame has tucked away in my tower for far too long?
Will You Write Yourself a Love Letter Alongside Me?
I'm going to write myself a love letter. I'll give it a go, but only with Christ's kindness as my pen (or keyboard). Will you write yourself a love letter alongside me?
Dear Me,
This feels weird, writing you a love letter. It feels even weirder mumbling it out loud.
You're in sweatpants covered in paint. Your hair is a mess. And you didn't brush your teeth this morning... the baby comes first.
I see you trying to do all the things and do them all well—mothering a sweet but busy baby boy, working full-time, loving a hubby whose job takes him away 75% of the time, keeping the house clean, reading the Bible, praying, and the list groans on.
Me, I know you well. Too well. You're drained from the feat of expecting more from yourself than God expects. In fact, all He wants is your messy best at grace, but that's not good enough for you. It's frustrating to feel like you can't pay God back for the free gift He's given, huh? Grace almost feels like a consolation prize.
I understand that.
But I think God understands how uncomfortable you feel too. Jesus is familiar with feeling uncomfortable, walking on Earth, separate from His Father in Heaven for the first time in forever.
He gets what it means to accept what one doesn't deserve, too, but His experience was quite the opposite of yours. He took the weight, sadness, and sheer hell that He never deserved so you could receive the joy and glory you never deserved. He volunteered to take our Pandora's box so we could receive His treasure chest in heaven.
So maybe, for Christ's sake, you can try to love yourself a little more. Perhaps you can give grace a go for God's great name.
Maybe you can accept God's goodness in the soft sunrise, the drooly smile of your son, and the nostalgia poured into a coffee mug. Maybe you can accept God's grace when you burn dinner, forget the electric bill, or get a little mouthy with the guy who cut you off in traffic.
Maybe you can see Him loving you in and out of the mundane, calling you to do nothing more than live with His love and light as your guide. Amid this everyday living, these small attempts to open your hands to God's good gifts, you'll fall into a rhythm of rest and security. Maybe you'll love God and the glory He so freely sprinkles throughout your life that you'll learn to love yourself too.
And until then, you'll live gently, giving yourself the second chances, third chances, and fourth chances you give your son each time he chucks his dinner spoon across the hardwood floors. You'll recognize the mistakes you make, much like the pureed carrots he sploshes everywhere, won't stop tomorrow's soft sunrise, all the drooly smiles, and the light roast coffee. God will clean up behind you with soft compassion and show up tomorrow to do it all over again.
Won't you do Him the honor of loving yourself well?
He deserves it.
And He thinks you deserve it too.
Love... kind of,
Me
Photo Credit: ©Getty Images/Bohdan Bevz
