Today’s post is from Gina Butz: a writer, mom, campus minister, world traveler, and fellow Redbud.
13 years ago, I was exhausted. The mother of two preschoolers living overseas with a husband who was in increasing demand, I was coming to the end of my resources. We had just moved to Singapore, which meant I lost the local maid who had kept me afloat in our previous location. At the same time, both our kids decided that naps would no longer be part of their daily schedule. It was like I’d lost six hours of every day. Did I mention exhausted?
Six months in to our time there, my husband and I participated in an intensive coaching program. Part of our preparation for the time was to write out a life map, detailing the highs and lows, influences, and significant moments of our lives.
While meeting with some of our coaches during the program, one of them told me that when I shared my life map with our next coach, I had to ask him this question,
“Did God give me a place to be a child in my family?”
I thought it was a strange question, but I was willing to comply. I was sure the answer was yes, anyway. How could it be otherwise?
So after sharing my story, I threw out my question, “So, did God give me a place for me to be a child in my family?”
He looked at me with tears in his eyes, and gently said, “No.”
I was furious. Not at him. Not at my parents. Straight to the source – I was irate with God. He was the one who didn’t give me a story where I was a child. He didn’t give me that place that I needed. What kind of God would do that?
I marched back to my hotel room and raged against Him. When I finally stopped enough to hear Him respond to my, “Why?” his reply was, “Because I wanted you to be Mine.”
What followed was months upon months of searching out what this meant. What does it look like to live as His child? And how had I not been doing it?
I grew up as the 2nd of three children. My older sister is mentally challenged, which functionally made me the oldest. I took my role seriously. I became the kid you didn’t have to worry about, the one who took care of herself. After all, it was easier for everyone that way. In many ways, I wasn’t a child in my family because I chose not to be, but it was God who orchestrated the background in which that was the most natural response. How could I have known how that would change the way I related to God, to myself, to others?
I was exhausted 13 years ago in part because I had been an adult for so very long, trying to be put together, to be the person no one had to carry, the one who was strong for everyone else. I lived in fear that failure would surely make me unlovable, and in contempt for the child in myself who desperately needed to fall apart and be held.
My search began with reading: Abba’s Child, by Brennan Manning, and The Return of the Prodigal Son by Henri Nouwen for starters. Over time, I read so many books in my quest to ground myself in identity as His beloved child that I started a journal where I collected quotes from all of them. On the days when I found myself feeling insecure, unknown, tempted to look elsewhere for the security I needed, I would spend hours poring over that journal, repeating to myself, “This is who you are. This is who you are. This is who you are.”
Over time, something shifted internally. It felt like I was discovering a solid place in the core of my being. As Henri Nouwen puts it,
“There is a place in me where God has chosen to dwell. It is the place where I am held safe in the embrace of an all-loving Father who calls me by name, and says, ‘You are my Beloved child, on whom my favor rests.’”
I would love to say I fully embrace this position as His child, but I still struggle. It is so easy to wander from that truth. Like an orphan, I can doubt my place in His family, and run back to my own resources, wary of trusting others. But He keeps calling me back to this solid place inside of who He is and who He says I am.
I am so grateful for that question 13 years ago. It awakened me and invited me to a deeper, more true identity than the one I’d been living.