Sometimes I feel invisible.
In a world filled with people chasing dreams, tweeting, blogging, writing, creating, living their purpose, I feel invisible. Not worthy of time or attention. Like what I say, what I want to say, what I try to say, dissolves in the noise. In the shadows.
My words go unheard.
This is something that has come in an ah-ha moment recently. It has hit me in the chest with force. It has pierced my heart. It has pierced the armor of pretending that I’ve developed over the years.
As I considered this idea, this perceived truth, I looked back at past moments. And what I saw was difficult to acknowledge.
I have lived much of my life being someone else.
I have taken on friends’ dreams and made them mine.
I have taken on others’ expectations and tried so hard to meet them.
I have watched those around me who attract relationship, community, notice and mimicked them. Tried to be like them. Tried to be them. Instead of me.
Because I feel invisible.
Because I feel like my voice isn’t heard.
And I feel like I don’t know who I am or who I’m supposed to be.
I don’t know who I was created to be. Or what I was created to do.
I feel lost.
Have you ever wondered if you matter?
Have you ever wondered if anyone is listening to what you have to say?
Have you ever needed some sense of hope that there’s more to you than what you feel? What you see in yourself?
Even now, I seek some sense of assurance.
And the only one that comes faithfully in these moments? The blessed assurance that Jesus offers me.
And those words seem contrite, don’t they?
When your heart hurts and your legacy seems lacking, those words seem contrite.
When your yearning for relationship or community or assurance, those words seem contrite.
When your longing to find your place or make a difference or make a meaningful contribution, those words seem contrite.
When you want to matter.
Those words seem contrite.
But the God behind those words is anything but contrite.
The God who enters into this brokenness that seems to define me is anything but lacking.
The God who covers me with his grace and wraps me in his wings of protection is anything but unmoved by my struggle. By my sadness. By my sense of invisibility.
He sees me. He always sees me.
To my human mind, this doesn’t seem like enough. But you know what? It is.
It’s actually more than enough.
And to know that, sometimes I need to step back. I need to unplug. I need to avoid the noise of the world. I need to pause. I need to be still.
I need to be still and know.
I need to be still and listen.
I need to be still and be seen.
I need to trust.
I need to know.
I need to let his truth wash over me and wash away the doubts.
I need to hold fast to his hand and let him lead.
I need to let go of all the trying and let him show me who I am.
I need him. Only him. Always him.
Everything else? That’s about me. What I want and what I think I need. To be heard. To be noticed. To be acknowledged. That’s about me.
Because all I need to do any day, every day, is seek his face.
And to know that when I come into his presence, he is glad to see me there. How incredibly awesome is that?
And to know that he thinks about me and those thoughts are more than the grains of sand on the shore. How incredibly awesome is that?
How incredibly awesome is it that Jesus loves me? That he cares for me?
That he sees me?
He sees me.
And I am not invisible.