“For my grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties, for when I am weak, then I am strong.”
“My grace is sufficient for you—my grace is enough; it’s all you need—for my power is made perfect in your weakness.”
That’s what God told Paul after Paul pleaded with Him three times to take away a thorn in his side—to take away weakness. I’ve been where Paul was. I’ve wanted to get rid of my weaknesses, to hide them, to not deal with them because they were a constant reminder that I wasn’t good enough.
I’ve lived a life trying to portray perfection. I’ve tried to be a better daughter, a more “in-shape” granddaughter, and a better student because I never felt good enough the way I was. I’ve tried to live up to unrealistic expectations, to do more in order to be more—I’ve tried to be perfect for other people—all because I feared letting them down and looking like a failure—looking like I don’t have things under control, like I can’t maintain a balance. But I’m nowhere near perfect. And as I grew up, I struggled with trying to be perfect and knowing I wasn’t, I started to build up a mental list of inadequacies that I’ve carried with me and sometimes I still add to. Those inadequacies are my weaknesses. I’ve never wanted them, and I’ve tried to get rid of them because I’ve always believed that to be perfect, to be good enough, I can’t be weak. I tried to hide the weaknesses and struggles, and control my life on my own. And I tried to do it all while giving off this image of perfection and hiding behind a smile.
I haven’t wanted to confront, much less expose, or boast about, my weaknesses or struggles because in my mind, they make me look like a failure. They are just a testament to all the ways that I’m still not good enough—a detailed description of all of the reasons why I’m still not a good enough daughter, a good enough student, or a good enough person in general—a verbalized statement of my insufficiencies.
But God has been doing some crazy work in and through me. I struggled, a lot, with God about speaking and about exposing all of these parts of my life. I fought with Him about verbally admitting that I am broken, so broken, that I still struggle with cycles of bulimia, that the real reason I’m such a healthy eater is that I taught myself that I’m not allowed to eat unhealthily, that I can’t eat without feeling guilty, that I daily try to be enough, to be better, and that sometimes, the first thing I think about in the morning is how I’m failing at all of those things and how, no matter what I do, I’m not good enough. I can’t be perfect.
But God says that His grace is sufficient—that He is enough, and that because He’s enough, we don’t have to be perfect. After God spoke to Paul, Paul realized that God was enough, and Paul began to boast gladly about his weaknesses because he knew that God was working through the insults, persecutions, and difficulties. Paul accepted his weaknesses and struggles as something to remind him of his dependence on God and God’s grace. Paul learned that when he was weak on his own, he was strong in Christ.
But I haven’t always believed that, and I don’t always believe that. I know logically that God doesn’t call me to perfection, that He is enough, that I don’t have to live up to other’s expectations or standards, and that I’m supposed to boast in my weaknesses and to be vulnerable. I can reference Scripture telling me those things, but I haven’t always lived out the truths of those Scripture passages because it’s been so hard to hear and try to believe that God’s grace is all I need—and that I’m enough in Him. The thought that keeps pervading my mind is How could God forgive me or want to be there for me after I’ve gone through cycles and cycles of sin—abusing, criticizing, and hating the person He’s made me to be. I’m not worth His forgiveness.
That’s what I’ve lived out. Not God’s truths, but the lies I tell myself. As I’ve struggled with God about all of that, He met me where I was, and he’s begun a process of changing the way I think, and He’s allowed me to accept that not only am I forgiven, but that I’m so worth his forgiveness. I understand that God doesn’t expect me to be perfect, God sees the real me, He sees what’s under the smile and behind the good grades. He doesn’t think I’m a failure when I make mistakes; He knows I’ll mess up, and He’s there to pick me up when it happens. I understand and I know those things, but I’m not fully restored. I’m forgiven, but not healed. Healing follows vulnerability.
Because when we are willing to be real.
Take off a mask.
Open up.
Be vulnerable.
Admit our weakness.
Humble ourselves before God.
When we’re willing to completely empty ourselves to others, that’s when God’s strength fills us.
God becomes most evident, and we are restored.
So I’m emptying myself to all of you not so that you’ll understand me better, get a more “real” image of me, or realize that I’m not perfect. I’m opening up so that you can see God at work—so that you have evidence that even in our greatest struggles, when we may not even acknowledge God, He’s there, meeting us where we’re at, integrating Himself into our lives, providing what He knows we need, and restoring when everything seems hopeless.
I tell you this story because my story—the tangible situations, actions, and thoughts—is just a small part of God’s greater story—the story of the work He plans to accomplish in and through me.
In my story, I don’t have any sort of a religious upbringing. I grew up without a true sense of who God was or what role, if any, he played in any part of my life. Because of that, I found myself crying out to a God whom I had no concept of when my parents divorced, feeling like I had no one to turn to after my great-grandpa passed away, and fluctuating between extremes of starving myself and making myself sick in order to maintain control on everything in my life.
I didn’t know the fullness of God’s love, strength, and presence, so while I lived under the pressure of expectations and allowed the opinions of others to dictate my self-worth, I turned to my own abilities to help me handle it all. In my mind, I was on my own. My dad had left, my great-grandpa had died, my mom was preoccupied, and my family too busy. And there I was. My solution to feeling worthless, inadequate, and insufficient was to try to be better by doing more for my family and friends, getting good grades, maintaining a sense of control, and trying as hard as I could to be perfection. At the time, I neither saw nor acknowledged the true God in my life, and because of that, I eventually found myself bending over a toilet, falling to my knees before the wrong god. I learned to define myself by numbers on a scale, letters on a transcript, quantity of food eaten, and my ability to meet other’s expectations.
I didn’t know it at the time—in the midst of my parent’s divorce, as my great-grandpa deteriorated before my eyes, or when I cried myself to sleep because I was so hungry. But as I’ve grown closer to God and learned more about whom He is, I’ve learned that it wasn’t me getting through any of those situations when I was broken, feeling lonely, and hating myself. It was God, the true God, who was sustaining me. God always there, and He never saw me as a failure.
That’s my story, a journey through my struggles of trying to regain my self-worth on my own. But I now see my story as a small part of God’s greater story, as a testament to God’s work and his continual presence in my life.
Dad: When my dad abandoned me and I was left feeling rejected and unloved, God was my teacher and sustainer. I grew up with a misconceived notion of who a father is and how a father acts, but God was teaching me what a real, true father is not. My dad never responded to my letter, and that left me at a complete loss because I couldn’t fathom how a dad—how my dad—could just decide not to be a part of his daughter’s life. God has shown me that as my true father, He will never just decide not to be there fore me. Where my dad left me, God met me, even though I didn’t know it at the time. In the moment, I still had no concept of a turning to a heavenly father, but God blessed me with another earthly father figure, my great-grandpa.
Great-Grandpa: Again, I didn’t realize it as I grew up, but my great-grandpa was my tangible Jesus. While I didn’t grow up in the church or Sunday school learning about who Jesus was and how to be more like him, I did grow up learning how to live like a man who knew what it meant to really love people and to love life. My great-grandpa was my rock, my strength, my comforter, the one who never saw my insufficiencies, and the one who was continually there, demonstrating how to lead a life worth living, a life focused on loving. I definitely didn’t know it at the time, but when I didn’t know Christ by the name of Jesus, I knew him through my great-grandpa.
Eating: While my tangible Jesus never saw my insufficiencies, I still grew up making a mental list of inadequacies conceived by the powerful influence of my poor self-image, low self-worth, and intense self-criticism. I tried to gain control over all areas of my life in the only way I knew how—destructive eating disorders. What I learned, though, was that me trying to be in control was really me being out of control. With God’s help, I’ve learned that the anorexia and bulimia, are symptoms of a greater struggle that I’m still trying to overcome, a struggle of defining myself in all the wrong ways and placing my self-worth in grades, eating healthily, meeting expectations, losing weight, and in appearing perfect.
God met me when I was so broken and showed me where the real struggle lies, but I’m not going to lie to you guys.
I still struggle with self-esteem.
I still find myself caught up in cycles of bulimia.
I still can't look in a mirror without criticizing what I see.
I still wonder what it would be like to look in a mirror and see what’s actually there.
I’m still in the process of changing how I think.
God’s helping me as I travel that path. He constantly reminds me that He is the God who defines me, and it is not by numbers, grades, or expectations. God has shown me that He is my ultimate restorer. It’s my perception of myself that is skewed.
I haven’t reached a place of ultimate restoration. I don’t wake up every morning and love what I see, but I am learning what it means to be real and to be vulnerable—and I’m learning how valuable that is. I’m working to recognize and appreciate person God created me to be. And I fail at that—often, but that’s okay. God has been there throughout the rest of my life, so I trust that he will continue to be there as I go through this process.
That being said, I don’t belong where I’ve been placed—on a pedestal by my family and by others—for my grades, my achievements, my jobs, and my ability to seem like I have things all under control. That place is God’s place, for it is only because of Him, His constant presence, His grace, and His strength that I’m able to do any of those things. Give that place to God. Where I belong is at the foot of the cross. Humbled before the God who was always there, even when I didn’t realize it, and who will continue to be there.
At the foot of the cross, I can confidently boast in my weaknesses. I can admit that I’ve hated myself and felt worthless. I can confess that I had an eating disorder and still struggle with one to some extent. I can honestly say that I’ve been broken, because, those things aren’t statements of my failures but rather testaments to the continual presence and strength of God.
