I went swing dancing last night.
Let’s be clear… my dance history includes a few classes at the age of 5 and my high school show choir years. My swing dance history includes a couple random gatherings with some camp folk in my early days as a counselor when a some of the guys taught us how to do some fun moves. All that to say, I felt like a pro heading into the occasion…
We made it in time for a few lessons before the actual dancing kicked off. After a man who was dressed up as cupid (who also could have been Santa if he’d had a beard) showed me the basic triple-step, I was ready to dance. While our guy-to-girl ratio was off a bit, there were a few guys with us so the night wasn’t as awkward as it could have been. Despite not really knowing any of them before entering into the evening, there was a still a certain comfort in dancing with guys where you at least have some idea of their background.
But then there were the songs where all of ‘our’ guys were dancing and so you hung out on the sideline and waited for someone to ask you to dance or for the next song to roll around. These were the moments of intense awkwardness. At least for me…
Because, even if I was asked by someone, I was more worried about what my feet were or were not doing than I was about carrying on a conversation with the strange man who I was holding hands with and swaying back and forth with. One guy encouraged me to not look at my feet, but to look into his eyes instead. It was complete with the hand motion.
I couldn’t decide which was worse, honestly. Standing around waiting to be asked, or dancing with the random men. As I waited, I quickly reverted back to a middle school version of myself internally. I was immediately sabotaged with all the reasons why someone wouldn’t ask me to dance.
Maybe they had seen me dancing and knew I was incompetent. Or maybe I just wasn’t attractive enough. Or maybe I just looked unfriendly. Or maybe I wasn’t making eye-contact enough. Or… or… or…
Ultimately I knew that the not being asked was worse, on some level. Because it fed a deeper insecurity: why won’t anyone pick me?
It’s a thought that can swallow you whole and take you down a spiral of more self-degradation, as you dwell on the negatives and subconsciously choose to forget about the times that you have been chosen, wanted, picked. In the moment of choosing to focus on the not being picked, I was suddenly in a place where rational thought escaped me.
And it’s a battle I fear most of us women fight, no matter what our current circumstances are. That there’s this question that’s burrowed down that we still keep asking, even when we are in the midst of relationships. This desire to feel wanted, worth it, chosen….picked. It’s a question that surfaces at random times and in random places, a question that’s often void of the rational thought. A question that’s form changes, but is intrinsically the same thing. Will you love me? Will you pick me? Will you choose me? Am I worth it? Am I desirable? Does anyone want me?
It’s rooted deep.
It’s a question of identity.
A desperate searching to know that somewhere in the midst of this giant world that we have a place, that we are not forgotten, that we matter to someone. That someone picked us.
In that, we find value. We find purpose. We find comfort. So, naturally, when someone isn’t picking us we are quick to believe that we aren’t enough. Or that we’re too much. Or we’re doing something wrong. Or that we’re too this… or that… or… or… or…
But, it’s bogus.
I don’t want to be the person who lectures you on what it means to find your identity in Christ because in the times when you feel the most lost and most undesirable, I haven’t found that to be the most comforting. It’s this thing that I know, but my heart hasn’t fully absorbed that truth.
So as I thoroughly enjoyed my evening, despite this question that had poked at me occasionally throughout the night, I knew there was something else that had to be done. Instead of reminding myself of who I am in Jesus and how I’m chosen and wanted by the King…I took it to Him. As I drove home alone, I turned the radio off and began to talk to Jesus.
It was casual and non-sensical at times, but it was me telling Him where I was at. Audibly. It wasn’t long before tears were streaming down my face as I admitted out loud the wounds of my heart and the question I longed to be answered. It was raw. It was ugly. But it was good… and necessary.
Identity isn’t as easy as putting a stamp on our foreheads stating that we are, indeed, rooted in Christ. I wish it were. But it’s a question that I imagine we’ll continue to struggle with, especially as we wrestle with relationships (or lack of relationships) here on earth. It’s easy for me to tell you that in HIM you are this list of things… and while those things are true, I think that we miss something when we forget to just take this question the Lord. When we forget to urge each other to take it to the Lord.
Maybe you’re not asking this question right now….but maybe you are. Maybe you’re struggling with not feeling loved, not feeling chosen, not feeling picked, not feeling like your spouse or your significant other is making you feel this way. Take it to the Lord.
Get alone.
Be in the quiet.
Be willing to be real, to be honest, to allow the truth of where your heart is to surface out loud. It’s scary to admit. And the truth is often ugly. But, it’s good. It’s necessary. Because, in this revealing, I think this is where the Lord does healing. It’s in this time that He reminds us of who we are to Him. For, I think, it’s only He that can.
Open up to Him.
And maybe the truth will take root in our hearts more and more each time.
I’ve already been picked.
And when I feel like that’s not enough, I’ll turn off my radio and talk to Jesus about it. For He continues to be faithful when I am faithless, when I am an adulterer, when I am an idolater, when I am selfish, when I am searching for something or someone other than He.
Because it’s only He who speaks life, and truth, and worth into me.
Take it to the Lord.