I have moments when I feel like an impostor. It often comes when I’m with a large group of people, even more often with the dreaded semi-organized-group-of-women events.
I turn off my car in the driveway and sit in the gathering darkness. I’m slightly late—intentionally. I exhale a hard sigh of resolution. Why did I agree to come?
And then I’m inside, in the warmth of a close group of bodies. I’m wondering where to sit—in that solitary chair by the door, or on the end of the couch by those women I don’t know? I’m wondering if I dressed appropriately, suddenly self-conscious of my wardrobe and the ways my body is slowly changing with age.
In the crowd of people I don’t know and partially-know, I feel awkward, like I don’t belong. What if they realize I’m not that cool? Not that stylish? Not that pretty? What if they realize I’m not as well read? That I haven’t actually read that philosopher or that work of classic literature? What if my jokes aren’t funny? What if…?
I’m worried of being found a fraud. I’m worried of once again being the awkward elementary school girl, sitting with her back to a brick wall, with the latest message that her friends have moved on to others.
My insecurities make me long to be seen. They also make me fear what people will see. So much of my focus can be consumed by what I am presenting to others—am I beautiful, engaging, funny, smart-but-not-too-smart? I can spend so much energy trying to make myself seen. I fear being overlooked or invisible.
If I close my eyes, I can see myself there, sitting on a grassy hill behind the church. Winter had finally released its clutches, and the grass was vibrant in its new growth. I sat with my knees pulled to my chest, my heart full of questions. Why couldn’t I escape these insecurities? What drove them, feeding them with the rumbling of my empty stomach? What would set my mind free?
The words came then, clear, loudly inaudible: Look at Me, Diana.
My eyes shot up from the ground. And in a moment that proved that real life can have even more contrivance than fiction, my eyes, shifting from the earth, focused on a rough wooden cross that stood hitherto unseen before me.
The thoughts came like a flood. That when my eyes were focused on Him—on Christ my Savior, His love bleeding out—I could see myself rightly. I could see how loved I was, how seen I was. I was set free from my need for perfection, of the need to prove my worth. If I looked at Him—not at myself and not at the imagined gaze of my fellow students and friends—all the clamoring voices demanding I be good enough fell silent.
And that’s when the second phrase cut in—disarmingly clear: Make them seen. Make them known.
Since that afternoon, years ago, I’ve taken those words as a sense of calling. Look at Me, Diana, and make them seen and known. In my moments of clarity and obedience, I’ve turned my own desires to be seen and known by others, to be noticed and applauded, and turned that energy and concern towards making sure others are known and seen.
My Father in Heaven turns His eyes to me. He is the God who sees. He sees me—the best parts and the worst parts of who I am—and He delights in me as His child. This offers me the security to be free of people-pleasing, approval, and the desperate desire to be noticed and lauded by my fellow humans.
I’ve come to realize that most of us are secretly afraid inside—afraid of what people will think, afraid of what they’ll see, afraid of what they’ll do when they see us. Most of us are like little children, looking over our shoulders to see if someone is watching as we play and twirl and jump.
We put on a show in the hopes of being noticed. We drive ourselves to unrealistic standards of perfection. We obsess over the perception of our bodies, our brains, our achievements. And we cover up the parts of ourselves that could give any hint of our failure, weakness, or imperfection…of our humanity.
So when I find myself in those situations when my insecurities rise like floodwaters, drowning out my joy, drowning my ability to love my neighbor, I try to call myself back to the love that seeks to consider others more important than myself. I work to make them seen.
I listen to stories. I ask them of their family, their work, their play. I look for the delight on their face and chase after it. I try to set aside my pride and be more concerned with making them the most important person in the room, the star, the seen-one. I practice hospitality—the spirit of welcome that meets people as they are.
And, in God’s ironic way, I don’t have to stifle those insecurities—they simply quiet and fade away. And I’m free to be who I am. I’m freed from my introspection and navel-gazing. I’m free to love.
Find more of Diana's encouragement at her blog www.dianagruver.com
I love Jesus. I think my two daughters can change the world. I think you can too.
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