The Me Who I am, Was, and Will Be

The other day I was watching old home videos with my mom and sister.  If you have ever done this--be it after a holiday, for a momentous birthday, or even on any given Saturday afternoon--you may be able to relate to the strange nature of the paradoxical disconnect between who you once were and who you are as you watch the videos.  There is a bizarre intrigue as you see yourself played out, being supposedly you, yet there are parts of you that you never knew you had carried all of these years.  And then there are those moments that you can almost feel--where you and the younger you almost converge in the camaraderie of a singular shared experience.  I watched myself opening gifts Christmas morning--and I shared the excitement and endearment of certain long-awaited treasures.  I remember loving certain outfits, and playing my first CD on my new Sony Boom Box.  Yet as much as I could relate to these experiences, I still felt as though I watching a stranger, or perhaps a daughter or younger cousin.  

Except for those very revealing moments that disclosed my most innate nature, I knew the person before me must surely be me.  

Every birthday, I wanted to light the candles.  I loved fire.  I have always known that the beauty and mystery of a flame has long-intrigued me, but to see myself at six and seven staring at candles, helping start the fire, wanting to light the candles--I came to realize that this was really a part of me.  An affection towards fire was not something that randomly developed and grew to my present fetish, but the intrigue started much younger than I had imagined, and was probably fostered through the encouragement of such terms of endearment as "my little pyro," or "Little Miss Brittney and her fires."  This grew with me, matured, and remains today.

Or there is my avoidance of the camera.  I would strategically place myself behind a beam, wall, or the face of a friend to avoid the shutter.  But then there were other times, when in a "better mood," or when I had decided, that I would ham it up for the film crews.  I was willful and peculiarly shy.  Even today, I have been know to get a little more than perturbed if Mom starts snapping more than five shots.  I do better with photos and video now, but I do not by any stretch enjoy being on front of a lens.  Yet, in my own world, and when I choose, I can film videos of myself, take creative photos, speak publicly.  But just as when a little girl--right when my stubborn will decides.

And then I watched a gymnastics recital from when I was about six years old.  This was perhaps the most telling.  The first shot, I am sitting exactly as the teacher was--arms crossed over my knees, my dangling legs again crossed at the ankles, my back straight and off my chair, and my chin held high in anticipation of the activities that would display my hard work over the course of our classes.  I was first in line to perform every skill, and I had the face of a soldier headed in to battle.  My every move was calculated, precise and with eagerness and attention to "doing it right."  My mom, of course, thought this was absolutely adorable, but I saw what was really happening--I was a little girl so desperately eager to please my gymnastics coach, my parents, my peers, a little girl wound up so tight around being the "good little student" that everyone told me I was.  I was so determined to perform with excellence that I could hardly enjoy the experience.  There was very little of that glimpse into my recital where I allowed myself to just intrinsically enjoy being a six-year old in gymnastics--I was there for everyone else.  I am 27 today, and have dealt largely with this trait, but there are still hints of this inclination that I am forced to face on a regular basis.

But the videos are evidence.  I am me through and through.  

I also watched others on camera.  Seeing the slight indications or glaring tips of everyone's personality was thoroughly enjoyable.  Loved ones passed danced across the screen and their memories came alive in my heart as though we were together again.  Images of youth rang strong, as my much-younger-then grandparents bounced around at birthday parties, Christmases, and family gatherings.  

My sister was absolutely adorable.  I watched our dynamics unfold and develop over the years and saw the traces of the friendship we now share that were rooted in our interactions in the early days.  She was beautiful, precious, gentle, and endearingly bashful.  Today, she is still beautiful, precious, surprisingly gentle, and--although perhaps undetected by outsiders--still a bit endearingly bashful.  We were taught how to care for each other and I really do think we were something like best buddies.  She is now my closest confidant and one of my most cherished counselors.

As if for the first time and after years gone-by, I saw the way my mom's caring, gentle hand would brush our hair across our faces or gently stroke our backs as we obliviously carried on with our lives--in that moment so naively unaware of the abundant love she poured on us--and this refreshed point of view made the love I have for her swell in my heart.  She loved us so incredibly.  Her care was almost oozing out of her from the screen.  And I watched her watching herself, but her love was no surprise to her.  Yet for me--I was amazed.

And I watched my dad.  His steady hand, patient conduct, and soothing presence stood out so strong.  Something struck me about his manner behind the camera.  Perhaps my deduction came in observation of the contrast to my behavior, but he was so utterly humble on camera.  He never needed to steal the limelight, nor say too much.  But he also never seemed to particularly avoid the lens or be intimidated by the idea of himself being filmed.  He was just there--so easily, humbly and true.  There was no pretension to his demeanor, and no lofty air in his conduct.  He was so comfortable in his own skin, and it was so cool to observe.

Seeing all of this gave me an overwhelming sense of gratefulness for the life I have lived and love I have experienced.  I found pieces of me in the little girl I have always been, I saw aspects of the dynamics I missed being a child, and grew a stout appreciation for the role my family and friends have played in my life.  

I thought about these videos a lot over the following days--mostly remembering funny snippets, or reminiscing on some of the blessings brought on by the footage.  But I also began to steady on how much of me today was so much a part of me then.  From the smallest little intrigues, to my mannerisms, reactions, and appearance, to the even deeper core of my personality.  I began to wonder about change, and how far I have really come from that little girl.  Certainly, I have made many strides in various areas as a result of my experiences, education, and natural growth.  But those very deep layers of my personality that are so apparent to me in the video are even more complex facets of my being today.  I have now learned to cope with them, hide them, project them, protect them and even embrace them at times.  Yet I am still me, for better, for worse.  

I don't even begin to think that change for the better is beyond any of us at any point, and I certainly wouldn't put anything past the Love of God, so although I see tremendous hope for real change, I think the substance of change may be different than I once considered. 

I thought my pride, pretension and insecurity would be something that if I practiced hard enough and wanted to rid badly enough, would just vanish.  I thought it had maybe been a phase, or a coping mechanism, that would pass, or I would mature beyond.  But I see these presenting themselves at five and six years of age, and I am all of 27 years-old now (I know--not that old), and still have to deal with these issues.  I am getting better at recognizing the sneaky areas where these vices will rear their ugly heads and I am more aware of the patterns that have, in the past, lead to indulging or justifying the ramifications of these behaviors.  But I think these videos taught me something about the nature of change.  

For, iron cannot become copper, and copper cannot become gold (baring an alchemist).  

But an iron rod can become a useful hammer.  

A copper plate can become a penny.  

And a golden nugget can become a ring.  

I can really only be exactly who I am, but I can always work on how I am.

And in realizing this, I felt an incredible sense of freedom.  It was as if the burden from the guilt of not quite having rid myself of all my vices after such effort was lifted.  

And then I remembered my dad.  He didn't seem to feel the inclination to apologize for who he was.  He had accepted that.  I am sure if you were to ask him, he would recognize that he is no more perfect than anyone else that the videos may have caught.  But he need not make excuses for where he was.  I think he may realize that this life is a path and we are all working our way through it.  

I want to be careful not to waiver too far to the other extreme of absolute ambivalence towards our shortcomings, but there is a peaceful beauty to the hopeful acceptance of them.  

And I think of the way I imagine Jesus to have been with people.  There is a profound humility to his presence that runs consistent in all of the Gospels. Although he works with an incredibly assured inditement, his grace and humility level His purposed mission.  I think of the way people responded to Jesus--sure, He has His enemies, those opposed to His claims--but the people that He met, those that had been cast out from society, broken, ostracized from the very roots of the faith He proclaimed that encountered Him and were changed.  They felt the acceptance and freedom in His manner, which was the very mechanism of their revival. 

I think of myself, and the person I want to be in this world.  The person I want to be for me, for God, and for His ultimate purpose.  I want to be free like Jesus.  Purposeful.  Assured.  Yet human.  

I have so much yet to learn.  And so much more to grasp.  Yet in allowing myself the freedom offered in the person of Jesus, I come to understand how my own shortcomings, and my personal journey with them, will lead me to be not only an iron rod, but a hammer.  Not only a copper plate, but perhaps a penny.  And not only a golden nugget, but maybe one day a golden ring.  

Stay Dusty.

b.Nicole

Freedom is as Freedom does.

What is Freedom?

It was my third hour in the less-than glamorous La Guardia Airport just outside New York City. After exhausting all installed distractions and attractions in the single corridor of the LGA terminal, I found my departure gate and dipped in to my “Mary Poppins Bag” to find some distractions of my own. After MadLibs got old by my lonesome, I had wasted enough doodles on my 3-D notepad, and the malfunctioning fire alarm system siren had kept me from reading, I gave up my activity-driven occupiers, and settled in with some thumb-twiddling and people-watching. But with over an hour left before Elite and Assisted boarding began—which I was not--I used a lifeline and “phoned a friend.”

The conversation turned rapidly from a brief recap of my trip to a consideration and appreciation for my ability to travel with such freedom. And there it was. The word. Freedom.

I should be grateful for the freedom to travel?

For some reason, the verbiage struck me as odd.

Of course, by law I am granted liberty to travel—but pending my adherence to certain documents, fees and rules. There is an awful lot I have to comply with if I am going to have the "freedom" to take a trip to New York that I am not quite sure I feel comfotable toggling to my association of freedom. For example, I need a government ID to board a plane; I need a way to make money to pay for my airfare; I need to understand the rules of aviation travel and go through certain security measures in order to be allowed access through the airport. I also must hope that the pilot shows up, that the flight isn’t overbooked, and that there isn’t too much traffic on my way to the airport. So there are quite a few contingencies to this “freedom” that I arguably possess in order to travel--and some of them are completely beyond my control.

And then I begin to wonder—is this really freedom at all?

Sure—my questions may set us on a bit of a rabbit-hole race through Semantics Grove. And perhaps a pointless pursuit, but I do believe there is something profound beneath the conventions of our cultural freedoms which allude to our assumptions of the idea. And even more so, such usage and associations shed light on our conceptions of Freedom (capital “F” on this one, for those less-than-OCD readers--ME!).

Words such as these: Love, Goodness, Truth—the words that are really ideas—are quite precarious in our modern culture. The versatility in the application of even the word "Love" ranges from the candied lips of a pre-adolescent mall rat expressing her enthusiasm for the Hello Kitty bracelet at Claire’s, to the tender, profound look between the seasoned wrinkled eyes of the golden-anniversary lovers.

And me?  Well--I love my phone. I love your shirt. I love that song. I love my friends. I love my mom. I love the Lord.

Notice a problem?

We do not have a linguistic distinction between how we feel about our cell phone and how we care for our parents. Admittedly, I think we all recognize the variant nature of the word love, and no one really asserts that one’s love for a technological device and the love for a mother are really even that similar. We are cognitively aware of the difference, but my question of distinction would point more to the reciprocal relationship—do we ever “love” our mothers like we “love” our cell phones? When our cell phone saves us, we love it! When our cell phone works normally, we often forget about it. And when our cell phone breaks, or isn’t working properly, or is the vessel of an unappreciated conversation or interaction, we despise it and sometimes mistreat it.

So is this really “love”? And I do not intend to infer that if we had a different word for cell phone and mother-love that we would always treat our mothers with the Love that we should bestow upon them, but perhaps our idea of love would be a little less murky and a lot more meaningful.

And I regress to the idea of freedom. Perhaps we have done similar damage in our cultural exploitation of the idea. Our country was established on the premise and promise of freedom. But is freedom really freedom if there are things we have to do—or even more devastatingly, things that must be done—in order to remain a beneficiary?

I would venture to say that freedom and compliance are mutually exclusive. I could get myself in to some trouble here, so allow me to preface my thoughts—I believe with all of my heart that Freedom is absolute dominion, but within our will, we can choose freely to comply. Thus, freedom can often turn to bondage, masquerading as religion or righteousness, if we do not first understand the nature of freedom. And I may not at all understand Freedom today as it will one-day be revealed to me, but I see no circumstance that could entail any form of requirement. Otherwise, such prerequisites would contradict the very essence of Freedom—complete dominion. But I will explicate this idea at a later point.

My primary concern is that the colloquial usage of the word freedom carries certain requisites or contingencies that should not be attached to the true idea of Freedom. Notably, the conceptual application of Freedom to freedom does not construct such compromise as the unintended consequences incurred by the application of freedom to Freedom.

True Freedom does not have strings.

And God repeatedly emphasizes this in His Word. But we still somehow miss it. And I think part of this is because there is nothing, apart from Freedom in Christ, that is really Freedom at all. Our ideas of freedom are limited and distorted by the experiences we associate with the idea of Freedom. Our perception is instructed by how we classify our experience. We have municipal freedoms, social freedoms, financial freedoms (which many of us understand more in relationship to its opposite) and religious freedoms. We even hold strong mental images of freedom with white doves, broken shackles, unbolted cages, and whimsical winds.

But none of these are the Freedom God offers.

There is nothing we could ever do, nothing we could ever find, and nothing that we could ever truly compare to what Absolute Freedom must look like.

So how can we begin to understand freedom?

Well, I read a book once about a woman’s experience in Rwanda, Africa during the civil war between two tribes—the Hutu and Tutsis. The woman was a Tutsi, and was hiding in a bathroom with seven other women for 91 days. The women—over the three-month period—had to sit on top of each other just to fit in the tiny space, rotating positions throughout the day and experiencing all of the issues of normal women throughout the months. Her situation seems to me, something like Hell. But in her book, Immaculee tells one story that floored me. After she was freed from hiding, she came in to contact with the person that killed her family and then left her to hide in a bathroom for three months—she looked him in the eyes and said, “I forgive you.” And I believe her. But more than my vote of confidence towards the woman’s display of grace, and incredible sense of lightness overcame me when I considered the beauty in her words and her heart.

I remember thinking to myself—“This is Freedom.”
Yet such a picture of freedom would seem so contradictory to traditional interpretations. The woman was locked in a bathroom. She was being persecuted. She barely had room to sneeze, much less the ability to take a trip to visit her sister or buy a car. Even her sister had been taken from her. Nothing really was within her control. Not even her own life. She would either die in that bathroom, or be there until she was set free. And there is it—the word free again. Something she seemingly did not have. But when I reflect on this story, my heart fixates on her Freedom, and I would imagine her heart would sing a profound sense of Freedom, as well.

Therefore, Freedom cannot be contingent upon anything. Our Freedom is a gift, to elect or reject.

When we understand Freedom in this context, the implications can be profound.

To begin at the beginning, God’s story records, “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.” And then, he assigns His Good Creation to rule “everything that has the breath of life in it” (Gen 1). If we have been given dominion over all that breathes, we are also given dominion over ourselves. We are, in a sense, our own principalities. So this should be enough for freedom, right?

But then we somehow compromise our freedom when we take advantage of freedom in a way that God did not intend for His Creation. We again found ourselves in bondage. In order to re-discover Freedom, we needed salvation.

And this is where the story of the Cross becomes incredible.

People always question the difference between the story of God and our Messiah Christ and all of the other religions. I can be the first to admit that there are a lot (a LOT) of similarities. This prospect used to threaten me, but I know say, “Of course.” My heart finds such consolation when I recognize that we are all searching for the same thing. God even promises us that there is enough of Him in everything for every man to witness to the Creator. In our attempts to satisfy our insatiable inner magnetism towards God, we find ourselves at variant points along the continuum of understanding. I do not think any one of us have “arrived,” so I rest with the peace that God is moving each of us along within the unique circumstances of his evolutionary Creation. But I digress. The difference in our story is that our Freedom, our Salvation, is contingent upon nothing other than the sacrifice of Christ that has already been made—that God foresaw at the establishment of the Universe. The only true Freedom is in Christ.
“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free” (Gal. 5.1).
And when we really understand—I mean really, really try to grasp—that we could do absolutely nothing to earn this gift of Freedom, I think we finally merge the great divide to something like accessing it.

We give up all self-righteousness when we find true freedom. We give up on pride when we find true freedom. We eliminate all sense of insecurity, self-hate and envy when we discover true freedom. And when we are no longer bound by the patterns of this world, we become a whole lot more like Christ. We adopt His mind and His will when we live within the freedom that has always been available to us.

Freedom is as Freedom does.

Thanks for stopping by.
Stay Dusty.
*b.Nicole