A friend of mine gave me a fantastic gift for my birthday. It’s a journal that asks a question for every day of the year. There’s a question per page, with space for you to answer the same question on the same day for the next five years. That way you can look over your answers for the previous years and note how much you’ve changed, or not changed at all.
The journal asks interesting questions. Questions like “What makes a good enemy?” or “How did you start your day?” or “What color socks are you wearing?” They range from the practical to the whimsical to the esoteric. Day by day, I am crafting a fascinatingly random self-portrait.
Yesterday’s question was “Who are you?”
That seemed like a very existential question to plop into the middle of the first week of August. I haven’t had much time to think about that one recently. I certainly haven’t thought enough about it to fit the full answer into a few short lines.
I thought about putting my name, and just my name. My full name. but that didn’t seem right. I am more than the sum of the syllables that fill the blanks on my birth certificate. Then again, maybe I’m less.
I thought about putting my occupation. But I don’t really have one. I’m sort of a library worker, though technically I’m just an “assistant,” stuck in an intriguing limbo between being a student worker and a staff person. I’m not even a student, at least not all the way. And I’m a writer, but I’m not paid for that. Yet. I am many things. I am a Jill of all trades.
Where is my identity? Where is yours?
There is no simple answer. I don’t care who you are, there is no one sentence that can hold a human being. A sentence might scratch the surface, but it could never delve deep into the heart of a man and reveal what rests at his core. That’s impossible.
What were the writers of this journal thinking?
Now as I think about it, I remember what my identity is as far as God is concerned. Even that is complicated and multifaceted, but the simplest way of putting it is the way He puts it. I am His adopted daughter. He looks at the bad things I’ve done and sees Christ’s holiness instead. He cherishes me more than my earthly father does—let me tell you, that’s a whole lot. I am a child of the King.
I am a princess.
So many conflicting positive and negative associations flit around that one little word, but I’ll stick with it. I am the daughter of the King. Because I am His daughter, I conduct myself with grace and discipline myself to strength. Because I am His daughter, I will be gracious and considerate of the needs of others. I will always act in the knowledge that I am not only representing myself, but more importantly, my Father. I am given the freedom to do as I choose, but I learn to use that freedom wisely.
A child of a King, then, is what I am. As is anyone who lets Him in.