Confused Convictions

It was supposed to be the jungle, but after four years I finally considered that a blessing. Somewhere along the lines the clinging polyester of my uniform shirt, the individualistic sentiments aggressively carved into my locker door, and the psychiatric ward style hallways had prepared me for what was to come. High school had tested my values, validated my will, and through the agonizing pangs of acne and imagined social status had shaped me into an independent and courageous woman ready to stare down whatever the “real world” had to offer. I was all feminist diatribe and grit, the ultimate pinnacle of womanhood. As I folded towels and selected picture frames to nestle themselves in my dorm room, I became increasingly convinced that I was pleasant enough to endear myself to others, yet audacious enough to defend my tried and true character without having to seek solace in any unnecessary arms. Oh yes, life was in for a treat.

For the first two weeks, college was everything it was supposed to be. My days delighted me with coffeehouse chatter highlighted by academic hankerings. My nights beckoned me with sultry cigar smoke and serendipitous dance floor gazes. That was all I wanted, a moment, because if I needed it I would no longer deserve that pinnacle status. I would be just like the rest of them, begging to be fulfilled because they looked life in the faced and asked rather than demanded. Hence, weekends blurred together in a tribute to bare mattresses, smeared eyeliner, and exiting just as the sun was starting to bleed. It was just the carnal, the physical, and I was still woman. Then, He came.

He was not like the others. I mean, I felt him sweat but I also felt, tasted, wept for His blood. Sure he had an agenda, they all do, but His was not only different but undeniably chivalrous. Of course I had to recoil at even admiring such a trait in a man, but I could scarcely even call Him that. I was used to any kind of desire being for my body only; my hips and my tongue for to satisfy a momentary appetite. But He seemed to crave that which He could not see; to touch what made me seek justice, to hold my childhood fears, to fit inside the spaces I had never taken the time to discover. He was both that interesting stranger on the train, and the closest friend imaginable. Before I could stop it, before I could remember I was doing just fine cloaked in my own stubborn devices, I submitted to love. Love, the former crutch of the insecure and feeble minded, was determined to become my melody.

I woke up gradually; stretched and yawned, took it all in. What I found was not my expected results of dis-empowerment and need, nor was I now completely self-reliant. He revealed to me not what it meant to be woman, but to be His woman. I now knew what it meant to be strong enough to weep; stubborn enough to be gentle, convicted enough to embrace. I had not been beaten down with the conquered, but preserved with the blessed.

My cloak fell, and I made a tapestry.

May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God. (Ephesians 3:19).