The Substance of Shadows

Introduction

Image is a powerful device that has developed throughout history and functions as an instrument that helps us make sense of the world around us. We derive meaning from the images that surround us, as well as the images we create for ourselves as we go through life. This commences from the moment we are able to form an image in our mind, which usually happens around the age of two, and a child begins to recognize shapes and then formulates patterns that create meaning. The child is then able to think symbolically and learn to use words and pictures to represent objects. This tendency to create meaning out of the world around us is what ultimately shapes our thinking patterns and cements our values and beliefs.

We all have an image of ourselves: what we are like, as well as the way we think others perceive us. This is our self-image. We also have an image of each person in our lives. These images reside in our mind, and were created by our mind. They were constructed by an accumulation of ideas and beliefs about ourselves and others. Most of what we believe about others and the world germinates from the beliefs we have about ourselves. We are a mirror to everyone around us, an echo that ricochets an image outward into the world and back into us, perpetually.

An image is a representation of something or someone, not the thing itself. At any given moment we think about someone or something and an image is created in our minds of that person or thing. It is an image that is being honed by our mind, and we give it more definition the more we think about it. We are the ones sculpting that image in our mind. Yet, if you stop and think about the object (be it a person or thing) you start to realize that the object, whether you notice it or not, will continue to be as it is, regardless of your perception of it. The object itself can undergo great changes, gradual or sudden, that do not affect the image of this object as you have come to shape it in your head.

When a child begins to perceive the world around him or her, he or she begins to notice objects, and can spend a considerable amount of time studying and observing a toy, or an apple. The child starts to distinguish more details the more time he or she spends with the object, establishing a relationship to the object. The deeper the child is able to know the object, the more defined it becomes in his or her mind. We can’t fully know a thing, or a person, not even if we spend our entire lives observing and studying the object. Nature can be unpredictable and unexpected. The world as we know it is in constant flux and changing at such a rapid pace, that there is no sure way to predict behavior, because even patterns can change suddenly.

An image is a fixed thing, and therefore a representation. It is not the essence of the thing itself. It represents the thing or person, but it has no life inherent in it. If we do not see the same person or place for another fifteen years, our image of that person or place will remain in our mind the exact same way as it was when we first encountered it.

As we develop physically, emotionally, spiritually, we are forming a self, as well as the image of that self in our mind. We have our self, and an image of who we believe we are, the latter is created by our own mind.

What is that thing from which life springs forth? What is the source of life? The source of self?

My entire life has been a constant search for essence, beyond representation. I have ultimately been searching for truth, which leaves me with the question of: what then is essence?

I would first have to begin by defining representation. This is the easy part. Representation can be a painting of a lamp, a tree, a still life of a bowl filled with fruit. A painting of a woman who posed for it. Representation is a callback to the original thing that it represents, and is therefore a reference, an allusion; an association.

Association: noun of action from past-participle stem of associare“join with,” from assimilated form of ad “to” (see ad-) + sociare “unite with,” from socius “companion, ally” (from PIE *sokw-yo-, suffixed form of root *sekw- (1) “to follow”).

Once we have established that a representation is what follows essence, we can clearly see they are both linked, the representation with the thing it is representing. There is a distinct relationship between the two, but they are not equal. You cannot convince anyone that a painting of the sun is exactly the same, or just as real, powerful, or necessary to our daily existence as the sun itself. There is no comparison. One could say that, no pun intended, it is beyond the shadow of a doubt. We know that while the sun is capable of casting shadows, giving the earth food, light, and energy, the painting, no matter how accurate and believable it is, cannot come anywhere close to achieving the same benefits or claiming any real value in our lives other than an aesthetic, personal, or educational one. The sun, in this example, is the essence when it comes to our material and biological reality.

Likewise, our material existence, creation, is the representation of the essence that is God. We are intended to be what follows God. There is a clear relationship between the two; we are not equal to God. God satiates us and gives us the spiritual nourishment we need in order to be a living spirit. He gives us light and wisdom, and through the Holy Spirit, gives us what we need in order to remain spiritually alive.Because we are created in the image and likeness of God, we have the capacity to be born in the spirit, because of Christ’s sacrificial death on the cross. Being both human and divine, he defeated death (sin) by remaining pure of sin throughout his entire life, he was the ultimate sacrifice to God for all the sins of the world, past, present, and future. He was the sacrificial lamb of God, which tore the veil between God and man, re-establishing a direct connection between humans and God.

The acceptance and belief of Christ’s sacrifice is what destroys the representation, the image that we were, and establishes us as living sons of God, Jesus Christ being the first fruit of the resurrected life from death. He paved the way for us, so that we may follow him and become like Him, born in the spirit.

I have always been drawn to things beyond the natural world. I was fascinated by anything supernatural, spiritual, and other worldly. Although I did read the Bible and was raised as a Christian, my mind constantly wandered in the opposite direction, into the other realm, away from God’s protection, into the world of magic, superstition, mythology, folklore, and the occult. I found myself staying up all night before a high school presentation reading a book written in the 1800’s on Chiromancy, which is just a fancy word for palm reading. In college I took up the art of handwriting analysis, and spent a lot of my time interpreting other people’s handwriting. I considered myself a modern day interpreter of personality and intention. But I did not know how far that fascination could lead me. Eventually I stumbled upon other occult books that were not just surface level entry into occult topics, but full fledged occult theology, or I should say, theosophy. As they love to state: when the student is ready, the master appears. This was an extremely dangerous endeavor, and after reading three or four of these occult books, I personally experienced such bizarre phenomenon that I decided to toss the books into the trash. I should have burned them. The entire circumstances around the way the books arrived at my house, and the fact that the money was continually being put back into my bank account, was very strange. These were not my only explorations into the supernatural. One of my aunt’s lived in Mexico City, and practiced Hinduism (please note that one must say: practiced Hinduism, practiced yoga, seeing that it is a religious practice and not just a philosophy or ideology). All of these world religions stem from the same ancient religion, which goes far back, before the Romans, the Greeks, and even the Egyptians. It has been deceiving and pulling people away from the Truth throughout all of human history.

I bring all of this to the table as a way to introduce my main point: the Truth is only slightly different from the lie, which is why it works and has been such a cunning deception. There is a dangerous and fine line between the pagan and occult practices and ideas, and true Christianity. This has been accomplished throughout history through symbolism and images. I am going to do my best to point out all of these discrepancies and discuss why each one matters.

We are at a moment in time that is heralding a new era, one in which it will be crucial to hold strong, clear values and beliefs, and to use discernment when allowing any information to enter our minds. The ones in power have been working, for many centuries, towards forming a unified world religion, one that encompasses all different practices, with the idea of an inclusive, cohesive goal: unity. This is deceptive at its core, and ultimately goes against all the teachings of Jesus, who came to divide. He stated:

“Do not think that I have come to bring peace on earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in law against her mother-in-law; and a man’s foes will be those of his own household. He who loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and he who loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and he who does not take up his cross and follow me is not worthy of me. He who finds his life will lose it, and he who loses his life for my sake will find it.”

- Matthew 10:34-39

“So have no fear of them; for nothing is covered that will not be revealed, or hidden that will not be known. What I tell you in the dark, utter in the light; and what you hear whispered, proclaim upon the housetops. And do not fear those who can kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell…But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows. So everyone who acknowledges me before men, I also will acknowledge before my Father who is in heaven; but whoever denies me before men, I will also deny before my Father who is in heaven.

- Matthew 10:26-33

The Measure of Your Love

I don’t know where I’m going, but I go there all the time.

I wanted so badly to be understood, to be seen, heard, valued. That’s what love is to me.

I’ve always struggled with attachment issues. I didn’t understand the concept, but I knew that I had problems with abandonment and rejection. I looked it up, read about it. I thought I was cursed, born into an unlucky family. I had very little hope that anything could change. I didn’t know it was also called trauma, and that it was due to emotional and sexual abuse in my childhood. It didn’t help that my parents made me feel like every single bad thought in my head would send me directly to hell. I didn’t understand the meaning of mercy. I couldn’t even imagine that such a thing, or such a one as Jesus, existed.

My self-worth was located somewhere at the bottom of the ocean. My relationships, both professional and romantic have never ended well, they have been what some people would call toxic, due to their transactional nature. Back then I called it love, chemistry, passion, but in retrospect, it was hell. I don’t want to generalize and say that there were no good moments, I still love every single person I’ve been with and been close to. I cherish plenty of beautiful memories, particularly the most painful, because that is what God used to help me grow. I can admit that I was partly to blame. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I also treated each of my ex-boyfriends like an object. I used each of them to fill my needs, without ever considering their needs. To love is to will the good of another. I am just now learning what that means.

I was always very attached to things, to places, to people. I turned them into idols. I pushed God to one side, and I venerated his creation, instead of worshipping the Creator. There’s extreme pain when I do that, it’s mostly because I have a deep sense that I’m not in right relationship to God, that I have stepped outside of his safety and protection, his presence. It’s the most excruciating ache in a place inside me I didn’t even know existed. It was only through the work of the Holy Spirit that I could come back from that hell, and into a new life of true healing and real love.

When I look back at all of my failed attempts at love, what I had believed to be love, they are merely caricatures of what I now perceive and understand to be love: a mystery that is being revealed to me each new day, for that is how the Lord works.

He moves forth patiently, quietly, and does not make a show of it. He moves with confidence, certitude, and grace. He approaches me calmly. He does not pressure me, or demand love from me; he waits, and forgives me for every single time I have turned away from him and tried to take advantage of him. He is just in his love; he teaches me how to value the kind of love that he offers me by drawing a line in the sand with his boundaries, and shows me what is and what isn’t under my control. His purity and perfection humble me. I fall to my knees.

~~~~~~

Lord, you’ve kept a collection of all my secret sighs, of every prayer I’ve uttered, and you don’t categorize or separate them based on feeling, mood, or intention. You don’t trash them or judge them. You keep all my bitter seeds of awkward love as signs of my growing affection, stored away in a sacred closet, unique to me and you.

You found me in the dark, crippled up in fear, hiding from a love I could not at the time comprehend. You took me and let me fall asleep in your shadow, where your glory and brilliance would not destroy me, but close enough that over time, I could get accustomed to your warmth, and learn to trust your smile.

I was brittle and rough, an asteroid looking for something to disrupt, but you caught me, and without gloves you polish me daily, rounding out the edges that protrude into your natural order. With your gentle words, you kiss every scar and zip up every wound.

You watch as I stumble over and over again, on the same stone, on my pride, on my need to prove myself worthy to you; and you don’t take away the stone. Instead, you teach me how to observe it, how to handle its significance and place in my life.

Like a parent watching his child in the playground, when I fall into a crevice, you don’t pull me out. You stand by the ledge, and with your words you help me find the protruding rocks that will lead me up towards you.

I cannot see you, but I know your voice. It comes down to me like snowflakes.

Your love does not seek its own; it seeks those who seek after it, for its own sake. It is self-effacing. It does not boast; it is meek and pure. It does not want to possess, and yet, when I finally accept it, it consumes me whole.

I was made for this: to abide in you, and for you to abide in me.

You predestined a time when it was right and good to open my eyes to the truth; a time for me to shed this skin, this shell I was holed up in for so long. With your Holy Spirit you gave me life, a new mind, a kingdom made of something for which I have no words yet; a kingdom of love, a love such that I don’t fully understand.

I need to stop trying to guess your every move.

You are the one, three in one, the only one I need, and yet you also show up in every person. We are all made in your image, to love and to care for each other. You know me better than I know myself, but I forget you are there sometimes. Help me to pay attention, to put myself aside long enough to put you first in my life. Send me the words you’d like me to write. Show me how I can serve you with the gifts you’ve given me. Make me humble, so I can learn to listen to your voice, and to discern what you want from me. Please throw me off my high horse, like Saul, knock me down so that I can stop jumping to conclusions. Show me how to love you the way that you love me. I give you the reins to my heart, my will. I surrender everything to you. Forgive my anger, my frustration, my reactions, and my resistance to your will, thinking again, as usual, that I know better. Help me to shut up and listen, to be still, and patient. Help me to trust you with my life. As Hannah did with Samuel in the Bible, my mother promised and dedicated my life to you. Take me, Lord. Mold me; shape me into what you want me to be. Here is your servant, listening and ready.

Austin, TX

This Pink House →

I was born into this pink house I call my body. A woman, five foot eight when I look into the mirror. But I’m so much more than these shoulders, these ten fingers and dark eyes. Much more than this subliminal skin. I was given this pink house and was told to fill it; with what, I had no clue.

I was responsible for decorating it: me, the vessel. I didn’t know where to begin. I was a host with no substance. This was a task I did not ask for, a form I did not choose, and yet I had to make something out of this being.

As it always happens, I took on the interests and characteristics of my parents, my family, and the people around me. I painted the inside of this house with all kinds of shades. They gave me a base, translucent: a light layer of truth and wonder, which would then be glazed over by a red layer of the material world: stress, trauma, and constant nightmares. I tried to paint over this with happy splotches of teal and yellow, to try and laugh off the pain. I filled it with eagles, and sunsets, white corral rocks, flamenco shoes and an upright piano.

I tried to plant a garden in my house, a peaceful place, with soft white lights. I didn’t know how to nurture it, so it died off pretty fast. I whispered to it at night, sang lullabies to it in the mornings to see if I could bring these flowers back to life. Not even my tears could do that. I pined for more. I brought in sharp knives and daffodils, Nirvana and Pink Floyd, music videos of dead children floating in the pool. I stuck a needle in my leg, and sewed my mouth shut.

I started doing cocaine. The wallpaper shriveled up in fear. Now divided, this house was a cage of anger and hate, and wasted dreams. It became a toilet where I would waterboard myself every night. Life lost its glimmer. I ran barefoot through the halls, living in a haze of sweat and alcohol. Flies fluttered and found a home inside my throat. I knocked on every door. Not one would open up. I was trapped in a labyrinth of soul. This place was not meant for this. This space yearned for life, a holy breath, but I could not find the source.

I walked blindly through the folds, the flaps of time, the years danced backwards through my mind. I was stuck in a vat, churning for my life. I fainted, passed out naked on the floor, after some drugs made me lose all sense and control. I heard a flicker, a flame whispering through the lies “what are you doing on the floor?” Silence. “You were made for more.” I opened my eyes, got up off the floor, and felt a surge of clarity. What place was this? Look at all the ways I’ve failed to care for what was given me. What was I made for? What is this all about? I had blackened all the walls of this pink house, lurid stains everywhere; I defiled it completely. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. I wanted to go throw myself into the lake. Is this all there is? I could no longer carry this pink burden, this field of bare trees that could not bear any fruit.

I sat in the darkness, looked at the flame. I cried and cried, black tears of tar; the tar swallowed me whole. Frozen, I cried out to you, Lord. I had nowhere else to go; a chain for every thought. I hoped the moonlight would melt me away until there was nothing left of me. A wind swept curling through my toes, it came in at dawn, through the cracks; its fragrance filled my nose. It broke the chains that bound me to this world. You kindled the flame that was already howling inside me. It purged all the fear and the doubts. It pierced through the veil, spliced it straight down, revealing the temple waiting in stillness.

You told me a story, the house that was built upon a rock, a flowing river. Your body is the river inside me. A temple built by God, for God, to worship and glorify you. Dear Lord, you took a house that was rotting, a house that couldn’t stand, and breathed life into it, through that door. You promised a home where I would never be desolate, a haven where I could stay fresh. You filled this vessel with your love, a place where I could worship every moment of the day; a stronghold that will never be destroyed. You told me that I would last forever in you, a promise I keep close to my heart.

I reason and doubt, but you slap me awake and point at the cross, your death and that love that paid the full price. I cry and complain. I scream “I want to bring other things into this house.” You tell me “in time.” You’ve taught me how to make space, and where I can put each thing in its place. With you in the center, I have nothing to fear. The carpet is clean, the walls are all white. The light bursts boldly through the curtain in folds, and time tiptoes gently through the hall. I kneel down to pray. There’s nothing I’d rather be than this temple, the sacred connection between us. You sit on the chair while I tell you my thoughts. You braid all my hair and then sing me to sleep. I walk through your door, with all that is wrong in my soul. You clean up my sores, the blood in my eyes, and you wash all my clothes. I stand naked before you, and shake your hand with full force. You tell me I shine like never before. It’s all thanks to you.

That Still, Small Voice

What ever happened to listening to our conscience?

We all have a still, small voice that calls to us and shows us what’s important. It is a feeling in our gut that tells us when something feels off or doesn’t feel right. Yet, some of us have learned, over time, to bury it, ignore it, and diminish its significance.

When I was a child, my conscience was pretty well developed. I was attuned to that still, small voice and I did my best to pay attention to whatever it was trying to tell me. In my teenage years, it was no longer considered “cool” to listen to your conscience. I noticed that every time I felt some kind of way in my gut, about a situation, I would be faced with peer pressure if I went against the grain or opposed the social norms of the times. So I began to push away that still, small voice, instead of facing the rejection of my peers.

My mother wouldn’t allow me to watch certain movies or listen to certain rock music, and kids made fun of me and bullied me for being a “goody two-shoes.” I very quickly noticed it was not “cool” to read the Bible or be a Christian among my peers. So I slowly began to hide those aspects of my life, and felt ashamed of my love for God, and my attempts to have a good conscience. I started smoking weed and drinking, because it made me seem “mature and rebellious,” which was deemed acceptable. Lying and disobeying my parents was another way I obtained social approval, since it appeared like everyone was doing it. It wasn’t true. I saw other girls getting shamed for not giving in to peer pressure as they fought for their moral standards. I secretly admired them, knowing I didn’t have the courage to do what they were doing, since I craved social acceptance more than integrity.

I was hesitant to do the right thing and defend friends who were getting bullied or mocked, knowing I faced the risk of having everyone else turn against me. Growing up is difficult; my ethics and morals really got tested thanks to my need and desire to be validated and socially accepted into modern society. It is unpopular to be virtuous. Even being a good student was a constant source of teasing for me. Students made fun of me for completing my homework assignments on time and raising my hand to answer the teacher’s questions. It was almost impossible to avoid being mocked or constantly attacked for doing the right thing. Over time I finally decided to sacrifice my values and ethics in exchange for social acceptance. It was a slow erosion of my belief in God that culminated in my total rejection of God as I entered my college years and embraced the freedom and vanity of becoming a young adult. That’s when I developed the skills of keeping the balance, the dance of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; I learned how and when to don the mask, and developed a persona: the wild, crazy party girl that blacked out every weekend, while still trying to keep the real version of me alive: the college student that got all A’s. What I didn’t realize was that the lines were blurring, I no longer knew which was the mask and which was my real self.

Eventually I decided to fully embrace and succumb to the image I had created of myself: the charming drunken artist that everyone seemed to like. My validation and identity was obtained through this persona, but inside I was empty, miserable, and starved for real love. I wanted truth, but I didn’t know where to start looking.

This took me on a long journey I did not expect. In my blindness, I was trying to numb my shame and guilt through alcohol, sex, and drugs. I was trying to push away the shame, and pretend my sins were non-existent. I couldn’t sleep at night because of all the anxiety and paranoia. My drinking and recklessness got worse as my persona and ego grew bigger. At this point, that still, small voice was barely a whisper. It became a sensation I no longer recognized and did not trust. I didn’t know where to turn to for help, I was extremely confused. I considered myself an artist and was continually trying to push the boundaries of what art is. I craved attention and wanted to get some significance and recognition through my art. I discovered performance art and conceptual art. Looking back, the performances I created were rituals of destruction and self-destruction glorifying chaos, danger, and death. I became a narcissist, queen of the weird and the interesting. People told me they admired my strangeness and my ability to not care what people think. It was actually the complete opposite. I adored it, and although I thought I was being authentic, I was really driven to do what I believed people wanted. I was the ultimate people-pleaser, and I didn’t know who I was. My identity was fractured. I was all these different facets of a self, but they felt fake, as if I was really nothing at all. I dragged this fractured self with me, all throughout my twenties, through different countries, and could not escape myself. I could not look at myself in the mirror. The picture of Dorian Gray is real. I lived it.

Photo by Ricardo Castro

I became obsessed with broken glass. I worshipped it because I was like that broken glass lying in pieces on the floor: hopeless. It was so captivating to me, although I knew deep down that broken glass is just trash, I exalted it. I started collecting the pieces I would find, lots of broken mirrors left out on sidewalks and front lawns. I took them home and created a shrine in my room. Only broken mirrors and broken glass were allowed. I placed them under my bed. When a lightbulb broke in my hand, causing me to bleed; I would get turned on by the mixture of blood and broken glass. I often masturbated to the thought and image of broken glass. When I got drunk at the clubs, whenever a glass would break, I would tell everyone to stop dancing, I’d stoop down, pick up the pieces and put them in my mouth. I began doing performances with a rock band where I would dance on a mirror, jump on it to break it, and then eat the broken pieces. At parties, when a glass would break, I’d get down on my knees and pick up anything that was translucent, and put it in my mouth. It was a game I called: Is it ice or glass? My friends thought I was insane and hardcore. Now I was flirting with death, playing a game that I would not win. I performed onstage, sliding knives along my tongue, tying a rope around my neck. People always ask me if my insides ever got cut up while doing any of this. The answer is no, I never did. I know it was a miracle that every single time I did something crazy I somehow survived things that could have easily sent me to the emergency room. I used to tell people “There is some kind of energy that is protecting me when I’m doing this. I can feel this energy keeping me from harm.” The truth is that God was watching out for me each of those times. Deep down, a part of me wanted to die, I probably felt like I deserved death due to all the shame I carried inside. I’m sure many of those times I was hoping that I would die, but God had other plans for me.

Around that time, a few people I knew died. One died of an overdose, another committed suicide, and the third died of AIDS. In his addiction to meth, he chose to go get more drugs instead of showing up to his medical appointment. He died the day after my birthday in 2022; I was in Arkansas doing a performance art festival. It took me a long time to process his death; he was one of my best friends from high school. I then broke my ring finger during a blackout, I still have no idea how it happened. That’s when I decided “I can’t stay in this same spot anymore, if I do, I’m going to end up dead.”

At a film festival, I bumped into my cousin Oscar Avila. He’s been sober almost twelve years now. He didn’t know me very well, but I pointed at him saying “you’re my cousin, your mom is the daughter of _____ and my mom’s mom is her sister!” He didn’t believe me at first, but knew I was right. Here I was with a drink in one hand, and my head hanging backwards out the window, as usual. He didn’t find my antics funny at all; when I asked if he wanted any wine, he told me “No thanks. I’m nine years sober and I’m perfectly fine without a drink.” He meant it; he looked radiant and full of something I did not have. I wanted to find out what was missing from my life, that of which he seemed to have full access. That thing was Jesus Christ. He didn’t tell me that at the time. He did tell me to join him for coffee the following day.

We actually went to a bar, and I ordered a club soda. We talked for a few hours. He told me he had been in rehab, and how much he hurt his family and friends with his addiction. He asked me if I blacked out. “All the time,” I said, proudly. “That’s not normal. Do you try and control how much you drink?” I was shocked, “Yes, in fact I do try and control the amount of drinks I have, and I’ve tried to stop for a few months. It never works.” He then told me about AA and invited me to a meeting. I was horrified and offended, and said “No thank you. I’m not what you think I am.” He tried a few other times. I finally went one evening, and I was disgusted when I saw the word GOD on the wall. I sat there with my arms crossed, fuming. I told myself “What a fool! He thinks I’m an alcoholic.” In reality, I was the real fool. As I sat in the meeting, I heard the word humility for the first time in many years. I forgot what it meant. I listened to the shares and stories, but my pride wouldn’t let me see or admit that I belonged there. I went back the next day, and then the day after that; I’ve been sober ever since. Next month I will be three and a half years sober. I still can’t believe it. The change didn’t happen over night; that’s the beautiful part. It has been a daily choice, paired with a willingness to grow, that has allowed me to change my mind about a lot of things I thought I had already figured out. It was a complete submission to the will of my Creator that ultimately changed my life for the better. Looking back, I fought so hard to keep my persona, I resisted God in so many ways. I still do, on certain days, in my weak moments.

There was even a point when I thought killing myself would be easier than submitting to God. It is a daily battle. He has really chiseled away at my pride, my rebellion, and my heart; but I found the love and comfort that I had been searching for, my entire life, in the arms of Jesus Christ. The validation I was seeking was instantly given to me as a gift when I came to understand the atonement and the significance of what Jesus did on that cross. There are moments that I still can’t wrap my mind around its depth. My anxiety and paranoia have dissipated completely. I found my identity in Christ; he has restored me to wholeness. I am a different person now; a version of myself I hardly recognize: a more loving, honest, and humble version. He has showed me that he has been with me since the very beginning, and that he has never really let go of my hand throughout any of my tribulations. He is in control of everything; my only job is to heed that still, small voice, and trust his timing, his wisdom, and his will.