I am eight years old. Sun streams through the tall windows of Washington Elementary School and I can feel the crimson creeping up my neck and blossoming onto my cheeks. There are few things that can embarass me. I am used to being poked fun at by my classmates. I am a hopelessly tiny, forever daydreaming, incredibly clumsy and double-jointed. I read voraciously, sing loudly and am sometimes bossy. However, in an instant, one thing can bring me to tears in the middle of any classroom: I can't do math.
I am supposed to be a smart kid. This is who I am. It has already, at such an early age, become an integral part of my identity- an identity that is rooted in the approval of others. I need other people to approve of me. I have no idea how to gain the approval of my peers and have sufficiently exhausted my attempts, thwarted by my own eccentricities. And so, I need, desperately need, the teacher to approve of me.
We are playing around the world with multiplication tables. Each student has to answer. The boy in front of me answers correctly and progresses, standing closely beside my desk. I want to crawl inside.
Years have passed. I have learned that I am okay, whether or not I can finish a times-table test. I have learned that my value rests in the love of One who cannot help but love me regardless of how I perform. I have learned that all of the numbers in the world can never add up to the love has been given to me freely.
I am twenty-seven. Sun shines through the wide windows of Ashland Theological Seminary as I sit in my professor's office and explain to him that I am having a very hard time with the numbers. I am learning Hebrew and the numbers aren't sticking. I have more to say. I confess that I feel like I'm eight again. I still struggle with needing approval. I am telling him so that it's on the table. I am exposing my weakness, bringing it to the light, so that it can cease to fester and grow. He smiles, walks across the room and begins to pray.
"O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.
O light that followest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.
O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.
O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be."
O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go
by George Matheson, 1882
2 comments:
That is a wonderful story, friend. I am delighted that your professor would pray for you. :-) Such a foreign concept to me--so often in my classes, I see how we are hopelessly going around and around trying to solve problems and talk about everything without mentioning even the possibility of the God without whom this world cannot hope to cohere. Hope you are enjoying your new apartment and that I'll talk to you soon.
what a great reaction to this confession.
I have always been terrible at math as well. It was(is) hard to feel stupid, I can relate.
Post a Comment