Who am I?

I was thinking again about who am I and the significance of knowing who I am. If it was necessary or if I was being narcissistic. I was reading John 13 and something caught my eye. The NIV, 2011 version starting in verse 3 reads like this, “Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under his power, and that he had come from God and was returning to God; so he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist.” Jesus knew who he was. He knew the Father had put all things under his power and this allowed him to be secure enough to wash his disciples feet. 

It is not until I know who I am in Christ, that I can be secure enough to reach out to all people. The fear of being exposed will be gone. The fear of vulnerability will disappear. The fear of people realizing I’m a fraud, that I have more fear than faith, will disappear.

God gave me Isaiah 54 over 24 years ago when I was a single teenage parent with two small boys from two different fathers. I didn’t realize I would carry the shame with me for so many years. Even though those two beautiful boys are grown and are amazing in very different ways, I am still walking in that shame.

I feel the chains coming off. The time to step into complete freedom in the knowledge and security of Isaiah 54 and Colossians 2 is now.

A song that is coming to my mind is You Make Me Brave.

Picture by Pearl Schulz.

Picture by Pearl Schulz.



This is a poem I wrote for my poem’s class that I just started. It’s suppose to be referencing a childhood memory.


A pinch and a punch greeted me at the door.

I didn’t care this time.

The winter wind pushed them away.

They couldn’t take away the joy.

I could still feel the fun and giggles washing over me.

Four whole hours of peace

no torment dressed as children to be found.

I entered my house.

My stepmother’s house.

The glow of those wonderful hours

dispelled the darkness in the corners.

I walked up the stairs to see my stepmother standing

arms folded, blocking my path.

The look on her face.

The joy flittered away

I tried to reach out to it

to not let go.

My father sat at the table, head bowed low to the table.

The screaming started

whipping me this way and that.

On my father’s lap I sat

he didn’t mind my snow.

Drip, Drip, Drip was

the staccato beats to her war cry.

The familiar sense of fear, shame and chaos

wrapped around me.

I sat – as my father

making patterns from the swirls on the table.