Identity.

I remember the exact moment I decided I was a runner. It was a Saturday in late October, and I in my brand new running jacket, when out for an 8 miler. It was barely 40 degrees and the rain was trickling out of the sky, allowing my bangs to absorb the moisture until they simply couldn't take it anymore and began to drip cold rain drops on my nose. The wind was bitter on the lakefront, and for one of the first times in my running experience, the shore line wasn't beautiful. The clouds looked angry and ominous, falling closer to the ground, threatening to make me blind as my visibility dropped to only inches in front of my face.
Four miles in, I smiled between heavy breaths and thought this was a beautiful way to spend an ugly morning. I looked at my feet extending one in front of the other and told myself today I was not just a girl out for a run, but I was a runner.
That day in late October, I allowed myself to be identified. To put myself in a category and to embrace it warmly.
To be fair, others had called me a runner for months, but a label only matters when you accept it.

Over the course of my brief life, I have chosen to be called any number of things. I am a teacher's pet, an honors student, a speech nerd, a math geek, a Bible school student. I am an RA, a nanny, a librarian and a barista. I am cute. I am intellectually inclined, vintagely appareled, and utterly un-athletic.

So when my identity is wrapped up in the things I do or the people I see, it is possible for me to lose myself entirely.

16 days ago, I went to the hospital with immense pain in my lower back. After a few tests were run, I was diagnosed with a herniated disc and an inflamed SI joint. I would recover without surgery, but I would forever need to modify my lifestyle. There would be no more carelessly lifting children or quickly grabbing gallons of milk at a coffee shop. There would be significantly fewer runs, and even fewer on the concrete lakeshore path that I had grown to love. I was also warned that it might be several months before I could even go for a light, short jog. I would not be able to decorate my floor unassisted. Not be able to enroll in dance classes. Unable to even unpack my own boxes in order to move from one place to the next. Who I was – the things that I did – were taken from me.

For that, God was to blame. It was his fault that this happened so abruptly. His fault that I could not be who I was designed to be. I was hurt and angry and had no one to blame but God and my father's bad genes.

My floor theme for this coming year is all about identity and being complete. At first I explained it as the need for women to be independent. The idea that they deserved to be their own person. A woman needed to have an identity apart from who they might be, and embrace who they are.

It sounded more like a self-help book than a Christian dorm theme.

After my disc herniation, I hobbled my way into my parents' glamorous church for Celebration Sunday. The pastor preached no sermon, and we sung few hymns. The short service consisted mostly of recognizing the growth of the church and the way that congregation had learned to love others. In between clapping for new baptisms and mission trips, the pastor would read Bible verses that seemed unconnected.

Annoyed by the lack of context, I began looking up the verses for myself.  One absorbed my attention. John 15:5 -- [Jesus speaking] "I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing."
Verse 6 continues the thought -- "If anyone does not remain in me, he is like a branch that is thrown away and withers; such branches are picked up, thrown into the fire, and burned."

In the winter, branches on the tree look about the same as branches off the tree. Both have leaves that have withered away. Both are barren and ugly. For those who abide, they are not granted constant foilage; they must sit for a season cloaked in ice and being threatened with death. Before they can produce new leaves and begin to bear fruit, they must remain empty.

It may be August, but I am in the middle of winter. I have remained barren long enough and begun to grab a hot glue gun and bedazzle my tree. I have started to add my own beauty to my life and started to give it new meaning and purpose. One shiny red gem for my great ability to make A's. A blue one for my stellar job as a barista, and a huge pink stone for my impeccable gift of leading in a posture of humility.

My branch glistens in the sun and anyone who walks through this forest, will see me standing out in the dead of winter.

The problem is, my branch is so heavy with these plastic jewels, that its starting to break away from its source. Worse yet, even if I could cling on until Spring, there is no room for me to blossom. I have no space for fruit. No availability for God to produce in me something new and beautiful. When Spring comes, I will be the one without leaves. The one that looks misplaced, that has failed to be naturally beautiful.

You see, God has a plan for my life. He has a way he wants to use me, and it requires me placing my identity in him. It requires that I be who he desires me to be, and not some cheap flashy product that no longer resembles the tree.

In order for me to grow, I need to pull off what makes me who I am and allow myself to be barren and empty and open for God to produce new fruit.  The problem is, I am not strong enough to detach these things from me on my own. Problem is, I like my gems. I know they are worthless. I know that being a good RA isn't all I'm supposed to be. It may be something that is true of me, but it is not who I am. The same is true of my extracurriculars, of my workout habit, of the clothes that I wear. Truth is, I like who I've made myself into.

Sometimes, when I'm really honest, I tell God that. I tell him that I know that who he wants me to be is better than anything I have for myself. I tell him that I trust that he will use me for his glory and my good.  But, with tears trickling down my cheeks, I tell him I'm not willing to be that person yet. I tell him that I'm pretty comfortable right here.

Sometimes, God helps me out, and not always very gently. When I herniated my disc, God was making it easier for me to let go of my false identity. He took a razor blade and removed all that was flashy from my branch, and left me exposed, bark and gems removed. Laying on the couch, unable to even tie my shoes, God asked me to remain empty for a while.

You see, the thing about winter is that it prepares you for Spring. If we didn't have a season with nothing, we wouldn't be able to grow anew. We'd be left with rotting apples hanging from our branches, stifled from new growth. Right now, I feel more vulnerable and removed from God than I have in a long time. But truth is, in this period of unknown, in this longing for purpose, God is preparing me to be a new creation. He's allowing me to start over in forming my identity.

I have a choice. I can choose to be a model student, a fantastic RA, a dutiful librarian. Or, I can choose to be a child of God, redeemed by the blood of the Cross, who has been given abounding grace and mercy from the Father so that he may perform a good work in me – one who just happens to be an RA and work at a library and loves school.  It is less about what I do, and more about what I identify myself as. Right now, as hard as it, I'm working on abiding in Christ and letting myself be His.

I am a work in progress, a sculpture being modeled by the Father.

Who are you?