Readers if you didn’t see yesterday’s post, I urge you to read that first as it sets the stage for today’s post. Several of you sent emails, poignant reminders that many experience branding with words, yet, as deep as the wounds, God’s healing is deeper still. Thank you for joining me!
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I touched the top button on my grey sweater self-consciously. It was just about time; time for me to get up and address a group of women at a church retreat. It was Autumn and we were at a lovely camp on the shores of a lake in New England. The crisp air and brilliant reds, oranges, and golds of the leaves were reminders of why the season was so popular with tourists.
I was speaking about three women – A prostitute with a past, a queen with a purpose, and a teen with a pregnancy; Rahab, Esther, and Mary. And yes – I wanted to alliterate. I had prepared long and hard but still felt the butterflies of adrenaline angst in my stomach.
And then I was introduced. I took a deep breath, mouthed a silent prayer and went forward. The talk went without a bump. I felt I was clear, I connected, and I got good feedback. It was later during another talk that I suddenly realized I was still clasping my hands together tight, still had the butterflies, the angst – only it was no longer from adrenaline. What was it? As another woman began to speak on authenticity I suddenly realized why I was not at rest. I was terrified I would be thought a fake. I wasn’t a Bible scholar, at the time I’d done little public speaking, this was the first time I’d ever done something like this with a large group of women. In an instant I was 8 years old and back at my boarding school. I was looking up at a teacher and trying to absorb what she was saying.
I was back at my branding. The branding of a fake. The letter was ‘I’ for Impostor and it was as scarlet as blood, as indelible as black ink.
My tears fell inside my eyes and heart. I willed them stop from spilling over onto my cheeks. “Erase the scarlet letter, take it away” was the prayer so deep I couldn’t voice it. But suddenly I knew I had to. I had to speak out my pain, acknowledge the tape that had replayed over and over in my head since 8 years old. The tape that screamed “You’re an impostor. You’re a fake.” like a screeching song at high volume.
Soon after the woman invited us into an open space of vulnerability and I responded. As I began to speak the angst faded, in its place honesty and clarity. I told the boarding school story, spoke about the branding and how I hadn’t realized how much it had influenced who I was, who I had become. Told of being called a chameleon, an impostor, wishy-washy when I thought I was just seeing and voicing different viewpoints. Acknowledged my fear as I prepared for the talk I had given earlier – fear that I would be discovered as a fraud. And I confessed, confessed to believing the lie instead of claiming truth.
And as I was speaking something remarkable happened. I realized that there was a far deeper brand on my heart, soul, and psyche than any childhood wound. It was the brand of belonging, the stamp of a King on his daughter.
I was God’s. I was not fake to my Creator. I was real, flesh and blood with wounds that needed healing. I was His. No words could or would ever take that away.
The scarlet ‘I’ was erased, in its place the glorious ‘B’ of belonging, a brand on my heart, a seal on my soul. The words of Psalm 139, always sweet to my soul, became sweeter. “My frame was not hidden from him, even when I was made in the secret place; when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. His eyes saw my unformed body and all the days ordained for me were written in his book before one of them came to be.”
Not only was the brand of belonging on my soul, my name was engraved on the palm of his hand, a sure symbol of God’s love and mercy.**
In that one act of honest obedience was a major step of healing.
And so what now? There is indeed a new script written and I walk and live in that new script. A script that looks like Psalm 139 and Isaiah 43. Like so many things, I still have residual effects of living so long with a lie. Those effects are not easy to erase. Next week I’ll talk about moving forward with a new script.