ebenezer raising...

Last night I was out with some old friends, people who’ve been in my life for quite some time. As is the general nature of such friendships, we’ve grown apart and history often seems the only tie that binds. In an effort to avoid spending the entire night reminiscing about decades-old memories and catching up on mutual acquaintance gossip, conversation awkwardly danced between stories of dates gone awry and lusterless inside jokes.

It didn’t take me long to realize that I was the one from whom secrets had been hidden, the one to whom half the table shot sympathetic “I’m sorry” eyes at the very insinuation of questionable activity. And while I felt suffocated by an old identity at that table, I found an unfamiliar contentment with my own dissention.

That’s been the beauty of the past year. In the most cliché way possible, I’ve been learning to love myself. Though the girls sitting around that table probably wouldn’t believe it, I’ve honed the discernment of saying no, the art of taking care of myself and even the ability to balance leadership and followership. In my weaker moments, I take baby steps, acknowledging that it’s okay to prefer my Americano in a mug, use Suave and diligently compose thank-you notes. In my bolder moments, I can sit at a table of girls discussing the value of getting married in your thirties and affirm that healthy marriages can also be built in your twenties. In my strongest moments, I can cancel a coffee date or forget to return a phone call and know that I’m still a loving, compassionate friend who cares deeply for those she loves.

But I knew I’d be there someday. Even when I used to say “yes” to everything, I knew it was just a reflection of an immature understanding of my values. What I find surprising is that I’m happy. I don’t think I ever expected to be. Perfectionism made me perpetually dissatisfied, unwilling to rest in process. Perhaps what’s most strange is that I’m not doing anything I thought would make me happy. In fact, I’m doing the very things I was convinced would make me miserable – studying Bible and theology, living alone, working in publishing, making my adult life in my hometown. But maybe that’s exactly it… maybe I’ve found that point in life where I’ve realized it’s not my things or my accomplishments that make me happy, but, well, being comfortable in my own skin. It’s this feeling that I’d be happy no matter what my circumstances were, even though I’m grateful for the ones I’ve been given.

I know this is the coming-of-age story, the story of living your twenties in the United States. But for once, I’m glad to be a stereotype, not wishing I were extraordinarily unique. I’m just one more twenty-two-year-old woman, learning from my mistakes, occasionally doing things right the first time and finding pleasure and beauty in the midst of it all.

Here I raise my myself as an Ebenezer… yes, this Beyth will always be for me a symbol of redemption and transformation.