The Voice Who Calls Us Beloved

“I did it! I did it!!”

“Look at me!”

“I can do it! I can do it! Let me…!”

I was sitting on the beach the other day, enjoying a beautiful afternoon by the ocean. It wasn’t too hot, it wasn’t too cool; the breeze was just right. A little distance away, a group of children were playing under the watchful eyes of their mothers, colorful swimsuits bright in neon yellows and pinks and orange, water splashing, squeals a-plenty. I glanced over occasionally, watching their antics, smiling at their delight and joy with being in the water on a warm summer afternoon.

Several minutes into their play, I heard a little boy, about 5 years old, shout loudly “I did it! I did it!” The child’s cry was so filled with joy and confidence, I couldn’t help but look up and smile. He was jumping up and down in the water, thrilled beyond understanding that he had put his head under the water, his smile ear-to-ear wide. The mother, relunctantly drawn away from her conversation with the other mom, looked up, saying with a hint of boredom “That’s nice…” and returned to her friend. His face fell for just a few seconds, disappointment evident in eyes and droop of shoulder; but as is often true in young children - he bounced right back, smile returning (though not quite as bright), and continued to play in the water with his friends. I continued to watch from under the brim of my hat: there was no further trying to put his head under water. My heart broke for a few moments. The opportunity to share joy was lost.

There is something wondrous in the brass-bold confidence of a child that pushes forth to conquer a new thing, whether it’s putting their face into the ocean for the first time, climbing a tree, wielding a bat, or solving a problem. There is a deep wonder in the as-yet-unconquered heart of children who have not lost their sense of adventure and discovery; who see the world - and their lives - as open plains of opportunity.

Sadly, that deep wonder and sun-radiant confidence of childhood rarely makes it to adulthood.

When did we stop shouting aloud “I did it!”? When did we stop demanding “Look at me!”?

When did we stop saying “I can do it, I can do it!”?

When did that refrain of confidence and wonder go silent in our own minds?

Interestingly, when I watched this 5-year-old boy shout aloud his own declaration of achievement, I was reading about a 16 year old girl in North Carolina who, after making her first (beautiful and original) quilt at age 14, has moved onward to designing her own quilt patterns and fabric line, while still making additional quilts - and yes - still attending high school. Her quilting teacher has been so impressed, she gifted the girl with a long-arm machine[1], and is teaching her how to use the thing. With the help of her mother, this girl has started her own design business in tandem with her brother who is preparing for a showing of his first line of drape dresses this coming fall. I imagined that this mother, when asked by her daughter and son “Look at me! I did it!”, did look closely at her children, deep into their hearts, and saw the potential and possibilities for her children. She not only looked, but she poured into their hearts a shared vision of creativity and passion that validated and nurtured their vision for a future filled with what might be possible. I imagine the voice in their heads resounds loudly in technicolor wonder at their achievements, spurning them on to new heights of creativity and delight.

Somewhere along the way in life, many of us have lost that sense of creative wonder. Our refrain “I did it!” falls silent in our struggle to be accepted, in our desire to conform to the expectations and demands of others - whether it is our families, our friends, or society as a whole. Our joyful cries of “look at me!” are silenced by our focus on our perceived failures and shortcomings; we become adults who seek only to be safely invisible, blending into the boring background of the expected, the black-and-white of the everyday world. We come to believe there is nothing special about us, nothing noteworthy, forfeiting our right to joy and wonder found in the creative journey. We come to believe that security is more important than self-expression; that blending in is better than standing out; that conforming in mind and heart is the only way to assure ourselves that we are “ok”.

I believe with all my heart that our biggest problem is that our inner voice has been warped, if not silenced, by the expectations of others, as well as by the disappointments we’ve encountered throughout our lives, ever since we were young children. These disappointments and perceived shortcomings and failures pile up over the years, weighing us down, seeking predominance in our minds and hearts, feeding our doubts and worries with the fruit of our negative expectations.

I know. I know this deeply, in a personal way. It has impeded me in some ways, but not in others; in some ways, I’ve risen above the negative speak in my mind and heart. That’s because, I think, that the wounds that bleed in our souls are always particularly personal, specific to our hearts and minds in ways that wound only us, and often keep us from moving forward in ways that go deep into our souls.

And I’ve also learned something that has been key to shedding that baggage of false expectations, to silencing the the “trash-talk” in my head. I’ve learned not to believe everything I think about me. I’ve learned that in my disappointments, I lie more to myself than to anybody else. I’ve discovered that I wrapped myself in a false-security that I believed kept me safe in a black and white world, only to come to discover that I’d been insulating myself from the risky-joy of living a technicolor life.

How did this come about?

In my seeking for joy, for contentment, for that elusive “other" thing in my life several years ago, I heard that other Voice one day: that One Voice that calls me Beloved; that sweet Voice that knows my name, that whispers it quiet in the innermost, tender places of my soul. I’ve learned to listen to that Voice above all others; and surely above that of my own inner-ramblings. I’ve learned to listen to that Creator-Voice that calls me perfect; that Divine-Voice that loves me exactly as I am, for that is how I am wondrously and marvelously made - bumps, warts and all. I’ve learned not to listen to the lies I often think of myself, but to listen to the Heart-Voice of the One who has loved me from before the beginning of time itself.

Go somewhere and be quiet. Silence the trash-talk in your head. Listen for His Voice, and wait to hear it. Whispered quiet: the soft sound of that Voice calling you Beloved.

And when you hear that Voice? Mountains will move, valleys will shake. Black and white lies will fade to technicolor truth - the truth about ourselves that will redeem and heal, and make you whole.

And that Voice? It will become the only One you’ll want to hear, and you will silence all the others. Especially your own.

[1] A long-arm quilting machine is a very large sewing machine used to sew together the three layers of quilt in various, and often beautiful designs. Most long arm quilting machines are computerized, providing a great variety of designs.