It was sixth grade when I changed my name and tried to be someone else.
Swapping out the country Tammy for my more “sophisticated” middle Diane and adopted a last name which was never legally mine. Made myself a chameleon and morphed into someone other than my past.
I clothed my life in a new me and tried to wear it by signing off to change with a name.
But ink has a way of fading over time.
And somehow I sought change by amputating a whole childhood I wasn’t to speak about and pretend my life really started somewhere around 10 years old. A rare friend or two would be made between our many family moves and I’d speak of the past like some secret code and only my sister knew the clues.
I was the great pretender. A charade. A mask wearer.
It wasn’t until I gave my past a voice and restored the limb that I could function without overcompensating the lost part. Because that’s what we do when we ignore it.
Try to make the “healthy” parts function without the lesser part in hopes it’ll atrophy and die. Try to build strength in those remaining so we can carry on without such-an-such part. Hope beyond hope others don’t see our limp, our handicap, our disease hidden behind pretending. That’s how we know we’re an amputee.
But when life crumbles, as mine did, the crutches are knocked out. It was when all else failed did I truly gain. When I could no longer hold it all together, compensating every which way but up is when I found Beauty waiting in ashes. There is One who’s a Restorer of limbs, Healer of hearts and souls and He doctored mine.
It’s the way which He pulls us from the soot of life and makes it beautiful in ways only He can. When Truth comes to set us free, from the lineage of a prostitute, a murderer, a destitute foreigner and He records them, history and all. No apologies. And He not only makes our stories whole but He makes them good.
By Tammy, if meadows speakLeave a Comment