On identity, the miracle(s) of spring

Slobber. Drool. Inching its way down my chin.

My right arm – the one supporting my head as I slept – was covered in it like a worm in panic mode, letting loose the slime.

That’s how I spent a good portion of my early high school years. When I wasn’t skipping class or playing hooky altogether – out in the parking lot with my friends smoking pot for the most part.

“Loser. ” “Failure.” “Washout.” “No-good.”

How could that – and many others – not have been my identity to my teachers?

Then came Christ: a complete about-face in my attitude, my energy, my life.

“Good student.” “Kind.” “Respectful.” “Loving.”

New identities.

Throughout the years, I, like you, have had many.

“Husband.” “Airman.” “Loser” again. (I thought I was as fast as the Flash, but lost many races in high school and during the military squadron’s games.)

“Father.” “Editor.”

Identity after identity, some meaningless, some important, some vital. One always mattered most: Then came Christ. Christian. “In Christ” is mentioned 164 to 170 times, depending on the translation.

“Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God – children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband’s will, but born of God.” – John 1:12-13.

There are identities and there is “the” identity. What’s yours? Only one will truly make all the difference in the world.

Springtime. What’s not to love, right?

My favorite part is watching the plants come back to life. I’m serious. This is a thing with me. With great joy, I lined my pots up after winter (this past Saturday). I look at those brown, dead-looking branches and, with anticipation, examine them every day, just waiting. Wait. Wait. Wait.

Before long, I’ll see green shoots here and there, and then not long after, they’ll form beautiful, healthy green leaves and/or reach full bloom, if applicable. Back from the dead.

My favorites are the stubborn ones. While all around them there’s a flurry of activity, they just remain dormant, silent.

I made the mistake of giving up on them. “That’s it. They’re not coming back.”

Then just when all hoped seemed lost, each one reached its little hand up through the dirt and slowly but surely turned into a miracle.

It always reminds me of faith. Sometimes, as a season of pain and heartache comes, it seems there will never be life again — days, months, years. But then, just as it seems all hope is lost …