Satisfied With Me

And then comes the second thought.

I have known that God loves me. I’ve even felt it.

But I think I'm realizing something else. 

 

I think that God is satisfied with me.

 

I think that God looks down, from Sinai, from the Holy of Holies, from Heaven, and he sees my frail little body, and my limp and wounded spirit, and He says “I like him”.

That He sees the evidence of my brokenness, the puddles of my fear, the refuse of my rage and envy and lust and He still says “It is good. He is good.”

That He is satisfied with me as I am. As I am. Not for what I could be, or for what I’ll turn out to be once His work is done, but for who I am now. For what I am now.

He likes who I am.

 

And all this work, all this progress, all this straining, it’s not for Him. It’s not to make me into something He can love, to fix all the errors so that He can stand me,

It’s just for me.

Just so that I can live a life that I find richer, that I find better, and fuller and more fulfilling.

More satisfying.

Because He is already satisfied.

 

He saw me when I was just born, blue and wrinkled and screaming, and He liked it. It was good.

He saw me with one fingernail painted, jealously watching my sisters fill out the rest and—it was good.

He saw me young and filled with rage and lashing out, haughty and desperate and—He was satisfied. It was good.

He saw me obsessed with birds and Pokémon.

And it was good.

He saw me crying on the windowsill, desperate for anything, for even one friend,

(it was good)

Still disdainful of all other people, arrogant and afraid and demeaning, glaring with silent contempt from the warm cocoon of my mother’s coat,

And He still loved me.

He was still satisfied.

He saw me trying, clumsy, desperate, with my girlfriend and with film and with my first real crush, and with the future,

And it was good.

And He saw me on the floor, getting bruises on my knees, thinking this was my only chance, desperate for just one night, to be myself and to be free, to let go and for one brief moment unclench—

And Alex was still good.

He is satisfied with me.

 

And I don’t know if I can accept that. 

It terrifies me, it confuses me, it offends me, because I'm not satisfied with me, I don't love me yet, but—

Silently, softly, winkingly,

He’s satisfied with that too.