You are mine.

At my core, this is the fullness of who I am to Him. And those three words give me more depth than any role I could ever serve.

Last month, I couldn’t find my journal. I have a new one I started in 2024, but this one is the one I kept from 2011-2023. It is thick and bound in ornate green leather — a wedding gift from my grandmother. It has entries from the first years of marriage and motherhood, from several moves and big changes. And it has every poem, song, and journal entry from our hospital years with Sunley — prayers and writings that were too raw and personal for the blog.

And I lost it.

It took me a while to call it “lost.” I hadn’t really torn the house apart yet, but by the end of the month I was starting to worry that maybe I had taken it somewhere, a park or coffee shop, and left it. Maybe someone would return it, but every time I thought about it I got nauseous. The weight of what might be lost forever really stung.

It’s funny that after everything we’ve been through, I never felt or acted like God owed me anything; I never really felt the “Why me” feeling that so many parents do when their kid gets a scary diagnosis. I have plenty of big bad feelings, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve never felt forsaken. But somehow this was the thing that made me utter out loud to Derek, I just don’t think God would let this happen. Surely He’ll bring it back to me.

You might remember a very special voicemail that was lost and then found, so surely this would end with me finding that journal. So I kept looking.

Nothing.

God has been chipping away at my identity harder than normal in the last year or so. There are lots of roles and job titles I have given myself that I didn’t realize have taken up too much space. The Gentle One has been pointing those things out to me.

I am a photographer. And this is good, because I have been able to escort people into parts of His beauty that they may have not otherwise noticed. But my photographs are not what makes me valuable to the Father.

I am a writer. And this is good, because I have been able to allow others to walk with us into the deep waters of the Spirit. But my writing is not what makes me valuable to the Father.

I am a member of the Church. And this is good, because I am an essential part of a large body of believers that each have a unique role. But my church attendance is not what makes me valuable to the Father.

I am a medical mother. And this is good, because I have discovered holy hillsides in battle that reveal the nearness of Holy Spirit. But my advocating as a medical mother is not what makes me valuable to the Father.

I am a mother of healthy children, too. And this is good, because I know the joys and struggles of both healthy and unhealthy mothering, and there are gifts in both. These grow a connection to the Lord. But my meal prepping and trips to the park and homeschooling are not what make me valuable to the Father.

I am a wife in an unbreakable covenant. And this is good, because marriage is both refining as imperfect humans, and a reflection of the bond between Messiah Yeshua and the Church. But the intimate connection I share with this man of God is not what makes me valuable to the Father.

I have a child with an illness — the big kind. And this is good, because my grief has made the veil very thin, even in the everyday mundane spaces; Heaven is RIGHT there. But He tells me that I don’t have to stay in crisis mode to feel the thin veil, because my suffering for His sake — even that — is not what makes me valuable to the Father.

So what then? Abba, what is it that You say about me? What gives me value in Your eyes?

YOU ARE MINE.

YOU HAVE MY EYES.

YOU LOOK LIKE ME.

LET ME SHOW YOU WHAT I LOVE.

YOU ARE MINE.

And from this truth-root, I can grow into all of these roles where He has called me to flourish: Photographer, writer, mother, wife, church-goer, sufferer. I can finally be fully myself in these spaces, because I know that underneath all of those branches is an underground root giving water to every outreach: I AM HIS.

A couple of weeks ago, during some deep and still prayer time with Him, I started imagining myself snuggled up, seated beside Jesus. I was holding a very large, messy stack of loose photos and papers. There were so many that I was really struggling to hold on to all of them. I was aware that what I was holding was all of my mothering memories, good and bad. I wasn’t looking at them or sorting through the written papers, but just holding on, trying to make sure none fell away. I wasn’t particularly stressed out, and I was glad that Jesus was sitting next to me while I tried to keep them gathered. But when I looked up at Him, something in His face and gestures made me realize that He wanted me to give them to Him.

And I realized that if I handed them all to Him, He would be able to neatly stack them all together, and He would still allow me to look at any of them any time I wanted. I can’t explain how I knew all of this, because we didn’t speak to each other. But it was all just known.

I handed him a few, and then a moment later, reached out my hand to test Him. He gave them back.

I sat with that image for the rest of my prayer time and said nothing. He is helping me feel safe in our new hospital-free chapter of life. And moving forward does not mean that anything is lost. He gives me permission to grieve again any time I need. And He will grieve with me. We will look at it together.

What gentleness.

A few days ago, I finally told Derek about my missing journal, and that’s when I said, “I just don’t think God would let this happen.” Funny, considering my prayer time from before. I was still holding on to the papers. I remembered our time together, and then said, “Ya know what? Maybe God is trying to shed a little more of my own built identity. Like, the most intimate and holy words and memories I have — even those I do not NEED to be fully known in Him. Even what is most precious to me is nothing compared to the sufficiency that He is.”

About 3 minutes later, my superhero husband found my journal, in a place I’d already looked.

Message received, Abba.

What gentleness.

I don’t think I understand yet what it looks like to hand You all the papers. Will You teach me? Thank You for grace in my hesitation.