I was turning 13 that day.

It was only two weeks after my grandmother had died. My family–immediate and extended–was still grieving, deeply, the loss of the woman who had been the light in all of our lives. My parents, my aunts and uncle, my cousins. We were still in the fog, the grey, thick air of mourning.

My first great loss, felt in every fiber of my young being.

It was my birthday, that first day of April, and we had planned to drive to a favorite Italian restaurant for dinner with a few of my close friends.

We approached the long polished table. There were too many chairs–far too many chairs–but it didn’t yet register to me that there might be a reason. I pulled out my curved-back seat, the room filled with the murmur of dining guests, and I glanced up.

I saw my uncle, walking in from across the room. Then my cousin. And my aunt. Another cousin, another aunt, a great aunt, another cousin…

My thirteen year old eyes welled up, spilled over.

My entire family–the whole slew of them–had journeyed from their homes throughout Southern California

…for me?

…for me.

Just because they loved me.

I had always known my family loved me. We were a close bunch. But I was always the little cousin, the tagalong, the youngest (for most of our lives) of the girls. It had been a while since I was the little one who demanded the spotlight. I was also on my first day of being thirteen–my self-consciousness dictated I prefer to blend in to the background rather than take center stage. I found myself shocked that I, the one in the denim jumper and white Keds, with the round glasses and waist-length hair, meant enough to these people that they’d make a special trip to celebrate my life… simply because they loved me.

I can still, over ten years later, feel the surprise and overflowing love of that night. It still stirs me at my core.

Because, the truth? I still wrestle with knowing–and believing–that I’m worthy of unconditional, selfless love.

If I don’t do enough, if I can’t be enough, if I can’t look the right way, if I can’t act the right way… I’m not deserving of love. Not from people, not from God.

It’s no secret that God, the ultimate love-giver, and I have had some struggles in the past year. I’ve clung to Him, pushed Him away, questioned Him, believed Him, doubted Him. I’ve crossed my arms, turned my back and stuck out my lower lip at Him.

I want Him, but I don’t. I need Him, but believe I’m strong enough on my own. I adore Him, and I’m angry with Him.

Sometimes all at the same time.

It seems when I have the most doubts, feel the most unworthy, am certain I’m the most unlovable… these are the moments when suddenly, unexpectedly, overwhelmingly, His love steps into the room.

Surprising me, shocking me, shaking me.

A gentle touch, brushing my cheek, whispering, softly,

“I love you, my girl.”

I close my eyes.

I hear You… I think…

His arms encircle me.

“You are loved.“

Yet I resist.

But what are You doing here? It hurts.

“Rest. Trust. I love you.”

I’m still that thirteen year old. Certain my heart is not worthy of such cherishing.

But why? What is there to love in me? I don’t even know what I think of You half the time.

“Look at My eyes. I love you. I LOVE you.”

And my twenty-something eyes well up, spill over.

He loves me.

He loves me so much, He chose to journey, here, to this earth, to show me. He gave more than an evening or a two hour drive–He gave His very life. He chooses to spend the rest of my days–eternally–celebrating the life He gave me. Simply because He loves me.

He loves me.

~~~

He loves you. He loves you.

Do you know it?

Do you believe it? Really believe it?

He loves you.


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