133: Remember Who You’ve Been

It’s a Tuesday afternoon. As per usual, I’m at my grandparents’ house after school. I slide my math and spelling folders back into my backpack and place my pencils back into their pouch. My homework is finished for the day and now it’s time to play.

I get up from my grandparents’ kitchen table and head into their family room. My sister is already there, seated on the floor with several familiar toys surrounding her. There’s the horse stuffed animal that belonged to my dad when he was a kid; a reversible Jonah and the whale doll; a coin sorter that we both thought was just the coolest; along with a couple wooden nesting dolls. Soon, I’m sure, we will go outside. Or play a card game. Or maybe decide to watch a movie like Wizard of Oz or a couple episodes of Winnie the Pooh {all on VHS, by the way}. But for now, I join my sister on the floor and pick up a nesting doll.

This one is one of my favorites. She is painted in bright, bold colors with a swirling, intricate design. She stands about eight inches tall, but the tiniest version of her—the one tucked most deep inside—is no larger than a sewing thimble. But in order to get to her, there are so many versions, so many layers to unpack. And so the fun begins.

I untwist her outermost layer and reveal the next doll inside. I take her out, untwist again, and reveal the next doll and so on and so forth, continuing to untwist and uncover the next, and the next, and the next until, finally, I reach and unleash that tiny centerpiece. The smallest doll, the tiniest version of her.

I proceed to place each doll side-by-side, largest to smallest. I then imagine all the dolls interacting with one another, having adventures and conversations together, until it’s time to put them back, carefully tucking each of them in again, one-by-one.

I cannot tell you how many times I played with that nesting doll over the years, repeating that same process of play over and over again. The fact that one doll could actually contain seven dolls all at once was fascinating to me. It still kind of is.

And I’ve been considering lately if something similar might be true for us, too.

In her book, You Could Make This Place Beautiful, author and poet Maggie Smith writes,

“How I picture it: We are all nesting dolls, carrying the earlier iterations of ourselves inside. We carry the past inside us. We take ourselves—all of our selves—wherever we go.”

That’s how I’m learning to picture it, too.

From the tiniest, earliest version of me, all the way to the person I am today, and even beyond to the person I’ll continue to become, I’m finding each iteration belongs. Each iteration is connected. And each iteration matters.

That is true. And. I find it isn’t always easy to live in the light of that truth. Because while there are versions I’m glad to carry with me, versions I sometimes even wish I could return to, it’s also true there are versions of myself I’d rather not remember; versions of myself I’d rather not hold onto; versions of myself I’d rather not include.

And yet, if each version is part of the larger whole, well, we can’t pick and choose. Whether we like it or not, each version is integral, pointing to the experiences we’ve been shaped by; each version has played a valuable role in our stories of becoming.

In the context of our faith, we see many examples of this all throughout Scripture. There are certainly people we meet on those pages for only a snippet in time, only getting to see and know one particular version of them. But there are others who stick around. And as we read and follow along, we witness their different iterations unfold.

I think of Moses. The iteration we might initially see or remember is a leader to God’s people as they wandered in the wilderness toward the Promised Land. But as we untwist that iteration,  we find a few different versions of that leader—one who was frustrated, one who was tired, one who trusted, one who was unsure. Continue to untwist, and there’s an advocate standing up to Pharoah, an insecure shepherd by a burning bush, an exile, a murderer, a prince, and even a helpless, tiny baby, floating down the Nile river.

Or I think of Mary, the mother of Jesus. The last iteration of her we find in Scripture is a woman praying with others after Jesus’ ascension and right before the events of Pentecost, very much present for the start of the Church. If we untwist here though, we’ll find a grieving mother at the foot of the cross. Untwist again and there’s a woman at a wedding encouraging and witnessing her son’s first miracle. Untwist again and again and again to find a terrified mother looking for her lost son, a refugee mother fleeing her home with her young family, a brand new mother next to a manger, and a humble young woman plucked from obscurity, hearing news from an angel that would change her life forever.

Moses. Mary. Only two on what could be a very lengthy list, including others like Sarah. Abraham. Jacob. Ruth. David. Esther. Elijah. Peter. Paul. All were like nesting dolls, with previous versions and iterations informing who they would become. Of course, not every version was ideal. Not every version got it right. But every version of each person was seen and known and loved by God. And isn’t it a beautiful thing to consider the same might be true for you and for me?

Here’s how I see it: in order to be who we are, we need to remember who we’ve been. Not in an attempt to cling to the past or go back in time. But as a way to honor and recognize the steady presence of God and the transforming work of God’s spirit within us—version after version. Iteration after iteration. Not giving up. Never letting go. With us every step of the way.

It’s easy to view some versions with contempt, through a lens of judgement or shame. And it’s also easy to view other versions with a sort of nostalgia, with a longing for who we used to be. Like her or not, each iteration—each self—sticks around. And so maybe, part of the invitation here is learning to view each version the way God does—with compassion, imagination, grace, curiosity, hope, and welcome. Understanding that each self was in process, considering the possibility that each self was doing the best she could, and remembering that no part of ourselves is ever lost. The whole of who we are is found and held by God.

So today, as you seek to be who you are, remember who you’ve been. May we learn to welcome and honor each version of ourselves through the lens of God’s love as we seek to live whole, human lives and continue to become the people God calls and invites us to be.