Unveiling Light

I painted a story. I’ve always had light in me—a potential to shine. I remember being a little girl, skipping down the sidewalk in my community, bursting with joy every day. Every year on my birthday they sang me a song called “Bubble of Joy.” I was bubbly. I was always talking, laughing, skipping, dancing, and making silly faces. My light shone so brightly, and I had no inhibitions.

One day I was skipping down the sidewalk when my Uncle John was walking in the opposite direction and passed me by. His approach didn’t slow my joyful, tiptoed feet at all. Later that day at church (we had church every day), he made an announcement: my infectious spirit of joy had healed his back pain—something he had been battling for a while. I was mortified to be put on the spot, but that moment did stick with me. Could I really have that big an impact just by being myself?

As I grew, my light dimmed. The big moments of praise for my light were drowned out by moments of judgment—some from others, plenty from myself. People called me “chatterbox” and “buck-tooth.” My teeth weren’t bucked (just a wide gap), but the teasing burrowed deep in my mind and played on repeat like a broken record. Those were small things, but I let them fester. I fed them in my mind until they swelled way out of proportion. Little splinters that I treated like the whole truth, big enough to eclipse the good. The irony is that the thing they mocked was my mouth, and little by little I stopped using my authentic voice. There were still beautiful moments, like with my beloved uncle, but I kept making minor judgments massive, and they started to overtake my light. I even asked for prayer to make me talk less when I was about eleven. I wish I could remember the prayer that followed, but now, as an adult, I imagine praying that little girl would learn to love herself.

Over time my light felt unfamiliar, then missing. I filled the void with things that weren’t good for me. I became rebellious and reckless.

It took me well into my twenties, through divorce, letting go of almost everything, and starting over, to realize there had never been anything wrong with that little girl whose skipping supposedly healed her uncle. The girl whose ears perked up and whose heart sat wide open as “Bubble of Joy” poured over her and amplified who she already was.

I’ve told my adult story before: I rebuilt. I searched for my light. And I found it. I found the light I had as a child and planted it again in myself. Now look at me. Shining bright and unashamed, proud of who I always was but neglected for so long.

So I want to encourage you: take a hard look at yourself. Ask, “Do I recognize the person in the mirror? Have I lost or neglected my light because of shame or because I amplified my perceived flaws?” Find the light inside you again. Re-plant it. Feed it. Live it. Be it. It misses you. And it’s your time to shine.