Am I enough? Those words rattle round my empty heart again. Afraid to make direct eye contact with him, I barely whisper it, my gaze fixed firmly on my squirming toes. “Am I enough?”
I make a mental list of all the things I’ve done for him, little sacrifices here and there that surely must have pleased him. I number the moments when I put others first, was kind when I could have been curt, kept going when I just wanted to climb into bed and sleep for a month. Then in my best hand writing I drew up the details and coyly handed it to him. Was I enough now? No sooner had the list left my hand when another list, one penned in darker colours, smudged at the corners where tears and ink had met, tumbled out. This list contained the items I had tried to hide, my moments of rage, jealousy, bitterness, barrenness. It itemised all of the poor motivation behind every good action on list 1. It taunted me with additional illustrations of my unopened Bible and cobwebbed prayer closet. It pushed me over the edge. I snatched the first list from his hands, stuffed it in my pocket and with a flushed face took back my question. “Never mind.” I said as I stumbled away. Deep in my heart I knew the answer. I would never be enough.
So I marched back to try harder, read more, pray more passionately, serve well past the point of exhaustion. If it was possible to please him, please God, I would do it or die trying.
If only I had looked into his eyes that day, the day I plucked up the courage to present the deep concern of my heart to him. Had I lifted my awkward gaze long enough to take in his beautiful face, I may have noticed that he wasn’t looking at my list, either of them in fact. He was looking at me. Searching through the fog of my confusion, doubt, inadequacy… searching for me.
Had I waited for his reply I would have found the answer to my question was in fact another question as he tenderly drew me close and simply asked, “Sweetheart am I enough?”
“Abba what do you mean?” I recoil in horror. “You are more than enough. I’m not worthy to be in this room with you, I couldn’t earn a place in your backyard let alone a seat at your table. Why would you ask me such a ludicrous thing?”
“Sweetheart am I perfect in all of my ways?” He fixes his eyes firmly on mine so I cannot run.
I’m stiller now, “Yes Abba.”
“Have I been faithful?”
“Did I call you?”
“Do I make mistakes?”
“Have I promised you a love that will not let you go?”
“Can I be trusted?”
I pause. Knowing that all of the questions really hinge on this one answer. I find the courage to look at him, really look at him, search him out for any hint of lack. Can he be trusted? One glimpse tells me I am sure that he can.
“Then you are asking the wrong question darling. The question is not are you enough, it is am I enough? The moment that you understand that I am, all of your feelings of inadequacy, your striving to please me, will be swept away in a torrent of my sufficiency. I’m not asking you to be enough, I never have. I am simply asking you to be mine. I am enough.”
I breath deeply, rest in his strong grip, as he sings over me a lullaby of grace. He is enough. He is enough. He is enough.