There are certain things in life that you simply want to know, “has this been used?” A dish. A towel. A car. A t-shirt. A book. Myself. That sloppy feeling in my gut that says some piece of me has been taken solely for the gain of another. Being used feels harsh, icky, degrading and downright unfair. Who would ever want to be used?
These thoughts swarmed my head like pesky mosquitoes, because you see, I did something over the weekend. I decided to stand on stage at church and share “my story.” I’m not a book or anything. I mean, I can’t be pulled off the shelf and opened for the juicy parts just so someone can carelessly tug at my pages and then let me collect dust as they decide whether I’m worth finishing. Yet, I held back the tears, forced breath into my voice and spoke about the darkest parts of my life in front of an audience. It felt right and appropriate. I mean, these people are my family. As much as I despise public speaking and as shameful as it feels exposing my wounds, I combined the two into a makeshift recipe of fear and said the words I thought God wanted me to say.
The next day hit, and I celebrated the fact that the moment was now officially categorized into the past. Over. Done. But, something unexpected bubbled up in my attitude a few hours into the day. My mind wouldn’t leave the past of the prior day. It kept reminding me of the words I shared and how messy my heart looked splattered on that stage for others to ogle. Had I left a chunk of myself in that moment for those people to take? And once they took, what would they do next…throw me to the side? My heart raced and my jaw tensed. I was a mouthpiece on stage being used. How could I have let this happen?
The flash of rage was ignited, and I was on a mission to claim back what was mine, but then I realized, I couldn’t. I could sweep back the words into a dustpan to pretend the floor was clean. The mess had been made, and I’d done it to myself. What the people took was now gone, and I felt robbed.
“I feel so used,” I said out loud. What I didn’t expect was for a voice to respond in my heart. “Yes, you have been.” But this confirmation wasn’t affirming the anger that was welling in my mind. It took my own words and gently reminded me that yes, in fact I was used, but I was used by the One I’d been begging to use me for more years than I can remember. I wasn’t used like a dust rag or used like a library book. I was used by my maker. The one I’d been stretching my arm up to, wiggling my fingers, like a little kid in class begging to be seen by the teacher. I’d been stretching my voice, waiting to be noticed, and when He finally picked me and plopped me on stage to sing his praises, I could barely even remember that I’d asked to serve him at all.
We can go through life feeling depleted by the askers, but as I cringe at the thought that I ever complained of feeling used, I try to bury it with gratitude that he saw fit to bring me off the shelf at all. He knew what he was doing when he coordinated that moment, and he knew the hole I’d feel after I emptied my story. But he’s also the only one who can use me in life and continue adding value to me as the years continue. You see, I don’t depreciate with each mile or lose worth with each act of service. Being used by God comes with a constant replenishing, and well, I’m really not worthy.
