Boldness has taken an interesting turn since childhood. As a girl growing up in the desert, being bold meant facing off with the rivers of flash floods. Or when I was in seventh grade, I punched a boy in the face for picking on my brother.
I’m finding I’m not the same girl in my thirties like I was when I was seven or twelve. Somewhere between marriage, entering the work force and motherhood, I became less ardent to risk and clung more to safety. I hung back instead of moving forward. I camouflaged and tried to match magazine covers, only I didn’t realize it. I thought I was bold and brave and strong, until I faced an incredible period of loss, pain and change.
Recently, I found myself sitting my counselor’s office when she posed the question:
“What do you need to do to get the old Heather back. The one who everyone says is strong and bold? She’s still in there.”
I was at a loss. I searched to find her in all the old things I used to be and do, but I came up empty. I had been persuaded that God didn’t care about me. I believed the lie I had nothing else to offer. I was actually afraid to go to God, because I didn’t know what his future held for me. But going to him was the key.
“You’re hiding from me. You’re hiding from yourself,” I hear him whisper. “Be brave, be bold, take courage.”
I smirk and roll my eyes at the God Most High and question, “How am I supposed to do that?”