As a quiet child, I watched carefully and made an inward vow: I will never be like my extended family.  I could sense what mattered most to many of them. They wanted to be admired. They had to know more than anyone else in the room, to be right, to have the last word. They loved being clever, entertaining, unforgettable. They took pride in owning the nicest car, the most manicured yard, and they were quick to measure those who did not meet their standards.

But pride is subtle. It can dress itself in silence just as easily as in showmanship. So I began shaping myself in opposition to what I saw. I withheld my opinions, even when I knew the answer. I squirmed in  the spotlight, not wanting to resemble those who seemed so hungry for it. I avoided arguments, not always because I was humble, but because I wanted no part in competing. I spent much of my childhood observing but I was still carefully constructing a self-image.

It would take many years for me to realize that I did not need to become like the relatives I feared, nor did I need to define myself by resisting them. Both postures kept me preoccupied with myself. Jesus was inviting me into death and resurrection, the kind that frees a person from both self-display and self-protection.

Jesus did not come to be admired in the way the world understands it. He did not need to dominate a room, prove His brilliance, or shame others with His wisdom. He came to call sinners home, to forgive the repentant, and to pour Himself out without vanity. He was strong without self-promotion and full of authority without the slightest trace of ego.

That is the life I want. Not loud, and not merely quiet. Not showy and not self-consciously restrained. Just free to be like the One who captivates me.

Shine through me like light through a window. Consume what is false, weak, and self-made. Amen