Creatures, I Give You Yourselves 

Several years ago, I had an enlightening moment with my dental hygienist. During the course of my health history interview, Christy, to whom I was a new patient, gradually pulled out the previous seven years of my life story. “So, you moved to L.A. after having your first son, then when you were pregnant with twins you moved here to Spokane?”  

“Ugnnnhhh,” I assented around her gloved fingers in my mouth.  

“Wow, twins, no wonder you haven’t had time for regular dental checkups,” she said. 

(Sure, that’s the reason . . .) 

 “So, then it was two years after having twins that you found out your daughter was diabetic?” She removed her hands and awaited my reply.   

“Uh-huh . . . and then this past year is when I had my back surgery,” I said with a cringe, knowing how dramatic those years of my life sounded on paper.  

“Wow,” she said as she stuck the X-ray machine in my mouth, “you guys have really had a cool life.” 

What a gift life is. In every bit of its messy glory, life is nothing less than a gift, a kiss on the brow from the Father who adores us. I am learning, ever so slowly, not to wish away the chapters of my story that I didn’t write. I’m learning, as my high school English teacher taught me, never to erase because you never know what can come from the sentences in your story that seem undesirable at first glance.  

I’ve come to realize that many of the most meaningful stories are ones their authors never would have chosen for themselves. That truth echoes throughout this issue of Message of the Open Bible, where story after story reveals God’s beautiful work through circumstances that were anything but easy. If I had erased all the sentences in my own story that caused me discomfort, I would have nothing of consequence left; my life would be a stack of blank sheets of paper. Every uncomfortable moment led to a revelation of reality: who I really was, who God really was, what life was really about.  

I’m learning to press into moments of discomfort instead of run from them, and here’s why: every time I’ve broken through discomfort, there’s been a glory-soaked moment on the other side. The fire, the waves, the wind — they’re all worth it, and we can pass through them knowing that God is both with us and waiting for us on the other side.  

“And now, isn’t it wonderful all the ways in which this distress has goaded you closer to God? You’re more alive, more concerned, more sensitive, more reverent, more human…” (2 Corinthians 7:11 MSG).

We become more human, more fully ourselves after we’ve suffered some. While suffering was never part of God’s original design, He nevertheless uses it to restore us to His original design for us. As suffering draws us closer to Him, we begin to look more like the person He made us to be. Isn’t it incredible that to become “more human” means, in the truest sense, to become more like God? After all, humans were originally created in His image (Genesis 1:26). There could be no greater privilege, no sweeter gift.  

There is a passage in C.S. Lewis’s The Magician’s Nephew when Aslan the lion (the God-character in the story) has just brought to life all of creation, including the formerly “Dumb Beasts” of the land. Once everyone and everything has been awakened to new life, Aslan says something remarkable: “Creatures, I give you yourselves” (p. 118). This line, which incidentally makes me cry every single time, captures it all: our real, God-designed selves were given to us as a gift. Like Aslan, God crafts our lives and presents them to us unapologetically, fully certain of their worth and sufficiency. If He is so certain of this gift’s value, then I pray to be also.  

Aslan reminds his creatures of the shells they came from, cautioning them not to return to those shells, not to forsake the vibrant and authentic life he has blessed them with. Aslan’s reminder has become my prayer. The real life God has gifted me with is worth everything I passed through to obtain it, and I never want to give it up. May I never return to the shell from which I came.  

Here, then, is my life, infused with suffering and joy, kissed by God. This is my story, and I refuse to despise it.  

About the Author

Hannah Bemis currently serves as the editor and director of Message of the Open Bible. She always wanted to do too many things when she grew up, and God has been kind enough to let her do most of them in different seasons. After seasons of mothering, teaching, writing, and staff pastoring, Hannah’s most recent adventure is planting and pastoring College Street Church in Newberg, Oregon, with her husband, Jordan. After Jesus and all her favorite people, she spends the remainder of her passion on pizza and dark chocolate in equal measure.