My Mom, A Tale of Two Cities, and Hephzibah

"'Did you ask me for my name?'

'Assuredly I did.'

'One Hundred and Five, North Tower.'"
- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

My mom didn't like me.

Barely, a month after her death, as I grieve her loss, that's an extremely painful thing to admit, but the fact remains: my mom didn't like me, and couldn't believe that anyone else would, either.

I'm not going to delve into the manifold ways my mom let me know she didn't like me, and that no one else should, either. All that matters is that she didn't, and I knew it from my early teens through my mid-twenties.

She softened with her ALS diagnosis, and I think maybe she liked me a little bit the last few years, though I couldn't begin to tell you why that should have made any difference. I'd forgiven her, anyway: her mother wasn't kind to her, and I'd wager her mother (or stepmother) before her wasn't, either.

Still, the damage was done: my mom didn't like me, and neither should anyone else.

A few Sundays ago, I was serving with someone, and at the end of our time together, she said to me as she gave me a hug, "You are a delight. Such a joy."

I thanked her, but I was thinking, You clearly don't know me at all.

When my office wrote a complimentary post about me on Facebook on Employee Appreciation Day a few weeks ago, I dismissed it with this thought: They're just trying to make me feel better because my mom just died.

I think anyone who speaks well of me is being disingenuous, because how could anyone who knows me think anything good about me?

My mom should have at least had the claim of knowing me better than anyone, and she certainly didn't think highly of me.

Someone challenged that thought last week: "God knows you best."

Every couple of years, I read A Tale of Two Cities over Lent. I think out of all Dickens' work it contains the most overtly Christian themes, paticularly those of restoration and laying down one's life for another.

The exchange I quoted at the beginning of this post is between Dr. Manette, recently released from prison, where he has been held for several years, and Mr. Jarvis Lorry, an associate committed to his recovery. Dr. Manette believes his name is the cell where he was held: One Hundred and Five, North Tower.

It hit me as I read that I am going by the name of a prison cell where I've been held, too: tolerable. Unlikeable, and loved only by those who must love me out of obligation to family or spiritual ties.

There's God, of course, but He loves everyone, including me, and He's God, of course, so I don't believe it's a challenge for Him to love anyone, not even me.

But no one wants to be around me. No one enjoys me. Certainly no one gets excited about me.

This is what I believe. I've believed it for years.

And it's a lie.

With the challenge that God knows me best, I was also encouraged to begin not only seeking out what God says about me, but soaking it in.

The Holy Spirit reminded me of a verse, a name highlighted for me last summer: "You will be called Hephzibah...for the LORD will take delight in you ... [As] a bridegroom rejoices over his bride, so will your God rejoice over you" (Isaiah 64:4-5 NIV).

God doesn't just love me in a generic way; He delights in me.

I've studied that word ... delight ... and its Hebrew origins this week to aid in the saturation of this truth.

It's difficult to reconcile, but I know if I don't receive His delight first, I will never receive it from anyone else, so I will keep coming back to it, keep coming back to Him.

He delights in me.

He delights in me.

He delights in me.

He delights in me.

"Lord, help my unbelief."