Hi. I'm Leah, and I'm a recovering librarian. I am addicted to theoretical organization and order, but in reality, my stuff is everywhere. And I'm ok with that.
My dad, upon learning that his first child was on the way, decided that Obadiah would be a swell name. My mom decided that it would be wiser to get a dog, call him Obadiah, and nip that one in the bud. I don't *think* Dad would've pressed for naming rights when it was discovered that I am a girl, but... Nope. Leah. My mom says they liked the sound of my name. Leah Rebekah. That's me.
Nope. Leah. I don't recall having any positive or negative associations with my name until I heard the account of Leah from the Old Testament. I always identified myself with characters in books. I wanted to be like the demure, beautiful princesses who seemed to float through life in their flowing dresses, gentle curls softly drifting behind them, tiny toes peeking beneath ruffled hems as they danced through meadows, singing with the wildlife. Never angry, never clutzy, always saying the right thing and charming the cufflinks off passing princes, and never, ever sad except in a beautiful, somber way that would cause all the woodland creatures to dry their pearlescent tears with bushy tails. That was who I wanted to be. Nope. Leah.
The Leah of the Bible wasn't beautiful. She charmed the cufflinks very much ON the man who came to live with her family for seven years. It was her younger sister, Rachel, who had mice and birds to dress her in the morning. It was Rachel who had the grace and the beauty, and who won the heart of Jacob. It was Rachel who was worth seven years of farm work. But, at the end of the wedding... Nope. Alas, it was Leah. Alas... Leah. I realized that I wasn't the graceful princess; I was more like the oafish, temperamental, crass scullery maid, from whom the woodland creatures would run and hide. If I tried to dance in a meadow, the flowers would wilt. If I tried to sing with the birds, squirrels would throw things. And the news must've gotten out to the princes, for none of them were passing by, regardless of cufflinks. Nope. Leah.
I always tried to get sick when my story was on the docket in school. Naturally, when a classmate's name is mentioned, everybody turns to look at them, and that classmate prays that they're the good guy in the story, not the one who eats the three little pigs or steals the protagonist's kickball, because you're GONNA hear about it at recess. But I always knew what was coming when my story was told. Leah was unloved. Unlovable. The pictures didn't help. You never had to ask which one was Leah and which was Rachel. The Leah in the pictures and I were actually pretty similar - stick-straight hair that wouldn't hold a curl to save it's life (I wonder if the Biblical Leah endured two home perms that did absolutely nothing, despite going to McDonalds with her hair in rollers?), a large nose (covered in blackheads, no doubt), plain, boring, out-of-fashion clothes (I truly believed red sweatsuits with black Scottie dogs embroidered on them were perfectly fine school wear until 7th grade), and unremarkable features (including eyebrows that could conceal several woodland creatures). Overall, I felt we both had better focus on developing "wonderful personalities."
I'm not saying none of this would have been an issue if I'd had a different name; in high school there were a number of Leahs who seemed complex-free. I wanted my name to conjure the images theirs did: Leah, the self-confident, artistic and cute; Leah, the petite, beautiful and trendy; Leah, the tall, lean and athletic. But I was Leah, the nerdy (this was before "nerdy" became "hipster"... or at least, it never did that for me), quiet, and slightly sweaty.
It wasn't until college that a teacher revealed the other side of the story: Leah's husband never favored her, but God did. God saw that she wasn't loved, and he gave her children. Ah, she thought, NOW my husband will love me more. Nope. *sigh* Leah. More kids? Yay! Now...? It was as if God were saying, "Nope. Leah. I love you. Jacob's an idiot." And that would have to be "enough" for her.
To further engrain The Leah Complex into my psychological development, right around the time this other side of the story was revealed to me, I was falling in love for the first time. I was wary, very wary, because I knew I wasn't the princess with the beautiful hair and perfect manners... or perfect anything. I knew that I was surrounded by stunning young women, who had actual wonderful personalities to boot instead of the crippling insecurities I thought MUST be visible to everyone who saw me. But for some reason, he chose to date me. I was petrified in his presence. I was afraid he'd see the woodland creatures scatter before me. So I didn't let myself out. I tried to be demure and perfect and I denied the existence of anything about myself that didn't fit my idea of ideal. The relationship was crap. He wasn't getting to know me at all. He could sense that something was amiss and therefore couldn't be himself either. So, inevitably, The Worst Thing that could happen to my guarded, walled-off heart happened. We broke up. I loved him, but I couldn't let him know that, not until I was a beautiful princess because I thought that was what he wanted and deserved. And, to top it all off, he started dating another girl, whose name was... Rachel. She was cute. She had great fashion sense. Her hair did what she told it to.
I struggled. A lot. For a year. Until one day I thought about Leah. Unloved by Jacob, loved greatly by God - not because of how she looked or acted, but because of grace. And shouldn't that be enough for me, too? Some days, no, it definitely wasn't. But God still loved me through my "scatter the woodland creatures" moods. He loved me as I made peace with my eyebrows, learned to be comfortable in my skin (and less-than-desirable fashion sense), called a cease-fire on the perms, and even grew into my nose. It took two years, but I gradually came to be comfortable with me as I was made to be, not the me I thought would be most attractive to the world. I had to throw my shoulders back and jut out my chin to say it sometimes, but God loved me, and that was more than I could ever ask for or deserve. I still had to cling to God when I saw That Guy walking arm-in-arm with Rachel. I still had to physically remove myself from windows so I wouldn't be tempted to time them when I knew they were headed out on a walk. I still had to make myself sit in the front of chapel so I wouldn't spend the whole service spying to see if they were holding hands or sharing a hymnal. And I still had to pray for forgiveness and contentment. A lot.
In God's inscrutable time, when I was ready to be Leah, everything changed. I've been married to That Guy for three years now. Our son is waking up in the next room, currently. My husband tells me every day how beautiful I am - and he's always looking in my eyes when he says it, not at my body. I know he thinks I'm physically beautiful, too, but the important thing is that he knows me better than that; he knows who I really, truly am... and he still loves me. The grace of God is reflected in my marriage. I'm a lot like the Biblical Leah: nobody's going to put me on a magazine cover or ask me where I got my shoes; but I am deeply, dearly loved. It's undeserved and sometimes underappreciated, but regardless of whatever other names I might have in this life, I get to carry God's name eternally.
No comments:
Post a Comment