No, I'm not Tina Turner.

When I was six years old, I went to a party for a young friend. In my little party-favor bag was a keychain that proclaimed, "No, I'm not Tina Turner". This was quite a thoughtful gift because, as you can see from these pictures, many people were mistaking me for Tina Turner, and the keychain would help set them to rights.  

Tina Turner, circa 1984

Beth, age 6 

It was on my house key for years, drawing awkward stares from people who had no intention of confusing me with Tina Turner. 

I was reminded of my honest keychain recently, and it has me thinking about mistaken identity (perhaps of a more believable nature).

I attend an art class for adults. The teacher is a very dear woman, but she has this crazy notion that I am very sophisticated and elegant.  I wonder how her opinion might change if she saw me rushing out the door in the morning, dropping my egg and toast on the patio, picking it up, brushing it off, and eating it anyway. Appearances can be so deceiving.

My husband and I often joke about the proverbial "hall pass" given to those who look like they have it together. If you look squeaky clean and well kept, many will assume that you have got your life in order. On the other hand, those who are a little rough around the edges, have the "wrong" skin or hair, wrong clothes, carry a few extra pounds... well, good luck to them. 

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."  Antoine de Saint-Exupery

But who truly sees with the heart? Who is it that knows us rightly? Who are we, really? 

For those who celebrate Lent, Ash Wednesday was yesterday, and my husband and I went to a night service.  I love these forty days, culminating in the passion week and Resurrection. On Ash Wednesday, Lent begins with the reminder that we are dust, destined to experience death, caught by the curse of sin.

I went forward and received my mark, a cross of ashes on my forehead. The missteps of the week flooded my mind. All these petty, angry, selfish, fearful thoughts and actions played out before me.   Even the good deeds were tinged with pride and self-congratulation.  A slew of failures.

So this is who I am. Dust and Ashes. A piece of clay, full of cracks. 

But the Cross. It is a cross of ashes, a cross for ashes. The cross to save us... because make no mistake, we need saving. We are a compendium of private and public failures, trapped by inevitable death. 

The Cross for ashes. The great love symbol. The symbol of the One who sees with the heart, knows us completely, and loves us anyway.

So this is who I am. Beloved. Sought after. Saved by gracious love.

I place myself beneath the cross, a beggar with nothing to offer, so that I may be filled with Love again. And perhaps then this ash and clay, full of cracks, will show God's glory. 

"But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us." 2 Corinthians 4:7 

I think it's safe to say that no one will ever mistake me for Tina Turner, but maybe, on a very good day, when I have surrendered afresh, someone will see my cracks and mistake me for Christ.