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Before I was “officially” saved, I required a lot of evidence that Jesus was the Son of God. Even after God rescued me in my dorm room the fall of my freshman year, I still sought out books and arguments that supported my feeble faith. I felt I needed to be certain that God was the One True God before I was going to give my life over to Him.

I have an old, fading snapshot sitting on my desk. Not sure how it got there. It’s a three inch by three inch picture from a long-ago December in 1969. I was thirteen, and my family was visiting relatives in Florida over our Christmas break. My aunt, uncle, and two of my cousins are standing outside the door of their home. It’s a family photo I’ve gazed at now and then throughout the years. But today I looked at it and spied something I don’t believe I’d noticed before. My older sister Nina (eighteen) stands on the far left of the photo camouflaged by trees behind her, a few branches in front of her, and the shadow of leaves on her and the house to her right. (She probably thought she was far enough away to be outside the picture). What adds to the camouflage is her white sweater against the white of the house, dark slacks that fade into the shadows near her feet, and dark glasses.

My husband proposed twenty years ago this May, on the day I graduated from college. We went to dinner together at the Macaroni Grille to celebrate my brand-new degree, and then, with my leftovers tucked neatly at my feet, we headed towards his parents’ house.

But instead of turning onto their street, he asked, “Want to go for a walk?”

We needed a new sofa.

Affectionately referred to as our “counseling couch,” it drew people together in a most unusual way. No matter how far apart two people placed themselves as they sat down, they’d be side-by-side in close quarters shortly thereafter.

Its springs had sprung.

Our thoughts are like Post-it notes we carry around in our pockets. We walk around labeling everything we see, beginning with ourselves. Too fat, too thin, too loud, too quiet, too much, not enough. Post-it after Post-it, we categorize, classify, and catalog. It’s exhausting because we believe the words on our Post-its have the final say when, in fact, they are simply our thoughts.

You know the scenario well. You’ve worked, chased kids, shopped, cleaned, and cooked. Now you’re ready to collapse into bed. Barely able to hold your eyes open, you long for the moment when blessed sleep will carry you away. If all goes as planned, in seven or eight hours, you’ll awaken refreshed and ready to face a new day.

“I don’t believe in God anymore, and I don’t want to be married anymore.”

Those fourteen words from my husband’s mouth completely changed the trajectory of my life. They exploded my life and made divorce a part of my story—something I never thought would happen. Yet, there I was, twenty-three and fighting desperately for a marriage that was slipping through my fingers.

There is a lot to be said about “authenticity.”

As a burn survivor, this word has taken on profound meaning in my life. I have learned, through personal experience, that one’s true identity is buried within the idea of authenticity. The freedom that comes from living an authentic life oftentimes leads us to our purpose.