“A little bit older, a little more wise
Thought by now I would have surely arrived
But here in the half light before the dawn
There is a quiet battle raging on . . .
I’m wrestling angels
Trying to find peace of mind
At the crossroads
In a blindfold
Oh, I’m wrestling angels . . .”*
The music was as loud as my car stereo would allow. The windows were down, the sun was setting, and I was on my way. To where, I still wasn’t sure. But I was moving, I was leaving a different life behind, and I was determined to make the most of it.
I didn’t know, of course, that the words of the song I was singing at the top of my lungs would become my mantra, my war cry, my desperate reminder to God – and myself – that whatever it cost me, I wasn’t going to let go until he kept his promise and changed my name.
My given name is Abigail. It’s Hebrew, and it means “fathers rejoice” or “father’s joy,” but although that may have been what people called me, it wasn’t my name.
In reality, my name was Broken, Lost, Lonely, Victimized, and Abused. My name was Not Enough, Unworthy, and Defeated. It was Ugly, it was Angry, it was Bitter, and it was Unforgiven.
I suppose most girls wrestle with insecurity, but my entire existence had been arrested by the ways in which I knew myself to be inferior. Abuse experienced at a young age had taught me the lesson that I was not worth protecting, and Satan and my broken heart did the rest.
I quickly came to understand that I had been abused because I wasn’t worth protecting. I wasn’t worth protecting because I wasn’t pretty enough, or I wasn’t thin enough, or I wasn’t smart enough, or I wasn’t funny enough, or I wasn’t good enough . . . or because I was too good, or too smart, or too . . . you get the picture. It didn’t matter what my parents, my friends, or the truth said.
I knew.
“Well I could fight dirty, or loosen my grip
Create a diversion and give ‘em the slip
But there is a reason for stirring up sand
And I’m staying with it ‘till I understand . . . “
At 19, God dropped me into a world I was unprepared for. At home, I’d been able to be just good enough to keep the voices that screamed the words that named me almost silent. I had my moments, sure. But I learned to be very, very good and the names I heard stayed just beneath the surface. No one knew.
All of a sudden, I was alone in a place where there weren’t any friendly voices. And the unfriendly ones took over. I did everything I could think of to silence them, and for three years I lived as deep in oblivion as I could.
And I wrestled.
Every night, when the party was over and I was alone again, I’d lie in bed, grit my teeth and beg God to remember me. Not to let go. Not to forget that he’d promised me a new name. Not to forget that he’d called me his joy.
It took 7 years and one summer of wrestling. I decided I’d rather have a limp than go on like I had before, so I spent 3 months, every day, writing out scripture. I started in Genesis and made my way to Revelation, and in between I found every single word of love that God had ever put into writing, and I wrote it down myself.
Word by word, line by line, verse by verse. And for three months I wrestled harder than I ever had. Hours went by, and I’d pause, put down my pen and remind God that I wasn’t giving up -- that he’d given me a name, and I was going to claim it or die trying.
You want to know the funny thing? That’s exactly what happened.
I died trying.
All those things that I had been, all those names I had lived under? They died that summer. They died under the weight of his astonishing, bewildering love.
I.
Am.
His.
Joy.
And every time someone hollers my name down the hall or up the stairs, I’m reminded of the years of wrestling, of the blood, sweat, and tears . . . and I’m reminded that it was worth it.
Wherever you are, whatever you do – if you’re wrestling with God, hold on like your life depends on it. It will cost you and you’ll walk forever with a limp, but you will never be the same.
“But it all comes down to motivation
And matters of the heart
And I’m starting to realize the struggle inside
Is a lesson in faith
A blessing of grace . . . “
Abby Stevens :: Weekend Service Producer :: Prairie Lakes Church
*song lyrics to “Wrestling Angels” by Grover Levy
