I wonder how many times I’ve asked God to anoint a version of me that He never created.
Whew.
Because apparently, I’ve spent a considerable amount of my adult life developing a personality that can survive just about anything, except the vulnerability required to become who God actually called me to be.
That’s embarrassing.
I’ve prayed for elevation while perfecting my ability to function without assistance. I’ve asked God to use me while quietly establishing terms and conditions for how much access anyone, including Him, gets to have to me.
Independent? Absolutely. Strong? Unfortunately. Emotionally available? Please leave a message after the tone.
Then I found myself sitting with 1 Samuel 16, and suddenly I wasn’t nearly as impressed with myself as I was when I woke up.
In 1 Samuel 16:1, God asks Samuel how long he intends to mourn Saul, considering God has rejected him as king.
Now, what caught my attention wasn’t just Saul’s rejection. It was Samuel’s attachment.
Samuel loved Saul. He had an emotional investment in him. He had anointed him, instructed him, and watched him become king. Yet Saul had repeatedly demonstrated that he was more concerned with preserving his image than obeying God’s instructions.
In 1 Samuel 15, Saul disobeyed God’s command concerning the Amalekites, then attempted to justify his actions. Even after Samuel confronted him, Saul was still concerned about being honored publicly before the elders of Israel (1 Samuel 15:30).
Sir. Your kingdom is being torn away, and you’re worried about your reputation?
The audacity.
Then I realized how often I’ve been more concerned with appearing obedient than actually surrendering.
Oh.
Because Saul wasn’t rejected for being imperfect. He was rejected after persistent disobedience. God had entrusted him with responsibility, but Saul demonstrated that he could not be trusted to steward it faithfully.
And suddenly I had a question I didn’t particularly appreciate.
Can God trust me with what I’m asking Him for, or am I just really good at looking like somebody He can trust?
See, I have spent years learning how to be dependable. How to show up. How to make things happen. How to survive disappointment without letting anybody know how deeply it affected me.
I’ve turned hyper-independence into a personality trait and occasionally mistaken it for spiritual maturity.
The truth is, my independence was born out of necessity.
Losing my parents young taught me that people can disappear from your life without warning. Experiencing hurt from people who were supposed to protect me taught me that needing someone could become a liability.
So I adapted.
I became resourceful. Responsible. Capable. The person who figures it out, even when figuring it out is slowly wearing her down.
I called it strength because calling it fear would have required me to confront it.
And if I’m being painfully transparent, hyper-independence makes me feel safer while simultaneously making me more vulnerable.
Because the person who refuses to need anybody eventually becomes the person who doesn’t know how to receive anything.
Not help. Not correction. Not love. Sometimes not even God’s provision, unless it arrives in packaging that allows me to maintain the illusion that I did it myself.
Imagine praying for God to carry you while refusing to put your bags down.
Girl, pick a struggle.
Then there’s David.
In 1 Samuel 16:7, God tells Samuel that people look at outward appearances, but the Lord looks at the heart.
And I love that God makes this distinction before David ever walks into the room.
Because Jesse presents the sons he believes are qualified. Samuel sees Eliab and initially assumes he must be God’s chosen one.
Everybody is evaluating appearances, while God has already evaluated a heart.
Meanwhile, David is outside tending sheep.
Not networking. Not auditioning. Not campaigning for a promotion he didn’t even know was available.
He was being David.
When Samuel asks whether Jesse has any other sons, Jesse mentions the youngest, who is still keeping the sheep (1 Samuel 16:11).
The boy wasn’t even invited to the original lineup.
And somehow, he was the one God had chosen.
What gets me is that David didn’t abandon his responsibility to pursue his anointing.
He was faithfully stewarding what was already in his hands.
When Samuel anointed him in 1 Samuel 16:13, the Spirit of the Lord came powerfully upon him. Yet David didn’t immediately move into the palace and start rearranging furniture.
He still had growing to do.
His anointing had changed, but his assignment hadn’t immediately changed with it.
And that made me uncomfortable because I have occasionally mistaken being gifted for being ready.
I’ve wanted the responsibility without the development. The platform without the preparation. The oil without the crushing.
I want God to accelerate the process, preferably with overnight shipping, because apparently even my spiritual development has been influenced by Amazon Prime.
Yet David reminds me that being anointed doesn’t exempt me from being developed.
And here’s where I really got my feelings hurt.
I cannot keep asking God to anoint a counterfeit version of myself.
The version that pretends she doesn’t need help. The version that confuses emotional distance with discernment. The version that would rather struggle privately than admit she’s overwhelmed.
The version that can encourage everybody else to trust God while quietly maintaining seventeen contingency plans in case He doesn’t move according to her timeline.
God knows her.
He also knows she’s not the whole me.
And I wonder how much energy I’ve exhausted trying to maintain a version of myself that was designed to protect me rather than reflect Him.
Because the anointing isn’t permission to become somebody else. It’s the empowering presence of the Holy Spirit to fulfill what God has actually assigned me to do.
I keep wanting my oil to work on my disguise.
And my disguise keeps getting in the way.
Which brings me to Drumline.
Because Devon Miles had talent coming out of his ears. That boy could PLAY. He knew it, everybody else knew it, and unfortunately, his attitude knew it too.
Devon was gifted, but he struggled with discipline, humility, and understanding that his ability was supposed to contribute to something bigger than himself.
He wanted to stand out without first learning how to stand together.
And Dr. Lee’s entire philosophy was “one band, one sound.”
Now why did that convict me?
Because I have spent so much time trying to prove that I can function independently that I sometimes forget I was never designed to function independently of God.
I want to be the drum solo.
God is teaching me how to follow the Conductor.
And sometimes my greatest obstacle isn’t a lack of gifting. It’s my insistence on controlling how the gifting gets used.
Devon had to learn that talent didn’t excuse him from discipline.
I have to learn that survival doesn’t excuse me from surrender.
Being capable doesn’t mean I’m called to carry everything. Being strong doesn’t mean I should refuse support. Being anointed doesn’t mean I’m automatically mature enough to steward what I’ve been given.
And being authentic means allowing God access to the parts of me that aren’t nearly as impressive as the ones I willingly show everybody else.
The frightened me. The exhausted me. The me who still expects abandonment. The me who sometimes struggles to believe that depending on someone won’t eventually cost her something.
Especially depending on God.
That’s the part I don’t enjoy admitting.
Because somewhere along the way, I learned to protect myself so well that I started treating surrender like a threat.
Yet David didn’t have to manufacture an identity for God to find him.
He was tending sheep, being faithful, and being himself.
God knew exactly where he was.
And maybe that’s what I’m finally beginning to understand.
I don’t need to become more impressive to be more useful to God.
I need to become more surrendered.
I don’t need to convince Him that I can handle everything.
I need to stop pretending I was ever supposed to.
Saul was more concerned with preserving his position than submitting his heart. David was discovered faithfully tending sheep without knowing a throne was waiting.
And somewhere between those two men, I found myself.
A woman who desperately wants to be used by God, but is still learning that the person she became to survive isn’t necessarily the person she needs to remain to fulfill her assignment.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life protecting a version of myself that God is trying to heal.
I don’t want to be so committed to looking strong that I become unavailable for the very transformation I’ve been praying for.
And I certainly don’t want to be standing in the middle of the field, banging my own drum, wondering why I can’t hear the music.
One band. One sound.
And for once, I don’t need to be the loudest instrument.
I just want to be in tune.
Because maybe the greatest glow up isn’t becoming somebody new.
Maybe it’s finally allowing God to reach the person I’ve been hiding underneath everybody I thought I had to become.
And maybe my oil isn’t missing.
Maybe it’s time I stopped showing up disguised.