There’s a phrase that has lived in my body for as long as I can remember: “There you are.”
Before I had language or memory I believe I looked up at my parents exclaiming “There you are!”, hoping that when I did, someone would look back — with delight, warmth, and a smile that said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
And I know sometimes that’s exactly what I saw. I can imagine my body felt open and light.
But what that phrase felt like for me changed over time.
When “There you are” Became Heavy
As I got older, especially with my dad, sometimes I felt disinterest. disappointment. Or dismissal when we saw each other.
My chest felt heavy. My expression went flat. And slowly, quietly, I became certain of something: “I’m not enough.”
And when a child reaches that conclusion, they don’t usually say it out loud. They adapt.
A question formed in me — not consciously at first, but reflexively: “Who do you need me to be?”
And suddenly, when someone looked at me and said, “There you are,” my stomach dropped.
Because now that phrase didn’t feel like delight. It felt like pressure.
Did I guess right? Am I enough for you today? Can I pull this off?
That question followed me everywhere. At church. At school. In friendships.
I learned how to read a room quickly. I learned how to smile when it was expected. I learned how to stay quiet when my presence felt inconvenient. I didn’t disappear. But I did edit myself.
And that question — Who do you need me to be? — ran my life for years.
“Here I am.”
Everything began to change when someone finally asked me a different question.
Not what have you done? Not what’s wrong with you? But simply: “Who are you?”
It was my 12-step sponsor. His tone wasn’t harsh or suspicious. It was patient. Curious. Kind. And for the first time, I told the truth. Not the cleaned-up version. Not the spiritual résumé. The real story.
The hurt. The confusion. The shame. The parts of me I thought made me unlovable.
He didn’t rush me. He didn’t try to fix me. He made room.
And in that space, I used my voice to say something new: Here I am.”
Not polished. Not impressive.
And the more I practiced that — the more grounded I became.
I stopped rushing to fill silence. I stopped performing masculinity that wasn’t mine. I stopped assuming I had to earn my place.
My presence started to feel like enough. And that changed how I heard God.
God’s “There you are”
For most of my life, I imagined God looking at me with a checklist.
How have you disappointed me?
What have you done for me lately?
But as I learned to say “Here I am,” I started hearing God say something different.
“Oh, there you are.” Not with suspicion. With affection. Not as evaluation. As invitation.
And then something really cool happened. I stopped asking Who do you need me to be?
I started saying “There you are” to other people, just the way God was saying it to me.
And it felt different in my body. Expansive. Curious. Joyful.
I didn’t feel intimidated. I didn’t feel superior. I felt present.
I could collaborate instead of compete. Listen instead of perform. Enjoy instead of manage.
I learned that in Christ, I am enough. not because I try harder — but because I am known and loved.
The Gospel
I believe that from the beginning of time, this has always been God’s posture. When Adam and Eve hid in shame, God went looking. Not to crush them. But to cover them.
“Where are you?” wasn’t accusation — it was pursuit.
And when Jesus walked the earth, people didn’t feel analyzed by Him. They felt seen.
When people came to Him in faith, His posture was always recognition. There you are.
And He went to the cross not just to forgive sin — but to restore relationship when we put our love and trust in Him.
So that for eternity, God can look at us with love and say: There you are. And we can say the same in return, in worship.
Cd to be. You are defined by the One who calls you His — and He looks upon you will love, exclaiming “There you are!”