“You may not know who you are but God does. He’s always seeking after you,” he says as I bury my face in his jacket sleeve, barely audible because I’m hyperventilating to the sound of my own vulnerability and admittance of weariness. There has always been something about his understanding silence that gives me the room I need to be honest with myself and God. His fingers pull back a strand of my hair and his eyes search mine— my eyes, the same eyes that refuse to look at him when they’re angry. I don’t know how or why but he still continues to kiss my forehead and hold my hand like I’m brand new and not broken. Over and over again the kisses come until my sobs quell and I come back to him from my hole of self-deprecating thoughts created by my quarter-life identity crisis. “I don’t know who I am still,” I say, “I don’t know what thoughts are my own and what thoughts are everyone else’s because I have no identity.” I am the daughter of a cloud sifter, a pathological liar, and the three-in-one omniscient God. I am a bad sister, an absent friend, an over-worked office manager, a broke a$$ (barely) scraping by student, a voiceless drone, and a wish-I-was-5-pounds-lighter Asian American girl who wants to be anything but. Not everyday ends like this one with these kind of thoughts, but once in a blue moon they come, and when they do, I drain all the color from his American Apparel jacket in his midnight Mazda at the end of my cul de sac. I always feel bad for him for putting up with me and my inability to be a normal functioning human being right up until the moment he smiles at me, that is. Even when my head is hunched over and my hair is covering my swollen eyes, I can feel his breath on my shoulder, praying life back into me. The love he offers me is never his to own; it is from 1 Corinthians, from Jesus himself. Forged by fire rather than man’s sheer will power, it is a love that I trust with my whole heart, a love that gently calls me back to the truth that I am made in God’s image rather than Satan’s lies. And with a love like that, how can I not overcome? How can I not be reminded of God’s goodness through all the confusion? How can I not love him ‘til death do us part? I am nothing but thankful for him, for Jesus, and for tomorrow because surely all things will be made new from these dry bones.