I bow down to the word "finish." It's in big shiny capital letters--FINISH--in my brain right next to "I love my children fiercely" and "God is faithful" and "Creation is stunning" and "Let's take care of the widows and orphans." It's there like it belongs, looking around saying, "What, guys? I'm one of you. I matter. Quit looking at me that way."
If I'm honest, I live most of my days to cross finish lines. Good days are marked by how much I've accomplished, by how much is behind me rather than here, now. I throw these finishes into a pack and show it off (to myself?) at the end of the day as a great and worthy prize. See what you've done! You're really something. And there it is: who I am is suddenly tied up in what I've done. The bigger the pack, the better.
And then a funny thing happens. I put the pack on--proudly, I might add--and am crushed by its weight; it's too much.
That's the moment when I get it: if who I am is tied to what I've done, then I'll be utterly unable to carry that responsibility. I'll always feel guilty that I haven't accomplished more. I'll keep beating myself up for not being enough, doing enough, wanting enough, trying enough. I'll make new finish after new finish so that I feel better about myself. I'll never ever ever finish with all the finishing.
When I can stop long enough to remember that, I get to that beautifully hard place of giving up and giving in to something better. I get to a place of dependence and desperation that I was made for. I get to lay down my heavy load and exchange it for one that's easy and light. Who I am is tied to Whose I am rather than what I do, and there's deep rest there. It is finished.