Somebody asked what single sentence captures my identity. Not role. Not title. The anchor underneath all of it.

I am a child of God.

Not because I earned it. Because He chose to adopt me.

You received the Spirit of adoption, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!” — Romans 8:15

Roman adoption wasn’t about rescuing the abandoned. It was about choosing an heir. Deliberate. Irreversible. The adopted person belonged to the household.

That’s what steadies everything.

I can be a leader today and unknown tomorrow. Respected in one room and misunderstood in another. None of it touches the center. The center is already settled.

Despite who I am, God chose to adopt me. Not the polished version. The real one. The broken one.

From that place, roles become stewardship. Leadership becomes service. Words become witness.

Not “look at me.” Just “look at what my Father has done.”