Can you see me?

I realized something this weekend.

I spent much of my childhood and adolescence trying to be invisible. I didn't want people to notice me. In elementary school, I was painfully shy. When it was my turn to read out loud, I would fly through the words--onefishtwofishredfishbluefish--desperate to just get them out, get it over with. Desperate for all eyes to be trained on someone other than me.

In middle school it became a survival instinct. Like an animal in the wild blends in with its surroundings, I too tried to blend in. Fly under the radar. Not call attention to my clumsiness. My awkwardness. My nerdiness.

And on it went. I was pretty good at it. Too good maybe. Because it was in my teen years I realized I couldn't just turn it off. It wasn't like a light switch--now you see me now you don't. I had spent my life blending in, flying under the radar. And now nobody would notice me. I camped at the same summer camp five summers in a row. Yet nobody knew me. Beyond my close ciricle of friends, people knew nothing about me. Sure, they may know my name, may recognize my face. But that's all.

I feel like I'm still fighting it. It's my natural instinct to sink back, observe, blend in. I was reminded of that at church this Sunday. I went to the late service, which I rarely do, and sat by myself, which I usually do. During the greeting time, a couple introduced themselves, asking if this was my first time. I had to tell them that I had been attending this church for a year. In the foyer after the service, I was chatting with one of the kids from my first grade Sunday school class, which I teach during the school year. Her mother stared at me blankly--How do you know my child? she asked. And I had to tell her that I had taught her daughter for nine months.

So, I don't really know what to do. Or if there's anything I even should do. I don't want to be the center of the party.

I just want you to know my name.