What’s Underneath the Layers

I’ve been sanding cabinet doors for my classroom.

I thought it was going to be a pretty simple project.

As I was looking around my classroom, trying to figure out what needed to be done before school starts, I noticed that the cabinets had some pretty decent contact paper on them. But when I looked a little closer, I could see something coming through the white.

I thought, I can fix that.

So I decided to peel everything off, bring the doors home, sand them down, and repaint them.

Simple, right?

Well… not exactly.

As I started sanding one of the doors, I discovered there were layers.

And layers.

And more layers.

First, I saw the white.

Then underneath that was beige.

Then I found a dark blue.

Then a pinkish-purple.

And eventually, I started getting down to the actual wood.

And I stopped for a minute.

Because underneath all those layers was something really pretty.

The wood was smooth. It had its own natural beauty. It wasn’t perfect, but honestly, I liked it.

There were a few little holes here and there. I’m guessing someone had screwed something into the door at some point to hang a sign or a poster.

But those didn’t bother me.

A little wood putty.

Let it dry.

Sand it down.

Keep going.

And as I sat there sanding that door, I started thinking about people.

About how much we are like that cabinet door.

We collect layers.

Some of them are good.

Some aren’t.

Some layers come from things we’ve chosen.

Some come from things other people have said or done.

Some come from disappointments.

Some come from rejection.

Some come from comparison.

Some come from mistakes.

And sometimes we put the layers there ourselves because we don’t want anyone to see what’s underneath.

We want to look like we have it all together.

We want people to think we’re confident when we’re really insecure.

We want to look strong when we’re actually hurting.

We want to appear successful when inside we’re wondering if we’re enough.

So we add another layer.

And another.

And eventually, we can forget what was underneath all of it.

That’s what really got me.

The wood was there the whole time.

All those colors had covered it, but they hadn’t changed what it was.

And I couldn’t help but think about how often we allow the world to do the same thing to us.

We let comparison tell us we’re not pretty enough.

We let someone’s words convince us we’re not smart enough.

We let a mistake become our identity.

We let rejection convince us we’re unlovable.

We look at someone else’s life and wonder why ours doesn’t look like theirs.

And especially when I think about our girls, this breaks my heart.

Because they are growing up in a world that constantly tells them who they should be, what they should look like, what they should have, and how they should measure up.

And somewhere along the way, they can begin believing that God got it wrong.

That maybe they would be more valuable if they looked different.

If they were thinner.

If they were prettier.

If their hair looked like hers.

If their life looked like someone else’s.

And that’s when I think about Psalm 139.

“For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.”

Psalm 139:13–14

Read those words slowly.

You created me.

You knit me together.

I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

There is intention in those words.

God didn’t accidentally make you.

He didn’t look at you and think, Well, I guess that will have to do.

He knew you before anyone else ever had an opinion about you.

Before comparison.

Before insecurity.

Before rejection.

Before the world started putting its layers on you.

He knew exactly who He was making.

And nothing about you surprised Him.

That is a truth I want our children to know.

But honestly, it’s a truth I need to remember too.

Because I’m not immune to comparison.

None of us are.

We can be grown adults and still find ourselves looking at someone else and thinking, I wish I had that.

I wish I looked like that.

I wish my house looked like that.

I wish my family looked like that.

I wish my life looked like that.

But here’s the question I keep coming back to:

If God intentionally formed you, what lie are you believing when you say you wish you looked like someone else?

That’s not a question that needs a quick answer.

Maybe it needs some wrestling.

Maybe we need to sit with it.

Maybe we need to ask God to show us the layers we’ve allowed comparison, hurt, insecurity, and other people’s opinions to put over us.

And maybe we need to remember that restoration doesn’t mean pretending the holes were never there.

There may always be evidence of where we’ve been.

There may be scars.

There may be places that needed healing.

There may be things we wish had never happened.

But God isn’t intimidated by any of it.

He knows what’s underneath.

He knows every layer.

And He knows the person He created before any of those layers were ever added.

As I kept sanding that cabinet door, I realized something.

I wasn’t creating something new.

I was uncovering something that had been there all along.

And maybe that’s part of what God wants to do in us too.

Not make us into somebody else.

Not make us look like everybody else.

But help us uncover the truth of who He created us to be.

The world will keep offering us another layer.

Another comparison.

Another expectation.

Another reason we’re not enough.

But we don’t have to keep painting ourselves to fit someone else’s idea of beautiful.

We can come back to the One who made us.

The One who knew us.

The One who knit us together.

The One who looked at His creation and called it good.

And maybe, just maybe, the next time we catch ourselves wishing we looked like someone else, we can stop and ask:

“What does God already know about me that I have forgotten?”

Because underneath all the layers…

He still sees us.

And He never forgot who He created us to be.