Fame is one of my biggest fears, not because I see fame and fortune knocking on my door (I don’t), but because I know how needy I can be and how quickly I could run to adoration. Is it any wonder that most actresses and actors come from broken homes? Or authors? Or singers? Those of us (and there are many) who grew up in difficult environments screamed for attention when we were younger. And if we’re not properly healed of that need for recognition, we’ll scream for it as adults.

My biggest struggle as an adult has been this bit of faulty thinking: I need to justify the spot of earth I take up. So, to justify me being here, I do all sorts of gymnastics to prove I’m okay, to prove I can live on this earth and be worthy of it.

Of course, I know this is wrong. Of course I know Jesus loves me. He made me. He delights in me. So often, though, those oft-repeated platitudes soar right over my heart, never really hitting me. It’s an issue I tackled in my second novel—God’s seeming capriciousness. Thankfully, I have sensed His whispers enough to know He is real and He does love me.

But still, fame seduces, doesn’t it? It shows us that we’re not insignificant after all, that we’re worth something. That there is a spark of the divine inside us.

So I pray. I don’t know if I’ll ever be “famous” or rich. Sometimes I long for both. Sometimes I shudder at both. But the true, deep part of my heart longs for this: that Jesus would be glorified not only in my outward actions, but more importantly, in my inward heart. Oh that I, if faced with fame, would gladly toss its glories to the feet of Jesus, thankful for Him and not the adulation afforded me. Maybe that’s why fame hasn’t been granted me. Maybe I’d clutch the praise to myself, sucking life from it as a mosquito preys on a child’s forearm. Oh that I would rest in His sacrifice, knowing my worth way down deep, so that the sparkly shiny glory offered by this fleeting world would look more like trinkets than eternal treasures.