I have a necklace that I’ve not taken off since I got it two Christmases ago. It’s a thin gold chain with a circle pendant that says “Gentle & Lowly” and has two heart-shaped tags with David and Tov’s initials on it.

I chose to engrave “Gentle & Lowly” on my pendant in reference to Dane Ortlund’s book Gentle and Lowly: The Heart of Christ for Sinners and Sufferers, which draws from Jesus’s own description of himself as “gentle and lowly in heart” in Matthew 11 to point out the essence of God’s heart for His people. It was written for, in Ortlund’s own words, “the discouraged, the frustrated, the weary, the disenchanted, the cynical, the empty. Those running on fumes. Those whose Christian lives feel like constantly running up a descending escalator. Those of us who find ourselves thinking: ‘How could I mess up that bad– again?'”

Reading Ortlund’s book made me look at Matthew 11:29, a familiar verse– “take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls”— in fresh eyes. Ortlund points out that of the four gospels, this is the only instance in which Jesus describes his own heart— and if that’s the case, we ought to pay attention: Jesus, the Son of God, King of Kings, describes himself as gentle and lowly in heart. His orientation towards us is that of mercy, love, compassion, self-sacrifice. He hates sin, to the point of dying on the cross because of it, but his heart towards the penitent is open, wide, and forgiving. That has profound implications on our relationship with God, and our relationship with others.

I was moved by the heart of Jesus. His gentleness and lowliness taught me what it means to be “Christlike,” to be “the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life.” (2 Corinthians 2:15-17)

If the Jesus who lives inside me through his spirit is gentle and lowly, then I too want to be gentle and lowly. I too want that to be the key descriptor of my heart and posture.

There’s just one problem. I’m about as gentle and lowly as a viper. Anyone who knows me would never think to use “gentle” or “lowly” to describe me. In fact, it’s the people who are closest to me who have been bitten most by my viper moments.

Just a week ago, while my parents were visiting us to meet Woori, I had another viper moment. It was the hottest week of the year, but that’s not what turned me into a viper. I actually cannot always explain why I get so snappish and irritable sometimes. I’d like to blame the sleep deprivation, or postpartum hormones. I’d like to blame my frustration with the lack of improvement in nursing Woori. I’d like to blame the increasing meltdowns from Tov, who have been crying and screaming so often his voice is now as hoarse as a chronic smoker’s. But I cannot. Sometimes, I’m just a bitch for no reason.

David had just clambered up mid-afternoon to get a snack, and he asked me what was in the mixing bowl sitting on the kitchen counter.

“Bread,” I said.

He made a face. “Can we not use the oven today? It’s too hot. I don’t want the AC running all day.”

I ignored him.

“Sophia? Sophia?”

I felt a hot flash of irritation. The dough was already rising, and I was so sick of hearing David complaining about the weather. “Whatever,” I snapped. “Just shut up.” Then I walked away.

My mother, who was present at the time, observed the whole interaction. She went up to David later and told him, “Sometimes, she can really stab a dagger into your heart. She does that to me too.”

I only know because David told me later, while I was nursing Woori. “You really need to watch the way you talk,” he said. It’s like a whiplash, he told me. One moment I’m fine and happy, and the next moment— whoosh! The viper strikes.

I felt like such a fraud. I call myself a Christian, yet there’s very little Christlikeness in me. I am a mother who’s thinking and talking about raising my children in the faith, yet my faith does not primarily shape the way I think, speak, and act.

Gentle and lowly I am not. I am not gentle and lowly with my husband when he annoys me or does things that make me feel misunderstood or unappreciated. I am not gentle and lowly with Tov when he is being particularly whiny and screamy, and my nerves are all frayed from over-stimulation.

All the more ironic that I wear that engraved in my necklace 24/7, and also all the more reason why I should wear it constantly as a reminder. During these moments though, long after I had already struck my head out and sunk my fangs into my prey’s heart, I wear that pendant like a scarlet letter, an ugly red brand of shame and regret.

I feel stuck in this cycle of striking and remorsing. I of all people know best that I need to watch the way I talk, to be slow to speak and slow to anger. The consequences of my speech and action get more and more serious as I age. With my parents, I know they’ll always love and accept me, no matter how poisonous my fangs are. With David, I know there’s a limit before the toxins reach the bloodstreams of our marriage. And as for my children, I am terrified of scarring them for life.

And yet. There are those viper moments, when my fangs rear up before my brain even recognizes what I’m doing. If Jesus’s essence is gentleness and lowliness, my essence seems to be sharpness and haughtiness. It is what spills out of me the instant I’m poked and punctured. It’s hard for me to even ask David for forgiveness then, or pray, when I’d rather tuck my head into a hole and hide, or worse, root around the dirt looking for justifications for my behavior.

There was a time when I wanted to go to seminary to study theology. I read Wayne Grudem’s Systemic Theology for fun. I loved gathering knowledge and understanding, like picking fruits into a basket, and debating things like predestination and complementarianism. I am by nature a nerd and love learning new things, but all that knowledge also puffed me up, deceiving me into mistaking education for sanctification. The fruits of knowledge I gathered in my basket, hoarded but unused, rotted into brown, putrid mush. What’s the use of learning about the fruits of the Spirit— gentleness and self-control in particular— when I don’t manifest them in my own life? So much of my theology has become like my necklace— it’s there, and I’ve gotten so used to it being there, that I no longer put any consciousness into why it’s there, what it’s for. It’s become little more than a pretty decoration, like the wedding ring of an adulterer.

These days, Woori likes to grab at my necklace. She’s still too young to intentionally grasp at objects, but she can wrap her tiny fingers around the chain and tug at it with a firm grip. I’ll have to untangle her fingers, gently removing each finger, careful not to hurt her delicate pink skin. And that’s how I remembered: Oh yeah. The necklace. Gentle & Lowly. With the initials of the two people with whom I’m the least gentle and lowly.

It’s not so much that I’ve forgotten to be gentle and lowly. It’s that I’ve forgotten Jesus, forgotten his heart for me, forgotten to fall in love with his heart over and over again.

Last Sunday, I sat in the church’s nursing room with Woori and listened to a sermon about the historical reliability of the gospels. It was more a lecture than a sermon, the nerdy kind I love, with lots of historical facts and intellectual stimulation. It was an engaging sermon, but I was half-distracted. I listened while struggling to nurse Woori, getting frustrated and discouraged by her lack of improvement, and then fumbling hot and bothered underneath a nursing cover trying to pump as discreetly as I could, silently cursing the men present in the nursing room.

The sermon ended, and worship started. The worship band sang “King of Kings” by Hillsong, a 5-year-old song I’ve heard and sang many times. In fact, I remember grousing internally, Ugh, another Hillsong song. I want old hymns! They’re so much richer and deeper than these contemporary Christian music.

They started singing:

In the darkness we were waiting
Without hope, without light
‘Til from Heaven You came running
There was mercy in Your eyes…

And then the chorus:

Praise the Father, praise the Son
Praise the Spirit, three in one
God of glory, Majesty
Praise forever to the King of Kings

I don’t know why. But I started weeping.

It wasn’t the beautiful melody. It wasn’t just the lyrics. It was just, at that moment, so spiritually parched, I felt the first drop of a light rain, and man, it felt so sweet. So sweet it broke me.

It was the power of worship. Praise the Father. Praise the Son. Praise the Spirit, three in one. Praise forever the King of Kings. A simple praise. A simple reminder of the majesty and glory of God. And I remembered, then, how awesome, how incredibly freeing it is, to simply lift my head up and worship Him, not just for what He’s done, but who He is.

Even when I chose the engraving for the necklace, I was more fixated with what I must become. When I failed, I berated myself, excused myself, hid myself. If I counted all the ways I failed as a wife and a mother and a daughter and a human being, I would get too overwhelmed to do anything about it. I can’t will my heart to change. I need a whole new heart. I need the heart of Jesus.

There is a time to study the Bible like a theologian, to analyze verse by verse with commentaries and highlighters. I don’t have that time right now. Much of my day is spent nursing Woori round the clock, pumping while trying to keep her from fussing and crying, dealing with Tov’s tantrums and antics, cooking and cleaning and oh God, endless loads of laundry stained with pee and poop and breastmilk, a domestic potpourri of sourness, pungency, and sticky sweetness.

But then in the midst of my hurry Woori grabs my necklace, and I think not of what I’m not, but who Jesus is.

This is a time to just think about Jesus, and fall in love with his heart, and worship him, because we become what we worship, and the one I worship is gentle and lowly.