Define Gabe

Lately, I am realizing that my methods of self-identification are pretty far off. I would liken them to believing in Santa until your 23.

Foolish, I know.

Unfortunately, when it comes to knowing who I am and who I was meant to be, I look a lot like that 23-year old hopeful still leveraging the 'cookies and milk' bit. I'm holding onto a legend that just isn't true and never was. I've digressed from the original version of myself — or more importantly, the intended version.

Somewhere along the last decade of my life, I've opened my identity up to debate. Whether it was by my actions or lack there of, any on-looker or passer-by with half an opinion was somehow given clearance to label me by my peripherals. I've been the musician. The designer. The Cuban. The tardy. The punctual. You name it.

I've occupied every identity I'm capable of except for the one that matters most:

Valued son of God; called to love my Heavenly Father and His people, fiercely.

I've boiled it down to elementary math. Remember reducing every fraction to find the lowest common denominator? We arrive at the truth about who we are and who we were meant to be through the very same process.