Yesterday my violin students performed in our annual spring recital. Most students have been working on their piece all semester, and the culmination of their effort is to play it in front of a large crowd of strangers in a church they’ve never been to before. That takes courage! I was so proud of their confidence, and celebrated their success which had nothing to do with how well they actually played. They could have crashed and burned and I would have celebrated them just as much, because their value is not based on their performance. I love each student for the unique person they are, and I celebrate the memories we’ve made during lessons and the hard work they’ve put into their music, week in and week out.

As I gave my motivational pep talks in lessons the past couple weeks, I could tell when students were putting pressure on themselves. Their countenances would drop and they would admit that their hands shake during performances, or that they fear messing up. I couldn’t do anything to convince students that I would love them and be proud of them just as much if they epically failed, as if they achieved a flawless performance (which I reminded them is impossible, anyways). All I asked is that they show up with courage and do their very best as they shared the gift of music that they had prepared all year.

I was feeling like a great teacher, communicating a deep truth about how love is not based on performance, when I was hit with a wave of conviction. I can’t expect my students to believe me and detach their identity from their performance if I refuse to do the same. I love my students despite their mistakes, but do I believe I am loved despite mine?

It’s discouraging to admit how many times my own countenance has dropped and I’ve been stuck in fear and insecurity that my performance (in work, in relationships, in prayer) isn’t good enough. I know all the right Bible verses that tell me I am “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14), that I was “made for good works which God prepared in advance” for me (Ephesians 2:10), and that I am “precious and honored” and loved in God’s sight (Isaiah 43:4). But when my insecurities swirl and I’m unhappy with the way I show up in the world, I don’t often feel loved.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I’ve been wrestling with self-doubt and insecurity on the weekend of Pentecost, where God first baptized his followers with the Holy Spirit two thousand years ago. It’s the Holy Spirit that enables me to feel the love of the Father through his still, small voice that whispers I am enough. It’s the Spirit that brings peace to my heart and soul, and enlivens my mind to imagine the ways I am loved like a child. It’s the Spirit that calms my fear and provides clarity and truth to the lies I am believing. I can only feel loved when I believe it’s true, and of course, the enemy wants to prevent the Spirit from breaking through and imparting that truth.

This Pentecost, it’s my prayer that you may “know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God” (Ephesians 3:19). This isn’t a rational love that you can understand, nor a love that any of us are deserving of. It is a radical, abundant, and unconditional love. It is received through God’s very Spirit imparted to us, as it fell first on Jewish believers seeking to spread the good news that Jesus Christ is Lord. It has been a countercultural and offensive love from the very start, but continues to transform the lives of ordinary believers, my own included.

It’s easy to believe that our accomplishments—the money we make, the hobbies we pride ourselves in, or how tight the friend group is—say something about our worth. We measure love based on how much we feel it, not always questioning if our perception of love is accurate. When the voices in your head are silenced, the Instagram feed closed, and the superficial conversations concluded, do you know deep down that you are enough? Do you feel loved apart from what you do, simply for who you are? If not, there is unconditional love worth seeking, in the person of Jesus who is already seeking you.

It takes courage to perform in our workplaces, in our friendships, and even in our homes. But what if it takes even more courage to just be? To believe that we are enough apart from any appearance, accomplishment, or identity we try to hide behind? I would prefer to be loved on the basis of what I do so that I feel deserving of love. But the gift of the Gospel is that our hope and salvation is set not on what we do, but on Jesus alone, and that frees us to make mistakes and remain perfectly loved for who we are. So I am learning to show up and be Addie, and I’m learning to have courage that that is enough.