1. A paper or cardboard, usually two-dimensional, representation of the human figure, used as a child’s toy.
2. Usually, paperdolls. A connected series of doll-like figures cut from folded paper.
I feel like a paper doll, all flimsy and two-dimensional. There’s no substance to who I am. I feel flat and paper-like, striving for perfection but always coming up short, exhausted and repulsed by my inability to attain that level of perfection that I’ve lived most of my life for.
I am still waiting for my paper heart to come alive. I want it to grow six sized too big, become three-dimensional, and beat for a purpose fashioned by God, rather for perfection. I want God to take this paperdoll heart of mine and transform it into something beautiful, so I can stop being this paperdoll that I completely despise.
You want to know one thing about paper dolls that I don’t like? Well, it’s that they’re flimsy! You can’t dress one of those flat, paper pictures of perfection—all perfection in only skin deep. In a paper doll’s case, it’s only ink deep—because you risk tearing a hand, leg, or head off.
I don’t want to be like that—fragile with no backbone; no structure—, because I don’t want to have a paper heart that God cannot penetrate through. I want a heart that he can fill with His love, so that I can be that jar of clay bringing Living Water to the rest of the world. And He cannot do that if I am not willing to let my paper heart come alive with His grace and mercy.
This is my hope, that God will break my heart and rip away the earthly desired of my heart and replace them with a God-divined purpose to set fire to the world. And as Natalie Lloyd writes, there is only “One who sees my paper heart, every frayed corner, all the rips and tears I’ve tried to tape back together […] He holds out His hand, offers to keep it, to heal it, and to make it whole again. He writes love and grace over every seam. Take my whole heart, is my whisper, my plea, my song. Take all of me.”