Spiritual Growth

My Ugly Beautiful
A house mate in front of cottage at St Joseph’s Villa Summer 1972
One of the most painful times of my adolescence was the two months I spent in a home for wayward girls. After an arrest for shoplifting, my mother thought it was the best way to straighten me out. After telling me I was a bad influence on my younger siblings, she dropped me off at St Joseph’s Villa in Richmond Virginia, and then she drove away.
It took me years to learn the damage that decision caused me. How the fear of abandonment jaded my judgment in every relationship. That it was the driving force behind my need to please the people around me.
But even after learning the devastation her decision had on me, I never blamed my mother. After my father’s death, which I wrote about here,I always saw her as a wounded soul. I saw the poverty of her spirit. And I felt she did the best she could with what she had.
Me on Tim’s car at St Joseph’s Villa
Someone recently asked me if perhaps I gave my mother more credit than she deserved. If I didn’t think she was just looking for an easy way out of a difficult situation. It caused me to think.
How are we supposed to view those with damaged souls who in turn damage others?
I found my answer in Ann Voskamps book One Thousand Gifts.  She writes,
“…what the French call d’un beau affreux…the ugly-beautiful…That which is perceived as ugly transfigures into beautiful…suffering can deliver grace…the Prince is born into a manure-smeared feed trough, where Holy God…breaks bread with cheats, where God wounds Himself through with nails on a cross and we wear the symbol as beauty.”
What if there is a widow’s mite of the soul? What if, just like in the temple, Jesus is saying, “come here, let me show you who really gave the most.” And what if that most no longer looked like pennies to us? Would we then change how we see others?
Aunt Jeanne Marie, Mother, and me. December 1982
I’ll never know my mother’s true motives. In many of our conversations in the last years of her life, she wept bitterly over her regrets as a parent. She said she did the best she could. Her heart spoke volumes so I never felt the need to press for an apology.
Ultimately, it’s my choice to apply grace to her actions. And in doing so, I rob the ugly of any potential to grow. I stop the progression of the wounded wounding others. I change the projectory of the wrong.
For after all, God’s grace covers all. And in Him, I see with different eyes. In Him, I see the transfiguration from ugly to beautiful. And it changes me.
34. A loving aunt.
35. The grace to forgive.
36. Untainted memories.

My Christmas Crime
At our house Christmas, had always meant baking cookies. So I had to do something. Daniel needed a Christmas cookie so I planned my crime.

One cold December day, I mixed up a small batch of gingerbread dough and rolled it out onto the counter. Choosing the smallest gingerbread man cookie cutter, I cut myself an array of the one-inch gingerbread men.
 
Lined in neat little rows on the baking sheet, I then poked holes in the top before shoving them into the hot oven. Once the cookies cooled, I selected the best one to be my contraband. With a beautiful red ribbon slipped through the hole, it made a wonderful necklace.
 
The next Saturday Tim and I drove to the prison for our weekly visit with Daniel. I especially dressed in Christmas colors to help conceal my little friend as he draped shamelessly around my neck. You could hardly tell it was a cookie.
 
I was a little nervous as we walked up to the main entrance. If the guards suspected I was a smuggler, I would be banned from visiting Daniel for the rest of his sentence.

Inside the guard station, I took off my coat with the cookie still resting safely on my chest. The guard checked my coat pockets while the gingerbread man and I walked through the metal detector. Suspecting nothing, the guard patted me down. I felt confident when we were approved for entry into the visiting area.
Tim and I chose a table in a far off corner so Daniel would be free to eat his cookie. As soon as he entered the room I was on my feet. When we hugged I whispered in his ear, “How do you like my necklace?”
 
Back in our seats, we made casual conversation, but Daniel couldn’t take his eyes off the gingerbread man.
 
Finally, Daniel said, “OK, now.” I broke the cookie free and discreetly slid it across the table. In one slick move, Daniel popped the entire cookie in his mouth. His head went back, his eyes closed, and he slowly chewed. I was so proud to have brought a little tradition into my son’s life.
 
Traditions are a wonderful part of the holiday season. But they are best kept flexible.
 
When you think about it, long 
ago a poor traveling couple found no room in the inn. The woman gave birth in a cold Bethlehem barn. Not the circumstances Mary and Joseph envisioned for the birth of their son. It had to be disappointing that all they had waited for seemed to take place in such a peculiar way. 

And yet, over two thousand years later the story of the birth of Christ continues to bring peace to an otherwise chaotic world.

I believe Christmas is best celebrated in spite of the world around us. And we must do whatever possible to bring the peace of the manger into each other’s lives. Even if it means bending a tradition to make if fit our circumstances.

Welcome Home Sinner
Oh my, another Christian leader has fallen into sin. Doug Phillips of Vision Forum admitted to an inappropriate relationship with a woman not his wife. Many tongues are wagging, especially since Doug was a champion of some very fundamental traditional values.
With the sin in my own life and the sins of my family, I’m the last who can judge.  Doug posted a lengthy apology on his website. He declared his wife and kids forgive him.  He’s going to retreat a bit and rebuild his life.
Sounds good. But those of us who are champion sinners know it’s never that easy. The wounds of betrayal run deep. I know, I’ve been the betrayer and the betrayed.
It’s easy for me to ignore my own indiscretions. To judge other’s who struggle with a sin that doesn’t trip me up. And if I’m honest, the better “behaved” I think I am, the more I think God is pleased with me.

But, the older I get, the more I realize the hardest person to live with is myself. And any cheap shot that will help burn off the edge of all those sins I’ve committed, gets easier and easier to take.

What if I could really grasp the truth that none of it matters. That it all comes down to the cross. That nothing I do can change my position with God. How would that revelation affect how I respond to men like Doug Phillips. Or any other Christian who has fallen from grace.
Maybe what Christ gave us on the cross was the freedom to not have to judge even ourselves. Maybe I don’t need a lengthy set of requirements fulfilled before I believe in the sincerity of others people’s repentance.
Or like in Michael Cheshire’s great article Going to Hell with Ted Haggard, maybe “We are called to leave the 99 to go after the one.” Maybe, “We are supposed to be numbered with the outcasts. After all, we are the ones that believe in resurrection.”
For in the story of the great shepherd, the lost sheep was, at one time, inside the fold. He just got sidetrack along the way. All he needed was the Good Shepherd to come find him and bring him back.
Often, I too get sidetracked. And when I do, the thing I need most, is for my Savior to came after me and lead me home. I don’t need my sin analyzed. Or my level of repentance evaluated. I just need the other sheep to welcome me back.

How to get Mojo
I’d seen her do it many times. After getting dressed, she spins around, looks me in the eye, and with a girlish smile asks, “How do I look.” The answer is always the same, “You’re beautiful.” At 85, my Aunt Jeanne Marie is still the most beautiful woman I know.

At a time when the Internet daily shoves images of the ideal beauty at me, none compare to this woman who has so richly impacted my life.

I’m fascinated with a news segment called, “Stars Who Lost their Mojo.” A series of before and after photos of celebrities who’ve had the misfortune of getting older. But I’d like to challenge this standard. I’d like to say, Aunt Jeanne Marie never lost an ounce of her mojo, in fact she gained it as she got older.
Aunt Jeanne Marie, Nora, Sheila, and me

Once, as a little girl, I sat in the bathroom and watched Aunt Jeanne Marie go through her nightly ritual of washing her face. When I asked her what she was doing, she said, “Honey, whatever you do for your skin it will appreciate.” But today, Aunt Jeanne Marie isn’t beautiful because of the moisturizer she used.  She’s beautiful because of the woman she became.

Her’s was a life like most of ours, filled with grief and sorrow, joy and triumphs. But she chose to focus on the good. Like when she could have no children of her own, so she stepped in and helped my mother raise her six.

Today, she and my Uncle Eugene live in a little house in San Francisco. They don’t have much because they enjoyed giving most of their possessions away.

Aunt Jeanne Marie, my granddaughter Juliette, Uncle Eugene, my sister Sheila


It’s easy when we’re young to rely on our exterior appearance.  But by the time we’re in our fifties, our face tends to reflect the people we really are. Our wrinkles are the imbedded joys, sorrows, and tensions we’ve chosen to spend our lives focusing on.

I think Mojo should be all the good stuff that comes out when we choose to age well. I’d like to change our culture to value women like my Aunt Jeanne Marie. A woman who chose a life soaked in forgiveness. Whose mojo goes to the very depth of her soul.
I dream of a day, when my grandchildren will see a segment called, “People Who Gained their Mojo.” Picture after picture of sweet gentle old folks with laugh lines embedded in their faces and crows feet reflecting a spark in their eye. Because that’s a beauty fought for. A beauty that doesn’t come natural.

Never Lose Sight of This

It’s been forty years now since the day I hopped into Tim’s Chevy Nova, and ran away to Georgia to get married. We were young, pregnant, and selfish.

For the next thirty-five years Tim and I fought. Mostly to get our own way. I cooked and cleaned and felt entitled to his appreciation. He mowed the grass, fixed everything and felt entitled to the same from me.

We had great moments of supporting one another.  He bought me cameras, sewing machines, computers, everything I needed for my many hobbies. And I helped him fulfill his dream of building his own house.

But too often, our sacrifices had long strings attached. They came heaped with preset expectations.

Determined to make a good life for ourselves, we worked long hours. Then we battled each other over the right to spend our free time the way we saw fit. Tim wanted to hunt and fish. And I wanted to ride my bicycle.
Then cancer crippled him. My life halted and became engulfed in his.
I bathed him, tied his shoes, and helped him in and out of his wheelchair. Eventually, I committed all twenty-four hours of my day to him.
The highlight of our lives became a moonlit walk around the lake by our house.

In those last two and half years of our marriage, a beautiful transformation took place. In essence, as we both laid down our lives we gained a profound grace. No longer able to pursue our own desires, we turned our attention to each other.

Tim became focused on what it cost me to serve him. He constantly apologized for what his cancer put me through. I became committed to making the rest of his life the best it could be.

Once we each took our eyes off ourselves, we saw a beauty in each other that we’d never seen. We developed a profound love we never thought possible.

Jesus says, to follow Him we must pick up our cross daily. I now know what that means. I must learn to give up my life. Tim’s cancer taught me this is where a beautiful life begins. It’s not in getting what I feel I deserve. It’s in what I give away. And the greatest gift I can give is myself. I just pray I never lose sight of this.