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.

We Were Meant for Each Other

In my favorite scene from the book Gone With the Wind, (the book, not the movie) Scarlett gets the epiphany of a lifetime.  It begins at the deathbed of her friend Melly.

After a tearful good-bye, Scarlett wanders out of Melly’s room to find Ashley Wilkes, the man she’s spent her life pining after, bumbling around. Suddenly, the blinders fall off and for the first time in her life, she sees Ashley for what he really is and she says to herself,

“He never really existed at all, except in my imagination…I loved something  I made up… I made a pretty suit of clothes…and when Ashely came riding along…I put that suit on him and made him wear it whether it fitted him or not.”

I, like Scarlett, have always had an ideal image of a man. A man who would love me the way I wanted him to. Who would never cause the kind of tension I often experienced with Tim. I too made a pretty suit, and I forced Tim to wear it.

And every time Tim chafed against the fit, I added it to my list of proof that he didn’t love me enough.

Not satisfied with the Tim’s income, against his wishes, I got a job. Then when I couldn’t quit, I made it his fault for not making enough money. When he did silly things at the dinner table, instead of enjoying the humor, I scoffed at his lack of refinement. And don’t get me started on his need to come to my rescue and fix everything. Really Tim – sometimes it was okay to buy a new blow dryer.

Sadly, I treated God the same way. As a little girl, I created an ideal image of who He should be. Then daily, I laid before Him a list of demands I felt He should meet. Then when He didn’t deliver, I altered my image of Him, and not my list of demands.

When Tim got sick with cancer, my blinders started to come off. I began to see a man who, like me, had to fight against his own sin. To struggle in that tension of being the person he was at the same time trying to understand me.

And like Scarlett after her flight through the fog, I found myself hearing,

“It was obvious we were meant for each other…I was the only man of your acquaintance who could love you after knowing you as you really are…I loved you and I took the chance.” 

Love is always a risk. And to fully love requires taking a chance. I’m so glad I took a chance on love. And I’m glad Jesus took a chance on me. Even unto death on a cross.

A Dream Come True

As a kid I remember longing for two things – a family and to go on vacation. The two were clearly tied together because every summer, I watched my neighbors load up their cars with suitcases, then the family got in and they drove away together.
Families went on vacation.  Vacations were for families.
I wasn’t an orphan, but my family was shattered. My mother and father rarely spoke without a fight and things between them ended very badly.
But to my surprise, a teen pregnancy led to a marriage, the birth of my daughter Kelly, then her brother Daniel. And in a few short years, I found myself with a bona fide family.
So of course I insisted on lots of vacations. And I didn’t care where we went. But the surprise I never expected was the many nights spent around the dinner table. The warm conversation. The uproarious laughter. The nights nobody wanted to leave.
Over the past few years, so much of what I did with my family has changed. I’ve lost Tim, Kelly and her family moved out of state, and in just few days, Daniel leaves for his families big move north. Not my idea of how a family is supposed to be.
Change – it’s never simple. Those easy days of having my family close by are gone, and I want them back.
As parents, our greatest hope for our children is for them to move on and develop families of their own. To take what we taught them and create their own traditions, go on vacations, and build their own lives outside of ours.
We’re supposed to want all that for them right? So why when it happens, is it so painful? 
For the rest of my years, I’ll cheer on my children and grandchildren in whatever they chose to pursue. When possible, I’ll chip in toward any goals and dreams they hold dear to their hearts. 
But secretly, I wish we all lived in a cluster of  cottages on a hillside. All connected by a well-worn path to a big dining room with a giant table surrounded by enough chairs for all.
But until that happens, I’ll take this one day a year we call Thanksgiving. And I’ll gather my whole family (and maybe a few others) around a feast fit for a king. And I’ll celebrate the fulfillment of a little girl’s dream. And a God who saw fit to make it come true.

Leaving Margins

Several months ago, on the day I was to settle on the short sale of my house, I took a new road on my way to work. As I came around a bend, in front of a worn out house, a young girl in a maids uniform stood in a driveway holding up a pair of jumper cables. Behind her was a beat up car with its hood up. 

When I drove by, she stared at me and held the cables up even higher. I didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to determine her need.
 
Of course the story of the Good Samaritan came to mind. Not wanting to stop, I gritted my teeth hoping someone else would. Glancing in my rear view mirror, I saw the girl now standing in the middle of the road shoving the jumper cables towards the cars now driving into the other lane to avoid hitting her.

Reluctantly, I turned around and drove back. No sooner had I pulled off the road and popped my hood, the girl had the cables hooked up. 


“You know what you’re doing?”

“Yes, yes,” she said as a young man walked up. With a thick accent he said, over and over, “Thank you ma’am, thank you.”

As I stood there waiting for her battery to charge, I couldn’t stop thinking of how much more I had than them. My car was better, and even though I was losing my home, I was moving into a house better than theirs. 

Then in my spirit I heard God whisper that dreaded word – “share.” For in my wallet was the $450 dollars I had made the weekend before selling off the remains of my household goods. The exact amount I needed to replace my broken laptop.

I gritted my teeth again, opened the car door and reached for my wallet. Sticking up was a crisp $50 bill. Again I heard, “share.” Exasperated, I pulled out the bill and shoved it in the guys hand. “Here, get yourself a new battery.” Then stupidly I added, “And don’t forget Jesus loves you.” I felt like an idiot.

Back on the road I scolded God, reminding him of how much I needed that money.

That evening, tearfully I sat in my realtors office and signed away at a huge loss, my beautiful home . At the end, my realtor slid an envelope across the table and said, “A little birdie, (my daughter no doubt) told me you need a new laptop. I hope this helps.”

Inside the envelope – $200 in gift cards.

 
Now, in no way do I believe I forced Gods hand in delivering me the $200. There was nothing magical in this interaction. If I hadn’t given the couple the $50 I still would have received the $200. But God’s hand was all over this and here’s why:

  • I’m too selfishly focused on my own wants and needs. I need to learn to give more, even in my own perceived poverty.
    • I need to remember, in the eyes of 90% of the world, my perceived poverty is wealth.
    • I need to learn to never spend everything I have. To always leave a margin to give.
    • Even when I think I don’t have enough to share, if God tells me to, I need to give anyway.
    • God is my provider. In all my best efforts, I’m not self-sufficient. I need Him.
    • But most of all, I need what I get from giving to others. It makes me more at peace with myself and my God.