It was two years ago that our family received unsettling news that began an extended holding pattern for us, news which wouldn't be resolved for another eleven months. That period of gray, unsettled twilight will stand out in my life as one where I became well-acquainted--more than I would have wished, for sure--with the chisel of God that is waiting.
I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately, dreams.
Since I’ve already confessed that I’m a feeler, I’ll tell you that a lot of feelings and thoughts swirl around them too: Hope. Confusion. Anxiety. Zeal. Guilt.read more
Shame, it seems, articulates that gap between who we wish we were (appropriately or not) and who we have powerfully demonstrated ourselves lacking to be. It’s a fear of being found out, naked in all we truly are.
Loving people unlike ourselves--when we can patiently wait for the dissonance like a junior-high band to pass--produces the swelling, overwhelming harmonies of a full orchestra.
But when, yielding to my call, she trudged back up the steep grade of our hill, my frustration softened. Her wide black eyes slid up to mine, her forehead glimmering in sweat. Her faded, two-sizes-too-large men’s T-shirt was pocked with holes. She must have been walking nearly the entirety of the morning in those foam shower slippers with the toes long gone and sizeable gaps in their soles. She was thirteen, though looked all of eleven.
It’s a startling post from The Atlantic; a dismaying one. The authors write on the increasing hypersensitivity of college students, or “The Coddling of the American Mind”: “In the name of emotional well-being, college students are increasingly demanding protection from words and ideas they don’t like.”
It was about a year and a half ago when circumstances colliding around my husband and I found us ducking for cover.
But thankfully, by the grace of God and with a lot of intentional effort, ducking together. Somehow, after it all blew over, we were more “married” than ever before.
Lying in bed a few nights ago–makeup rinsed off (if I was wearing any), the beginnings of my double chin/jowls showcased by the position of head on pillow–I glimpsed an advertisement in a leading women’s magazine for an aging serum available only at high-end retailers. The model was lovely; perfect for the enticing caption: effortless beauty.
Her makeup was invisible, lashes were long and perfectly separated, skin creamy. She looked like one of those .0001% people who, upon waking, her partner may actually roll over, like in the movies, and say, Man, you’re gorgeous in the mornings. This does not happen at my house, and I consider it an attribution to my husband’s integrity that he does not contrive elaborate fairy tales about this point.