Putting On My Face

I met myself in the mirror with half an eyebrow on.

Oh, the joys of one main floor bathroom - with the best lighting - when a higher need arises.

For the record, eye brow brush is an easier pause than mascara. Mascara doesn't wait. Mascara means someone's either going to hold it, or share space with me and my mascara.

If that shocks you, you never grew up with one bathroom and six family members. Or one good bathroom and three kids.

And if my makeup requirement makes your eyes roll, too bad. Get in line... outside the door.

A master bathroom is still on my bucket list. But one recently remodeled main bath beats a bucket and no plumbing, so I mostly don't grumble.


Back to half an eyebrow...

Most of my life I've thought of my daily makeup ritual as putting on my face. I confess: I like the process. I like the colors. It's the only drawing and painting I do consistently. And I like those genetic, life-deepened, dark circles concealed, thank you very much. Tired on the inside is bad enough.

I like to look as put together as I choose on any given day. So, I put on my face.

But on too many days in this recent season of life, my philosophical inner dialogue takes the phrase and runs amok.

Putting on my face. The obvious metaphor can zing.

I spent years hiding behind my face. Painting on some pretty, adding a smile, and all is well with the well-worn facade. That's the downside of it... or perhaps just the mis-use. But it happens. As do the harsh accusations on those days when I need my best, but I'm all leaky eyes, smudged concealer, and liner that won't line. And irony hits as I watch myself persist. Broken must not win... on the outside. These days meet me in the mirror hissing, "What's the point of makeup - or your life? Why even try? You're just a fake!"

Nothing faintly pretty about that. Nasty gut punches aiming to negate the recent years I've spent working to live more honestly - with myself and others.

Today, however, as I finished filling in that thinned, blond brow and it's partner, added shell pink and warm gray to my eyelids, lined and coated invisible lashes into a "classic black" frame, then dusted my cheekbones with rose, I pondered a hidden strength in this ritual.

Vision-casting and choices.

I can see myself as hiding or I can see this as a time of creativity. Instead of facade, it can be a time for filling in the cracks left by fear, disappointment, exhaustion, and... life. Of outwardly hinting at the part of me that has or will find victory over these obstacles.

I am not wholly into the affirmation craze, but I do believe in speaking truth.

Truth is: I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I was created for divine purpose, even if I'm still knocking around in the dark over that one some days. I fail often, but I succeed, too. I don't want to get out of bed many days, but do it anyway. I'm afraid and anxious, but am learning to push back. I'm often overwhelmed by circumstances, but I find breath to do the next thing.

And in it all, my God sustains me.

He also knows my heart, my frailties, and loves me anyway.

So now, perhaps when I put on my face, I can look into those eyes that mirror my heart, my hurt, my longings, and imagine more than the moment... how I feel, or don't feel...  the life I hope for, but don't have... the person I wish I was, but am still becoming.

Perhaps I can see all the lines and lacks of a life-worn face transformed to order, character, polish, confidence, and courage. Not hidden... 

Adorned. 

I can remember those who say they find beauty and value in the woman behind the face, despite her struggles. I can smile at her and choose to believe them.

This may seem just vanity, but today I reframed a part of my day - a part of myself - that I've often nipped at with cynicism, to my own harm.

Today, I put on my face,
eyebrows and all,
looked more deeply,
and came out of hiding.


What do you see when you meet yourself in the mirror? 

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Lest anyone take a tangent, let me clarify: I believe outer beauty is nothing without inner; that of the two, inner has the power to change what we truly see. And though we may never fully escape the vanity in outward beautification, it's not wrong to take something raw and try to add beauty. Created, we are inherently creative, and pride can flow equally in doing or not doing. Anything good can be taken to a bad end, but this doesn't mean we never strive for good or beauty. And my point goes beyond that anyway. We often think and say horrid things about ourselves and our lives, forgetting our Creator - the author of hope, faith, love, and beauty - who fashioned us for good, for purpose, for His glory. ... His words speak life. 

Day Off Musings

Sitting outside Paper & Cup with a cappuccino and a rare "day off," watching professionals walk by and reflecting that I've never been a professional anything. Not really.

I'm just an English major wannabe with a smattering of part time work experience who's raised three stellar humans, can pull off a mean haircut after thirty years experience and no formal training, is adequate at a piano and mic, can toss out medical terminology well enough to be continually mistaken for a nurse, is a decent caregiver and amateur social worker, though I aspired to neither of those roles. Some say I can write.

I guess I'm good at absorbing skills well enough to fake my way through most things, self-taught being the kinder term. Forever finding a way to be whatever life needs me to be.

Will I ever be a professional anything? I don't know. Does it matter? Probably not. But what would I choose if I could? I have a few ideas. Will life ever grant enough breath and space to pursue anything? Will I be brave enough to go for the gap if I see one? Will I be too tired of being brave to care?

These are my day off musings.

My cappuccino is long gone. The petite professional in the cute black and white dress and sweet heels caught my eye as she walked by for the third time. We shared a smile. It's easy to imagine that her life is as amazing as those shoes, but I'll bet she has to be brave every day too.

Hands

What do you do when life’s been a little sideways? Sometimes I paint my nails. Because: painting, and colors, and a quiet moment to make something look finished... for a few days, anyway. 

And today I stretched the quiet moment while they dried and snapped a photo.

“Look at that perfect, frosty rose polish!” 

Then I was rocked by how old my hand looks. 

Truth is, this one, and its even more weathered twin, have done a lot, carried a lot, soothed a lot, scrubbed, and dug... a lot. They’re hands acclimated to heat. Shaped and misshapen by thousands of squeezes, pats, dings, scars, scalds, and abrasions. I don’t baby them. Forget to lotion them. And push them to the limit, even when they ache.

I’m sometimes startled when I actually see these old hands. Skin so beat up and wrinkly... and that pinky with a slight bump and bend at the knuckle.

I’d like to imagine myself physically young and untouched by life and time, even as I claim to embrace and elevate the marks of its passing. Guess I'm still worshipping youth, still holding fast to an ideal of no mars and scars... and no being dragged sideways.

I’d rather only see the pretty polish. 

But it’s not the truth. 

My hands tell the story.

The Long Mourning

It had already been an emotional morning -- revisiting another grief, decades old. But isn't that the way of grief? Sneaking into ordinary days that begin the same as every other: cooling coffee to the right, discarded cereal bowl to the left, morning paper refolded, and me scrolling for news of friends, enjoying insights, perusing photos...

My husband and I were not expecting the old loss to surface, both left wondering at a hidden significance in the timing. For as we wade through this season of midlife, taking lingering second looks at those roads less traveled, we know an increasing desire to invest in things that last. Even the prodding of an old wound can be an awakening. Such was the vein of my thoughts in the aftermath: patiently unresolved, sent up in prayer, waiting raw... a familiar place.

Now, coffee fresh, I resumed scrolling posts and pics, when I found myself stilled by a new photo...
My beautiful daughter. Tucked in close to husband and friends, her sparkling soul of a smile grabbed my heart and squeezed more tears.

Seven years since she first left home, then hometown, to the south, then southwest -- my grown up girl was on her way to yet another coast, a new home, a new adventure. This snapshot a piece of that journey. Her deeply loved family will settle far from here, once again. And even as I trust the Lord's directing her path, I felt every mile as a slow gouge across my heart... I'm so wrung out with goodbyes.

Standing in the kitchen sometime later, I felt it keenly -- life is the long mourning.

I've known it most profoundly as my children moved away. Each visit too brief. Each time to go chaffing the wound of the first goodbye. At least their childhood milestones kept them within arms reach, though they whispered a misty-eyed prelude to all that is now.

I've known it in hopes deferred. Relationships broken. Friends moved on, passed away, or caught in all manner of devastation. So much upheaval added to a lifetime of transitions. Season upon season, loss and change coming steadily, often leaving no time to process. Lives and issues demanding attention. No time to feel. Just move. Do. Now.

And always... the goodbyes.

Everyone's journey with loss etches differently, but is no less real. And I'm realizing that I often diminish my own pain, sweeping it away as pale in comparison to your pain... or their pain...
or suffering of global proportions. In doing so, my grief is shamed into some dark corner with no arms to comfort, no outlet for tears, no truth to lead it back to life and hope. The weight of it, unresolved, a silent shackle diminishing today's joy. And by deciding it does not matter, I am in effect saying
I don't matter.

This revelation brings a grief all it's own.

There is much stirring in these midlife days that I both welcome and want to run from. Healing requires revisiting storms past and a closer look at new issues swirling. All that wind... messing my hair... and messing with my emotions. I don't like either messed, but the hurts have been in disarray for a while. Hair is an easy fix. Maybe that's why I like doing hair.

I'm rambling now...

...and trying to make light of things that need light. That need honesty. That need a level of brave that has me on my tippy toes, longing for solid footing. Stretching for faith. Sorting through distractions that include voices, within and without, "Hurry up already!" Voices that throw out white-washing platitudes... "Let's just plaster you over with a few positive-thinking posters. Here's one with a Bible verse! There, now! Stand up straight so we can read your posters. We feel so much better now.
Don't you?"

We're all so uncomfortable with pain. Covering over is what we do, to ourselves and others.

Sigh...

Somewhere in this jumble of frustration and fear is a woman who longs to be set free of griefs deferred. To take hold of everything for which Christ has taken hold of her. To press on.

I know that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. He has redeemed me and calls me His own -- deeply loved, forgiven, accepted -- I do matter. And He's gently calling me to this heart-tending, lighting up dark corners, infinitely patient in my struggle. Amidst the storm, He will bring quiet, turning gusts to refreshing breezes as the Spirit bears truth and healing.

So, despite the desire to run away, I'll lean into Jesus, then lean into the wind, and keep on walking. Sometimes pressing on feels more like being pressed, but I know I'm safe, in Him, in the mess of
this long mourning.

Because of the LORD'S great love we are not consumed,

For His compassions never fail. They are new every morning;

great is Your faithfulness.

~Lamentations 3:22, 23

To everything there is a season,

A time for every purpose under heaven...

A time to weep,

And a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, 

And a time to dance. 

~Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4

 For all that gives rise to mourning, I am so thankful there remains a time to laugh.

  

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How about you? Is your pain cast aside or covered over?

Are you running or leaning in?

I pray you'll let Jesus tend your heart.

His compassions never fail.  

An Unexpected Blessing

As I walked through the Little Rock airport I wondered if saying goodbye would ever be easy. The prolonged hug outside the car. Trying to smile as I gave Cadence one last wave… Fighting back tears, I found myself grateful for the distraction of all the “take off your shoes…put your laptop in the bin” security procedures. Next up: a tall Pike Place with room for cream, a few posts on Facebook, and a call for Zone 2 to begin boarding. 

I entered the small commuter plane and quickly slipped past the young man in Seat 2B to settle into 2A. As he sat back down he asked where I was headed. “Spokane, Washington.” How about you? “I’m going to Minnesota to meet my girlfriend’s parent for the first time.” “How exciting!”

It’s not often that a young person strikes up a conversation with, well…someone my age, and I was immediately struck by his easy manner and the genuine light in his clear green eyes. As we prepared for take off then headed toward Memphis he continued to share, “I was a meth addict at 16…my dad’s an alcoholic…I’ve had four step-dads.” I soon learned that his addiction led to rehab at Teen Challenge and a life-changing encounter with Jesus. Double freedom. After rehab he’d signed up for DTS (Discipleship Training School) with YWAM (Youth With A Mission). It was there that he met Sarah. Though from a more stable family, she’d also fought demons of her own. He went on to share how God had brought them together…more details than I’ll share here, but it made me smile as it all poured forth from this very grateful, red-haired young man who is still amazed at God’s goodness.

After each sharing bits of our stories with one another, we finally exchanged names. He is Drew and he’ll “be 19 in three weeks.” He works with youth at his local church and loves to go back to Teen Challenge to volunteer and give back to those who gave so much to him. In September he’ll be back working with YWAM, assisting with the new DTS students. He and Sarah know that they have much to learn and much yet to be healed in their lives, but they have good mentors and a great Savior. We parted with a promise to pray for one another.

Landing in Memphis I thanked God for - a safe landing, of course - and for this work of Providence. “Youth with a mission.” In light of eternity, I’m still very young. That thirty-minute conversation was a comforting reminder that though my time in Little Rock was done, the Lord still has so many other appointments for me, so many opportunities to listen, to encourage and to pray for others.

Thank you Jesus and thank you, Drew. Godspeed.

Now I See

Lately I don’t see so good. (Bad grammar intended) Ah, the joys of growing older! My first collection of reading glasses made their appearance several years ago and have since been replaced by more powerful models. "We need morrre power, Captain!" (Thank you, Mr. Scot.) Blessed with perfect eyesight until sometime in my forties, I have found my diminishing ability to see things up close to be, well, frustrating. If only my arms were longer…

I still reach for the nail file and start in with my shaping only to realize that I cannot see what I’m doing…at all! I’ve mastered the art of holding an item as far from my face as possible while tipping my head back a little farther and scowling down at the teeny, tiny, sort-of-coming-into-focus writing. And my true transition to paying by debit card alone began about the time that I started scrawling out very blurry looking checks...blurry to me, anyway. Who has time to fish for glasses in the check stand?

This morning I simply wanted to find my little zirconia earrings. They were somewhere in that handful of tiny baubles floating in the small greenish ring bowl on top of my bedroom bookshelf…at about chin level. Needless to say as I peered at this collection of silver balls and sparkling studs all I saw was a cluster if shapes and glitter, kind of like when you squint at a disco ball. Everything is just vaguely…shiny. So with a sigh I picked up the bowl, and held it down, and tipped by head back, and scowled…and finally found what I was looking for. But all the while I’m thinking, “I can’t believe I have to do this!”

There was a time, a good long time, that I could see things up close. Now I have to stand back or do that stretchy arm, tippy head, scowl down your nose thing. My 12th grade English teacher has unknowingly found revenge. I used to sit in the back row of Mrs. Thompson’s class and offer to hold her book “back here” for her whenever she started tipping head and stretching arms. Good thing she liked me. (Actually, she was my favorite teacher. My inner word nerd blossomed under her enthusiasm for expounding on our weekly vocab words, mapping out the culture of Chaucer, diagramming sentences, and making us pump out yet another essay. But I digress…)

Tonight as I felt for the black pair of specs on my nightstand and crept out of the bedroom to begin another night of insomnia I saw something I hadn’t seen before. Not a real thing, but a flicker of a thought that captured full attention. My journey of sight to blur to holding it away and seeing again parallels my inner journey of seeing. So many years spent immersed in life, children to be raised, issues to be pressed through. Mulling around in that crowded stand of trees and trying to find my way. Only seeing what was right in front of me. But now as I’ve grown older there has been a knowing that standing back from all those things, gazing upon the whole forest, gives the keenest sight.

I have loved each new decade of my life better than the last for this very reason…or reasons: insight, perspective, context. And with those a deeper knowledge of the God who knew me before time and formed me in my mother’s womb with these very eyes – sort of greyish, but sometimes looking green or blue depending on what I’m wearing. You have to look at the whole to see their color. It’s His amazing grace that has taken me from blind to “now I see.” These are good thoughts on my countdown to fifty. The next decade is days away. Though my eyesight is going, I can praise Jesus that my vision is getting better.

IRRITATING

So how does a nice girl like me get so surly on such a lovely spring day?

(bats her thinning lashes)

I mean, I was just sitting there minding my own business, eating an apple with peanut butter. So far, so good. Granted, I had missed my sweat producing, stress-reducing workout this morning. I was all good intentions and black stretchy pants, but my black-clad bottom stayed on the couch a bit too long lingering over coffee and status updates.

So I made up the fictional Lazy Bottom Lounge “where middle-aged women come to drink coffee, laugh it up, and swap aches & pains. And where dust bunnies come to retire. Open most days from whenever I get up till about 4pm. Please call ahead,” posted the aforementioned silliness on Facebook, then went to a friend’s house for fellowship & prayer. She even gave me coffee & a low-fat, whole wheat banana muffin. (She’s a dietitian, you know, and every recipe will have the fat squeezed out before baking! …I love you, Diana!!)

Friends, prayer, coffee, yummies. What a great start to the day! So what happened?

I came home, it was all sunny and warm, and I was lunching on my usual apple snack when I felt this subtle chafing inside, like some sort of attitudinal heartburn. Then time slipped by, again, and I found myself throwing on non-gym clothes and sprucing my wavy day-before-hair that picked up some extra bounce from last night’s pillow perm. “Gah! I look pale and dead!” Blush, blush, blush! A touch more cover up on the dark circles. Throw on my favorite green jean jacket…yada, yada…and I’m off!

Yes, I’m off. In more ways than one. Off kilter. Off balance. In a hurry and secretly wishing that I could stay home at the Lazy Bottom Lounge and be silly in my comfy workout pants, or finally fold the sheets in the other room, put away the laundry from two days ago, and get my bed made before 3. I could even chase a few dust bunnies with the Swiffer that’s been prepped and ready for action since last week or just take a walk in the sunshine.

But I had places to be and people to see and worthy things to do. So I held my tongue and was outwardly fairly patient. Nothing that needed doing was hard. No one I was with was difficult. Yet even the offer of coffee and goodies at the end of the journey didn’t stop the simmer of irritation. This is not the kind of bubbly that gets you a Miss Congeniality award.

Do you ever have days like that where you’re thinking, “What is wrong with me?!”

A. Am I tired?

B. Am I a jerk?

C. Have I been hijacked by mid-life hormones? …or

D. All of the above, so

E. Will someone please just take me some place quiet where I can’t hurt anyone?!

And can I take a nice long nap…until May?

Ah, May. Mid-life is approaching. At least the numerical marker that is the traditional and much joked about top of the hill that you’re now going over. (No pushing!) But surly, and cranky, and tired? Seriously? Being irritated is just, well…irritating! And I’d rather be silly, goofy, or even the butt of some you’re-getting-old joke than “surly.” Surly is for weathered-faced bandits or the mean old hag in some Dickens novel. I might be getting old, but I’m not that old. I’ve just never pictured myself as surly.

I’m pretty much a certified goofball (the only certification I have). I am a klutz in the kitchen (there are witnesses). I love making up silly puns and sillier faces. I speak in various accents whenever appropriate (or inappropriate). And I am prone to pursue laughter (yours and mine) even more passionately than dark chocolate. Cross my “eyes” and hope to die…

Ok, maybe that wasn’t the best choice of words.

All I can say is, this girl is not going down without a fight! Crankiness…be gone! Surliness…get a life! Hormones?! Don’t make me come over there! Don’t make me use my mom voice!

There are some former kids from a youth camp many years ago that can tell you how scary my mom voice is! Ha! Can I get a witness?

Wow. What am I saying? (pause)

Maybe I have been cranky all along. (longer pause)

Now THAT is irritating.