Welcome to the Funny Farm (13 page)

And I realized that the real gift—the one that really glimmered against the backdrop of beautifully wrapped curling irons and tea makers, refrigerator magnets and blow-dryers—was the enthusiasm of the givers.

The real gift was the fact that Kacie's first thought after our separation was not about what I could do for her, but about what she could give to me.

The real gift was hearing from Kaitlyn that the iridescent purple blow-dryer cost more than the noniridescent purple dryer, but that she had been glad to pay the difference because she wanted me to have the very best one.

The real gift was the sacrificial efforts of a dad who has severe allergic reactions to malls and who has been known to wrap presents in trash bags.

God must understand this principle better than anyone.

That's why he cherished quarters from widows more than big bucks from hypocrites.

Have you ever thought about giving something to God—a song solo during worship service, an hour a week teaching Sunday school, participation in a local outreach or ministry—and then didn't do it because you were afraid your efforts would be less than perfect? Because you figured someone else could do the job better? Because you were terrified of making a mistake?

Yeah, me too.

What a shame.

Because the truth is that our heavenly Father cherishes the quality of our passion over the quality of our performance. He values sincerity over perfection. And he loves the givers more than he loves the gifts.

I need to remind myself of this often. Maybe even daily. In fact, maybe I should write myself a note and tape it to my bathroom mirror. It could remind me that my Father loves my heartfelt gifts to him—not because my gifts are perfect, but because he loves me with a perfect love.

I could ponder this each morning as I brush my teeth and wash my face.

Not to mention as I curl my hair, a shiny new curling iron in each hand.

28

We're Definitely Getting Older . . . But Are We Getting Wiser?

R
ECENTLY A YOUNG MAN NAMED
B
AYLEN SHOWED ME
his two front teeth. Or, rather, DIDN'T show me his two front teeth.

Baylen just turned seven. There's a gap in his smile that means he's growing up. It also makes a neat place to stick a straw and drink Dr Pepper while his jaws are clamped shut. It also makes a neat window through which he can squeeze the tip of his tongue and gross out anyone who may be watching.

Missing teeth are a welcome milestone of maturity.

Well, they're a welcome milestone of maturity when you're seven. If you're my age and older, they can mean gum disease and an artificial bridge. But when you're seven, they're way cool.

Teenagers, on the other hand, have other rites of passage. Two days ago the teenaged daughter of one of my best friends got her tongue pierced. Among her age group, this is considered a brilliant thing to do.

She called me the next morning, a note of desperation in her voice: “I need your advice. How should I tell my mom?”

I don't know why she called me. Maybe the fact that I'm the only grown-up she knows with a belly button ring had something to do with it. (Don't ask, it's a long story. Let me just say that I'm having my midlife crisis and it was far cheaper than a Ferrari.)

So I tried to be helpful. Basically, I suggested she take this approach: “Mom, I did something you're probably not going to like, but before I tell you what it is, I want you to know that keeping your trust and having a good relationship with you is really important to me, and that if you want me to undo what I've done, I will. All I ask is that, before you decide, you give me a chance to explain why I'd like to keep it.”

I reminded Rachel that these couldn't be empty words. I reminded her that her relationship with her folks SHOULD be far more valuable to her than a three-quarter-inch piece of metal in her tongue.

Rachel had the talk with her mom. Amazingly, she still has her piercing. Of course, she's temporarily living on chicken broth and ice cream and talking like Scooby Doo, but she still has the stud in her tongue.

She sees it, as do her friends, as a sign of independence. But maybe the real sign of maturity is the fact that she was, indeed, willing to remove it so as not to offend her folks. She's testing boundaries, but when push came to shove, she was willing to put relationships above personal expression.

Either that or she really pulled one over on her mom and me.

Other signs of maturity? How about the fact that when you're my age and you have a birthday, you truly cannot have your cake and eat it too. This is because, in the time it takes everyone to finish singing “Happy Birthday,” the cake has sustained far too much smoke and fire damage to be edible.

Other signs? I could also mention that my body's going south—like the fact that my hair is leaving my scalp and showing up on my chin—but there's enough material on THAT subject to fill an entire book, so I think I'll save it for later.

Spiritual growth is another matter. Those milestones don't come automatically with the passing of the years. It's possible to be a Christian of forty years and still have your baby teeth, so to speak. Possible to be a believer of many decades and not have learned really basic stuff, like the fact that relationships are to be cherished. Possible to have gone to church for a lot of years, but still have the naivete of a baby Christian, without any of the wisdom that tends to accompany spiritual laugh lines, hot flashes, and age spots.

Growing older is guaranteed.

Growing spiritually is a choice.

Are we growing spiritually?

What milestones should we look for?

Let's think back to when we were new believers. Think about how often we prayed, the kinds of sermons and teaching we digested, how hungry we were to read God's Word, the temptations we were struggling against. Then think about our lives today. If we can't see a lot of progress, we may be caught in a time warp: We may be forty-year-old Christians in diapers.

Of course, spiritual growth, just like physical growth, has one prerequisite: Before you can grow, you have to be born.

If you're not growing spiritually, is it because you've yet to be birthed into the family of God? If so, this is a great time for a birthday. A spiritual birthday. Talk to a pastor or a friend who attends church and tell them you're ready for a new life with Jesus. Or e-mail me and let's talk. Either way, time's short. We're not getting any younger, you and I. No use being spiritual embryos when Jesus desires to give us a full and abundant life!

So let's grow.

Good-bye baby teeth, hello molars.

The stud in the tongue is optional.

29

C'mon In, the Water's Fine

W
E
'
RE APPROACHING BATHING SUIT SEASON.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so shockingly blunt. I should have broken the bad news gently.

But it's not like we're not thinking about it already.

I've already passed racks of bathing suits in the stores and moaned.

I've already gotten bathing suit catalogs in the mail and rolled my eyes.

But it's unavoidable. Here it's June and school's out and my kids are already begging to go to the city pool. What's worse, I'm going to have to go shopping for a new suit because the last one I bought was during the Nixon administration and it's beginning to show some wear. (The suit, not the Nixon administration.)

The good news is that there are swimsuits these days designed to hide problem areas. There are skirts to hide tummies. Vertical stripes to slenderize. Bras with water-filled cups to maximize certain assets, and spandex bottom-control panels to minimize others.

I keep waiting for a suit with long sleeves.

Or maybe some flesh-colored elastic leggings to smooth out the fat deposits above my knees.

But really, I don't know what's worse. Wearing a suit that isn't flattering but is still tolerable enough to justify the expenditure of forty to eighty bucks . . . or the trauma of trying on three dozen suits that make me look horrible just to find the one that makes me look merely dumpy and unattractive.

Actually, I've been thinking about the folks who design department store dressing rooms. Obviously these folks are men. I say this because they're under the misconception that women in department store dressing rooms really want to know what they look like.

Based on this assumption, these men equip dressing rooms with bright lights and real mirrors (as opposed to candlelight and concave mirrors that take ten pounds off a woman right from the start).

I'm not saying that the men who design dressing rooms should be deceptive. I'm not saying that they should lie to us.

In fact, as far as I'm concerned, they can post a disclaimer right there in the dressing room, that says “Objects in mirror are larger than they appear.”

We won't care. We already know the truth. We'll just be grateful not to have to look at every pound of it.

The truth is, I'd love to love my body.

I'd love to feel comfortable with the skin I'm in without always comparing my shape to the computer-enhanced, airbrushed curves of supermodels who not only won the gene-pool lottery but are addicted to lettuce and have the financial resources to retain the full-time services of personal trainers with names like Chip and Biff.

Even more importantly, I'd love to feel more confident about myself, knowing that my worth as a woman doesn't rise and fall with the numbers on my scale . . . that it's not diminished because of the circumference of my thighs . . . that it's not tarnished by a blemish or an age spot, knobby knees, or pear-shaped hips.

In fact, wouldn't it be great if I could draw strength and confidence and self-worth from something rock solid? Something finished and complete? Something that doesn't change from day to day? Something that—unlike my body—will never lose its vitality or bloom?

Something like that really exists. Except it's not a something. It's a Someone. And his name is Jesus. Indeed, according to the Bible . . .

. . . Jesus is the Eternal Rock.

. . . He's the Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last, the Author and Finisher of our faith.

. . . He's the same yesterday, today, and forever.

. . . And he's the Living Vine—he'll never fade or wilt or die.

Best yet, he loves me with an everlasting love.

I think I'm ready to go buy that swimsuit now. And as I look into the dressing-room mirror, I'll just remind myself that I'm loved with a love that is rock solid, complete, eternal, and alive. And if that's not enough to make me feel good about myself, I don't know what is.

Not even a bust-enhancing water-bra comes close.

30

Dogs, Teenagers, and Other Noncompliant Life-Forms

M
Y FRIEND
B
ETH HAS A
C
HIHUAHUA NAMED
A
NNABEL.

Beth adores Annabel.

She says its because Annabel is the only member of her family who actually does what she says. And it's true. Beth says “sit” and Annabel sits. Beth says “stay” and Annabel stays.