The Tell

In poker there’s a great word: it’s called a tell. It’s an action or thing someone does that tells you about what’s in their hand, what their next play may be, if they’re nervous. I love this concept, mostly because of how it works elsewhere. Sometimes you see something about an individual and it just speaks volumes to you about this person. For example, there’s this guy with devil’s horns imbedded under the skin of his skull. Now looks can be incredibly deceiving. I know that. But my first instinct when I see this guy is to think he probably doesn’t do scrap booking. Or sell Amway. Or vote Republican.

Or Democrat.

Or any of the first ten possible party affiliations on any standard college political science list. Maybe after Republican and Democrat

Fashion Advice for the Short and Stumpy

There is a woman in my church who is always pulled together. She is sweet, kind, thoughtful  funny  AND…she is always perfectly dressed. I mean perfectly. She is just the picture of lovely. Her colors  always complement her creamy complexion, they fit her beautifully, and they have just a bit of snazzy to them – enough to make me look at her with admiration. . . 

which I then follow up with a look of resignation,

which is usually translated into a sigh when I pause to consider my own appearance at that moment. I have two “church skirts” (count them: one, two) that I typically pull out; one is for cooler weather, the other for warmer weather.  (I previously had an additional beloved swirly summer skirt but I was informed by the committee-for-unsightly-in-church-offenses that it made me look like a tired bohemian Gypsy. Skirt now retired. Made lovely throw pillows)

My remaining two skirts are both fairly plain so I attempt to appear to wear many different outfits throughout the church calendar year by topping them with various and diversely colored blouses and scarves.  Most of the time I’m rather apathetic in my selections, and show up looking like a sack of potatoes in a snazzy wrap. But special days call for special efforts.

On Easter Sunday I try to look very risen, solidly awake. Bright colors and an extra cup of coffee are my carpe diem strategy.

Epiphany Sunday, I try to look astonished and filled with new understanding…lots of white and yellows, with extra bright eye shadow.

I’ve not yet figured out the best dress for honoring the martyrs on All Saints Day, although there is a Goth kid who visits twice a year who just might have it pegged. 

But now, as I look upon this pulled together woman…let’s call her Grace, (what else) who wafts in each and every Sunday morning looking like a catalog cover, I decided it was time to actually choose my clothing with forethought and proactive intention. Gone will be my previous methodology which basically was “Does it cover my person and was it clean at some point in recent memory?”

Choose Your Shape—I began to research my topic with enthusiasm. My study quickly took me to the science of body shapes. First, I learned, one must “dress to their shape.” My many years of raising preschoolers taught me that round is indeed, also a shape, but apparently it has been callously cast aside by the fashion shape selection police. So while “round” might best suit me, apple, pear and rectangle are the standard industry choices.

Create Proportion—Next I was informed that puffy sleeves add extra dimension to one’s top half if one already has enough dimension to one’s bottom half. But further reading revealed that puffy sleeves are not recommended if one has either an abbreviated neck or extra flappery in the neck region. No suggestions if one has all of the above.

Height Assessment—Additionally I learned that certain accommodations can be made if one is too short. To give you perspective: I once stood behind a podium to give a speech and was later accused on an audience survey of having sat down the whole time. Apparently only my head could be seen, given a frighteningly real rendition of the oft used “talking head.” All my animated gestures and meaningful body language were completely lost.

For those with such linear deficiencies, fashion authorities state that one must take hem lines to just above the knee to give a better sense of proportion. But a tad later, in the exact same article, they mention that if one however has pudgy knees, the hem length is better just below abovesaid knee pudge.  

How had they determined that you were only permitted one body flaw per person? Why hadn’t I gotten that memo long ago?

I continued to follow the lengthy flow chart of questions designed to lead me to the perfect fashion choice, which in the end…big sigh…was a burkha.

I’ve gone back to my two skirts for the time being. I’ve nobly decided God wants me to focus on other areas of self-improvement for the present, things like meekness, calmness of spirit and praying without ceasing. But I realized that it’s also possible He wishes me to address the abovesaid flappery, pudge and proportion. I am determined…one day…to do so. Indeed, when I am successful in taking my shape from round to apple or pear, I shall astound them all…even Grace…with my Sunday morning style.  But till then, you’ll find me in my American Burkha (read that—winter pajamas) working on my latest book: Fashion Advice for the Short and Stumpy.

Not Yet Ready to Titus

I should have seen it coming. The Bible says, “For everything, there is a season,” but somehow I missed that memo saying

“. . .and Missy, your Autumn approacheth.”

It’s true, I no long qualify for MOPS. I haven’t had a preschooler in, well, awhile. My calendar no longer schedules play dates, but rather, testing dates for the SAT, and ACT. And when looking over an invitation that arrived in today’s mail, my first—well actually my PRIMARY concern, is how late will this event keep me out?

Whether I’ve taken note or not, time is marching on in my life, even though I’ve made every attempt to age only on alternate leap years. But I think it hit me hardest when I was approached by a lovely young woman in my church asking me to assist in a program. I assumed I was about to be asked to help in the nursery, to perhaps teach Sunday School. But no. . .instead, she asked me to become. . . wait for it. . .a Titus woman. The surest sign that you have aged is being asked to become a mentor to younger married women, which of course means that you are no longer one of them.

I don’t know if my face gave testimony to my shock, but inside I felt the sudden stirrings of rheumatism, and shocking need for more fiber.

Now I know it’s an honor to receive such a request but I have problems even with the name. Titus. Think of it. It rhymes with Phlebitis, Gastritis, Hemorrhaging Encephalitis—ALL good words to stay away from. 

Nonetheless, since it’s an honor, perhaps I could manage it. I decided to go home and look up just what this job description entails.

Have the older women. . .<ah. . .that’s supposed to be me I think. . . joy> to be reverent in the way they live.

Okay, we may have a problem right off the bat. Now please understand, I take my faith, my worship and my God very, very seriously.  But myself?  Eh. . .not so much. And this easily translates into how I live. In fact, I work hard to bring MORE levity into my family’s world, rather than less. What’s worse, my humor is often described as IR-reverent. Perhaps I’m not qualified for this matronly honor after all.

She is not to be a slanderer.  Okay, I think I’m good there. In fact, I sincerely hope that I’m more a Barnabus—you know, an encourager and keeper of the heart rather than a slanderer. Moving on.

She is not to be addicted to much wine. . .

That one’s easy. I don’t even like wine. But if addiction is the key word here, I must confess to a less-than-healthy relationship with my morning cup of coffee. My favorite mug reads “I drink coffee for YOUR protection.”

Moving on again.

. . .but she is to teach what is good.

Now you’ll notice it didn’t say she had to BE what is good. Because my daily failings would be a pretty quick disqualifier. But. . .if it’s about teaching, the truth is there are some things I’ve learned over the years.

For example, I know that sometimes a well-dusted house isn’t as valuable as making paper dolls with my daughter.

I know that becoming a mother added a dimension to my brain that wasn’t there before. All thoughts I have must be thought once for their impact on me, and then rethought once again for their impact on my children.

I know that we don’t have to constantly change friends if we understand that friends change.

I know that sometimes marriage is about feeling loving and committed to your spouse. But at other times, it’s about keeping a commitment to your God.

I know that money is a silly way to keep score. . .but, it sure keeps the kids in touch.

In the end, maybe I could pull this off. But somehow, I’m just not quite ready for this Titus-Woman thing. The honor of the request is not lost on me, but it seems such a serious responsibility. And perhaps, I’m really not right for such a task, even with the aging requirement easily fulfilled. God doesn’t call each of us to be the same thing. That’s why He said, while we’re all a part of the body, some of us will be an eye, others a foot, others an ear, still others a hand. Yet all are a part of His bride, which I think means I fall somewhere near the elbow—a silly looking part of the body, the purpose for which is not totally clear, but is nonetheless directly connected to the funny bone.

Out of My Mind-Back by Closing Hymn

I love going to church. My favorite time is not the singing (although I do love the robust and rousing Fanny Crosby hymns, partially because they are straight out of my childhood and partially because I get to snicker at my husband. His very Lutheran musical tastes <read that: Bach, big organs, and more Bach> claim that the hymns I adore make him feel as if the congregation has just stepped onto a giant Merry-go-round. It delights me so that God brought us together. We can have a theological debate over the price of butter.) Nor is my favorite time the time of greeting when we wander about the congregation, seeking people with hands to be shaken and peace to be shared, and then once safely back in the pews, quietly put on disinfectant to avoid one of the Holy Plagues.

Nope, my favorite part is . . .

Tongue, Be Thou Loosed!

Welcome, friends, to Church Speak Recovery Class. My name is Carol. [Hi, Carol.] And I’m a recovering addict of church speak. Yes, friends, for years, I suffered from an acute addiction to the compelling lure of church language. Its grip on me and my tongue was so tenacious that it could emerge at any time.

“Why, Laura, come in and have a muffin. Would you like a proper exegesis with that?”

While trying to live for the Lord, my uncontrolled use of the best practiced and most historically accurate of church terminology often puzzled people, in some cases, moving them further from the very God I wished them to know. I often saw the confusion spreading across their faces as I shared my thoughts of grace, mercy and ecclesiastical catechesis — and, yet, I was clueless as to what I had done to produce the wrinkled brow and baffled expression that regularly met my eager gaze.

Luckily, a mentor emerged to show me the error of my ways. “Carol,” he kindly said, “You do understand, don’t you, that the person you were speaking to believes Total Depravity is a headbanger group from the 90s?”

Essential Skills of Churchified Kids

This will probably get me in trouble, but … I think it’s possible that children shouldn’t be allowed in church, at least not until they’ve been trained. I don’t mean that typical genteel parental kind of training. I’m talking more like kid-to-kid warning and wisdom. Call it “How-to-Survive-the-Next-Hour-Without-Getting-Spanked-101.”

For example, I learned at a very young age that, when the elderly Edith Cooper began her weekly snore,

Milk & Honey…Revised and edited

I absolutely love my pastor. I come away from each and every sermon with something profound, something else of historical value, something else of literary merit (He was an English Major) and then, always something that rises up as potential for an article…or a book title…or an idea begging for exploration.

Every Sunday I end up scribbling one or five things worth hanging onto, things I may develop later when I’m so moved. Over the years he’s given me ideas for a children’s book series on odd characters of the Bible, a great quote about creeping legalism by Gordon Fee as “Hardening of the Categories,” and deeper insight into the mind of God. He even creates new words that frankly should be added to the Webster Dictionary; “Irkible” being my favorite. “Lord, remove from me any irkible spirit that lies within.”

So it was a nice break from all things theological to have him provide me with a simple moment of levity.