HONEST REFLECTIONS

I raced my cart toward checkout as fast as the crowded aisles allowed. I was powerfully motivated to escape further temptation in this home goods nirvana.  A simple stop for a dish drainer had tempted me with an unending display of items I had not known existed and now couldn’t live without.

I was focused on the exit when I saw her from the corner of my eye, and then only from her elbows down. Even this brief glimpse provoked strong emotions that swung unbidden between judgment and pity. “Oh, my! Who would leave the house looking like that?” My ungracious thought was quickly followed with the more charitable, and entirely Southern, “Bless her heart. What an unfortunate wardrobe choice.”

I peeked at her face. The woman wearing the walking wardrobe disaster bore an uncanny resemblance to me. She apparently saw me looking her direction and stared back. Shock and dismay registered on her familiar face. I realized then I was walking by the mirror department.

I made a sharp left turn, moving deeper into the rows of mirrors in a desperate attempt to hide until I could make a more accurate assessment. I nurtured the irrational hope a different mirror would produce a more favorable result. I had dressed so carefully that morning and left home with the pert confidence of one who thinks she looks exceptionally stylish.

Every mirror in the department (I’m pretty sure I checked every one.) confirmed my worst suspicion. My perky yellow top was not long enough for leggings. I had no business being in public wearing an outfit that would be adorable on a chubby-bottomed toddler or alluring on a nubile teen. Too late I realized I had taken for granted the value of the full-length mirrors attached to every closet door in the home from which I had recently moved.

At that point I did what any woman in my vulnerable position would have done—I picked up the closest full-length mirror, used it to shield myself from further view, added it to my other purchases, and escaped to my car.

I have not always appreciated the brutal appraisal a good mirror offers, wishing instead to see a face I only imagine staring back at me—the one devoid of blemishes and under-eye circles, the one with a less prominent jaw and a more prominent nose. Yet I cannot live without mirrors. Their forthright honesty serves me well. They keep me from thinking more highly of my appearance than I ought. Their accurate revelation gives me the opportunity to change what I can and to accept graciously what I cannot.

True friends are like good mirrors. They often see things about me that I cannot see myself. They tell me the truth when my actions and attitudes, my words or even my wardrobe, needs to change. They let me know when I am “too big for my britches”—both literally and figuratively. Their insight encourages me to change.

Faithful friends who have done more to clothe me in body and soul than they will ever know. Friends have suggested what styles and colors look best on me and which ones I should never wear again. Friends have given me clothes they decided would look better on me than on them. Jewelry-making friends have generously accessorized my outfits, adding color and sophistication to my often-black attire.

Although I can recognize obvious flaws in a mirror, only a talented and true friend will point out more than what a mirror reveals. One friend spent four hours helping me find the perfect dress to wear to my daughter’s wedding. My personal standards weren’t that high. As long as the dressing room mirror reflected an image that wasn’t too fat or too frumpy, I would have settled at the two-hour mark. It was my friend who looked beyond the most glaring problems and recognized the best color, the right fit, a style that was uniquely mine, and had the tenacity to keep me going. I learned two things that day: how to be a better dresser but more importantly, how to be a better friend.

Ultimately it isn’t the external image that matters most. Beauty fades. Styles change. Hours spent making the corrections the mirror suggests will not stop the steady march of lines across once-dewy skin. The mirror may remind a grumpy face to smile, but it cannot provide the joy. The mirror will know a worried life by its deeply furrowed brow, but it cannot lighten the load. A mirror may subtly reveal a ‘stinky attitude,’ but it cannot change the heart.

Faithful friends provide mirrors for my soul. They see my lines and wrinkles through my daily life. They show me the state of my heart and the adequacy of my thinking. They notice whether I am glowing and growing or frumpy and fading. They recognize when I am becoming ‘unbecoming.’ True friends tell me what they see with grace; with mercy they challenge me to change.

Not too long ago I unloaded a litany of woes on a friend. I was confident I was justified in my rambling lament. She listened empathetically, mirrored my pain, then offered a redemptive perspective. “I know it is hard,” she comforted, “but when I was in a similar situation, it helped me to thank God for the health and strength to carry the burden instead of simply complaining about the load.” Her gracious acceptance showed me my selfish heart; her merciful counsel gave me a pathway for change.

As I transition to new adventures, I must ensure the safeguards both mirrors and friends provide. A full-length mirror can be replaced with a few screws. Close friends will never be replaced. Their continued insights reach across the miles, arriving in texts and letters, FaceTime and phone calls, but their input is limited by what I choose to share and not what they can observe first hand. So now I am hoping for additional friends who can see my latest flaws up close and personal—people who will have the insight and have courage to look me in the eye and suggest that perhaps I shouldn’t be seen in public until I change my attire, my attitude or even my heart.

Trustworthy are the bruises of a friend…. Proverbs 27:6a (CEB)

LICENSED TO SMILE

My dark-hued cape of self-pity proved futile against the chilly wind. Not even a base-layer of resignation was sufficient to buffer me from the biting dread. The April day itself was as gray as my soul. The sun struggled valiantly to throw off its own murky covering, but the temperatures dropped as the day progressed. Only my need to check another item off an unending list propelled me forward; that…and the knowledge I was on a collision course (metaphorically speaking) with Louisiana and North Carolina and their irritating insistence that my vehicle should be registered to the address where it resides.

An online study of DMV regulations did little to quell my anxiety. A somewhat straightforward list of required documents was sabotaged by an ambiguous reference to having something notarized. Furthermore, the reasonableness of my DMV avoidance had been reinforced during the process of getting a new driver’s license a few weeks before. It took two trips before I had the necessary paperwork, and I still had to wait three hours.

I asked a friend for advice. She had no personal experience, but her husband, who had overheard my concerns, answered from the other room. This solid, masculine counsel confirmed the reason for my self-pity. Registering a vehicle is not women’s work! At least it wasn’t as long as I had my own husband who did such things for me.

George was the one who spoke the language of vehicular bureaucracy, took time off work to stand in line, and then presented me with a new license plate at the end of the day. I was better suited to pouring him a glass of wine, rubbing his aching back, and paying online renewals. My oft-intoned mantra of ‘women-can-do-anything’ did not apply when it came to this intersection between personal property and state regulations.

Now, with no one but me to handle such tasks, I braved the cold and my own uncertainty to join the line inside DMV. I clutched a document-filled folder and staggered under the weight of my widowhood as I stood at the back of the queue.

“Is this where I get an ID?” the latest arrival asked. I was pretty sure it wasn’t. This was the vehicle registration office. My two trips to get a driver’s license had been at a different location, one that presumably issued IDs. Signs everywhere clearly marked this distinction. The smiling and confident woman who stood there with a white cane couldn’t see any of them.

No one in line offered a solution or a helping hand. No husband, parent or friend came to her aid. Where were her people? Who would be brave enough, or crazy enough, to go blind and alone, to the DMV? I thought it would be best for her to speak with one of the officials, so I suggested she join me in line and go to the counter with me.

If I sounded more like an interrogator than a friendly extrovert, this friendly woman didn’t let on. She had used Uber to get to the DMV. She had just moved to Durham and didn’t know anyone here. Her move was neither job nor education related. Although she did not have family in the area, she was relocating her aging mother here. She had picked Durham because it seemed like a good fit for her, and it was a midway point of sorts between where she had been living in Paris and where her mother currently lived in Spokane.

She spoke as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a blind woman to move around the globe and to take up residence in an unfamiliar city where she had no connections. She acted as if keeping an eye on an elderly relative when you can’t see a thing is something people do every day. She moved purposefully, as one who can only feel their way but who doesn't doubt they will get where they want to go. She radiated warmth and joy, and she did it without the apparent support of friends or family. There was no mention of a husband.

“Next,” called the man, and we made our way to the counter. Never before had a long line seemed too short. He answered her questions quickly; then she was on her way.

I wanted to follow, to hear more of her story, to offer friendship and help, and to discover the secret of her confidence. Instead, I did what I had come to do. I presented my documents and hoped for the best. Five minutes and a design choice later, I left with a new license plate. I looked for the woman; she was nowhere to be seen.

Stepping through the heavy glass doors, I discovered the world had warmed during my absence. The clouds were beating a steady retreat from the victorious sun. I was overdressed for such a day. With eyes awakened by the brightness of the day and by the fortitude of a woman who could only feel the sun, I saw how tattered and threadbare my covering of self-pity had become. Maybe I needn’t wear it so often. Perhaps I should hang it in the back of my closet. In time I might even give it away, I thought. And, I smiled.

I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet. – Helen Keller

For You have been my help, And in the shadow of Your wings I sing for joy.
Psalms 63:7 (NASB)

SO THIS IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

It was the final day of a chaotic year. Because New Year’s Eve came on Sunday, large numbers of establishments—including the church I attend and the restaurant where we had hoped to lunch—locked their doors for a year-end reprieve. A deep chill invaded a city unaccustomed to such arctic influence. Only the promise of worshiping with my daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law lured me from my cozy home.

A church I had attended on previous occasions would be holding a mid-morning service. This church, with its inspiring worship and preaching, was full of people in my life stage. I sometimes wondered if it would have been a better fit for me than the small church of Millennials I had chosen.

We raced from the car through the bitter cold to find seats in a sanctuary alive with the sounds of friends greeting each other after the holidays. As a detached observer, I concluded these people had intimate relationships that spanned generations. How comforting it would be to nestle into fellowship with such warm-hearted people.

Yet I already knew that if I wanted to connect with this body of believers, I would have to take the initiative. During previous visits, I had learned members didn't talk to strangers—except when they passed the peace by offering limp hands and a perfunctory, “Peace of Christ.” I had been surprised, but not offended, when no one spoke to me as I entered or when I left. I had simply filled out the attendance sheet and waited for the follow-up that never came.

I had not entirely given up on the notion of getting involved with this church. Perhaps in the spring I would join one of their women’s groups. Maybe I would begin attending their early service before heading to my own small church. I could always meet with one of the pastors.

Seated next to my daughter and her fiancé, I reveled in the exquisite pleasure of worshiping with two people who loved me well. Our voices blended in harmony as we sang familiar songs. Our elbows touched as we knelt during silent confession. I anticipated the warmth of receiving their heartfelt “Peace of Christ” and was grateful I wouldn’t be left standing awkwardly alone as people around me resumed conversations begun days or weeks before.

To my surprise, when I turned to offer the “Peace of Christ” to my loved ones, they were already engaged in an intense conversation. The group of older couples who surrounded them apparently had dispensed with ‘passing the peace’ and moved directly to ‘let’s get acquainted.’

“Good morning. We are so glad to have you with us,” one woman gushed. “Are you students at Duke?” “Did you just move to Durham?” “We would love to have you join us regularly.” “You must meet our friends.”

My daughter and her fiancé were like a horseshoe magnet in a bowl of paper clips. Her engaging smile, his Asian heritage, and their vibrant youth proved an irresistible draw for this gray-headed flock.

My daughter tried to pull me into the conversation, “I want you meet my mother. She just moved to Durham and really doesn’t know anyone yet.” I smiled warmly into faces fleetingly diverted in my direction and offered my name for good measure. Only one woman responded. Her obligatory ‘how very nice to meet you,’ sounded alarmingly like ‘how nice for you, dear,’ but I couldn’t be sure. In her haste to turn back to my daughter, her intentions spoke more clearly than her actual words.

“So this is what it feels like," I thought, borrowing the words and bemused expression of Andrew Hennings, the jilted groom in Sweet Home Alabama. This is what it feels like to be looked over and then summarily overlooked. This is what it means to be denied acceptance—not because of who I am, but because of what I am perceived to be. This is what discrimination feels like—to be rejected for criteria beyond my control—to know that I will always be too old and too American, that I will always lie outside the demographic of their intended mission.

Even as I reeled from the sting of this transitory discomfort, I recognized it as an insignificant incident in a primarily privileged life. My previous experiences with prejudice had been based on gender or things aligned with choice, like education or beliefs. Oh, I had sometimes been ridiculed for being blond—and for living up to the reputation—but other than that, I had no recollection of being discriminated against based on identity until this day. But at that same moment, I was jolted by remembering that encounters more blatant than this are the way of life for multitudes of men, women and children. My heart responded with a newly awakened compassion for those who have reaped the harvest of repeated discrimination.

I cringed anew as I remembered an incident that occurred years ago while we were hosting a stranger from West Virginia. Her son was participating in the Special Olympics; we had registered as a host family. We had inadvertently overheard her conversation as she tried to reassure her mother long-distance, “No, I’ll be fine. They seem like a nice white family. I don't think they will murder me in my sleep.” And we didn’t. On the contrary, we discovered, along with our guest, that what we held in common was greater than the differences on our skin. At the time I assessed her mother’s concern as the laughable worry of an old woman. Now I recognized it as a reflection of personal experience.

I recalled books I had read, and I saw the characters more sharply defined and illustrated in denser hues. I experienced a profound empathy with Ruth Jefferson, the protagonist in Small Great Things (Jodi Picoult), whose education, competence and reputation were of less consequence than the color of her skin. Whereas previously I had absorbed with abhorrence the experiences chronicled in the fictionalized history of Lalita Tedemy’s family (Cane River and Red River), I had gained a new perspective and a small glimpse into the despair that must surely settle into marginalized and persecuted souls.

I have thought about the incident for months now and have shared the story with other people. Some have winced at the transparent age discrimination; others have shuddered at an unfortunate church growth strategy. Many have encouraged me to talk to one of the pastors. To do so would be to miss the point of what I gained that day. That brief episode was a gift I opened and am slowly unpacking. In it I am uncovering new insight, greater compassion, and a heightened awareness of injustice. (As a bonus, I also gained deep gratitude for the young people who embraced me in the very diverse faith family I truly call my church home.)

It would be tempting, and far too easy, to come away from this experience with grand declarations for radical personal change. Reality reminds me this is the start of a journey.