Category Archives: On Being Alive

Big Joy

Beach Body

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for bodies all over this beach,
like a bowl of mixed nuts
tossed in saltwater
and spread on the sand to dry.
How I am tempted to sort them
by shape and size and color.

Blessed are You for the confidence of jiggling white cheeks, divided by a teal thong,
for laissez-faire, leathered breasts who’ve seen more sun than most faces,
for awkward couples not sure how much of one another’s bare skin to touch,
and couples who’ve been walking barefoot in the foamy tide since before I was born.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for every brave body,
here for sun and water and sand—
but also to be seen,
to remind me that every body is a “beach body.”
To paraphrase Jesus,
“The beach was made for bodies,
and not bodies for the beach.”
Every salty nut belongs.

From Pink Leather to Diversity

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I cannot imagine the “Urgent need for Bibles” depicted on my social media feed and in letters from charities. I don’t know the hunger for Scripture that thousands have felt in prison, in remote villages, in countries hostile to Christianity. I have more Bibles than I want, and only need visit a book store or sit in a church pew to access even more.

Over the years, I’ve accumulated seven or eight Bibles, including a small pink New Testament with Psalms, a Seminars Unlimited Edition KJV (free for everyone who attended a Revelation Seminar series—hallmark of the Seventh-Day-Adventist Church), and the bright, almost-holographic NIV children’s Bible I earned by memorizing the books of the Bible. I’m still proud that I can recite the minor prophets in order.

During my high school years I bought a metal-covered NLT Bible with a magnetic clasp, and a Spanish/English NIV. In Senior Bible class, each student chose a new-to-us style or version of the Bible. I picked the Serendipity Bible, designed with questions and study helps in the margins for group discussion. Lover of small groups that I am, I thought—and still think—it’s brilliant. But I’ve hardly used it.

The only Bible I truly loved came to me in its pink leather cover on my ninth birthday. As I wrote in last week’s post, I read it all the way through that year, and over the next ten years it became like a fifth appendage. When I flip through it now, I find a quarter-sheet of paper with notes for a worship talk to the student body at my high school, and another with multiple-choice options, showing a checkmark beside the statement, “I rededicate my life to Christ today.”

I still get a feeling of companionship when I turn the pages of my pink Bible, but it’s connected to life before I moved away from home. I must have taken that Bible to church during my college years, but memories are vague. Did I have morning “quiet time”? I can’t remember. By the time I graduated from college, the focus of my small groups had moved away from Bible study and toward facilitating safe spaces for personal growth. The women in my life wanted to be heard, and so did I.

Two years after I graduated from college—and fifteen years after my parents gave me the pink Bible—my college-boyfriend-turned-husband gave me a burgundy NKJV Remnant Study Bible with my married name embossed on the front, in silver. Pink Bible retired to the Bible shelf, safe in a pleather case. But I never really moved in to my new Bible. Only a handful of verses are highlighted or underlined and no papers are tucked between the thin pages.

I can’t help but wonder if I loved the Bible as a book in its own right, or if I only loved that Bible. The pink Bible meant purpose, connection, expertise. Perhaps it filled the role of a cup of coffee or alcohol—to buffer social spaces. During my 20’s, as the years filled with grown-up responsibilities, the Bible settled down along with the rest of my life. The excitement of spiritual leadership, learning to drive, falling in love, and working a dozen different student jobs during my late teens and early 20’s turned into the predictability of a dual-income home. I rose at 5:40am for quiet time, and prayed through Stormie Omartian’s The Power of a Praying Wife at least twice. I read the Bible and journaled and expected life to continue in much the same way. The Bible was habit—was that all?

By the time I turned thirty, we’d added two babies to the family. Prayer journaling ceased during the years of babies and young children, and at the same time my confidence in God and Scripture took a beating. As I fought for sleep and struggled to maintain a shred of self-worth, my youthful confidence gave in to confusion, anger—and curiosity. I wrestled with God and mostly left the Bible out of it. An aching emptiness took hold of me, and the Bible’s companionship didn’t comfort. I read other books and prayed and went to counseling. Half a dozen agonizing years later I emerged with a different confidence and a different companion. My confidence resembled the flowing water of a mountain stream more than the steadfast rocks at its bottom. My new companion emerged as a sense of spiritual belonging and safety with myself and with the divine.

My “faith,” or whatever you want to name the relationship I have with myself and with the divine, is safe, flexible, curious, gentle. I have little interest in church doctrine, and equally slight interest in church pews. The occasional sermon I’m obliged to hear tends to raise my hackles. But I may be closer than I’ve ever been to possessing something I want to share. And it’s not a Bible study.

These days I’m timid with the Bible. When I want to find a verse, it’s faster to google a key phrase than open my Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance of the Bible, or—if I know the reference—I type it in BibleGateway and select the version I like best. My burgundy Bible sits on my writing desk more as a prop than a friend, and my pink Bible remains in the bookshelf.

Rachel Held Evans, in her book Faith Unraveled, takes readers along with her on the journey promised in the subtitle: How a Girl Who Knew All the Answers Learned to Ask Questions. Her Bible, like mine, absorbed a nontrivial portion of her time and energy as a teen. Unlike me, she started to ask questions, and learned that all questions do not have clean, three-point answers. Over time she found a different way to approach the Bible:

“As much as I struggle with the things I don’t like about the Bible—the apparent contradictions, the competing interpretations, the troubling passages—I’m beginning to think that God allows these tensions to exist for a reason. Perhaps our love for the Bible should be measured not by how valiantly we fight to convince others of our interpretations but by how diligently we work to preserve a diversity of opinion.”
Faith Unraveled, pg. 194

Diversity of opinion sounds terribly healthy. Am I that healthy? How comfortable am I, listening to another person share—from the Bible—a theological view different from mine? Will I allow them the certainty that irks me? On the other hand, am I able to hear doubts and questions without offering a solution? Can I experience spiritual intimacy with the people I disagree with, or only with those who have the same interpretations and “aha” moments that I do?

I’ve avoided the Bible for years now because when I pick it up and begin to read, I’m often thrown back into black-and-white thinking. Scripture is not a place of curiosity for me, but a textbook with answers. It’s hard to come back to a text I poured my life into as a teen, with a different view of myself and the world. We don’t fit together like we used to. But Rachel Held Evans gives me permission to try a more nuanced, messy relationship with my Bible. I haven’t picked it up yet, but I might. When I do, I want to look for diversity and contradiction, and practice making friends with the parts that are uncomfortable. I would like the Bible to be an irritating friend—by turns funny, exasperating, wise, sometimes a gentle companion and other times giver of good advice I’d rather not hear. I want it to remind me there are more questions than answers, and that what we write about God is as oddly erratic as what we write about humans. Maybe, in a year or ten, I will again be friends with a Bible. I don’t know what color the cover will be, but the inside won’t be black and white. It will be grey and rainbow.

Twenty Years in Love

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I remember only bits and pieces. A small, formal couch with burgundy upholstery and a rounded back. Our clothes still shedding cold air from the winter chill. Michael’s tan coat, puffy in a way that rounded his lean figure. The Boyd’s Bear he hid in that coat.

Michael was a junior in college, double-majoring in mathematics and computer science. I was a first-year student pursuing an associate degree in accounting. Michael lived at home; I lived in the dorm. I attended required worships and ate in the cafeteria; he didn’t attend evening worships and his mom still cooked his dinner most nights. Our paths didn’t cross.

Until mutual friends set us up on a blind date—a story for another time. He waited two or three months to ask me out again, to his sister’s New Year’s party. In the meantime, we got acquainted on Instant Messenger. At some point, I confessed my interest in him on a couch in the church youth room. Come to think of it, couches are kind of a thing for us. He asked me to be his girlfriend on a couch, and our first kiss was also on a couch. Anyway, after discovering our mutual interest in each other and going to the New Year’s party, what was next?

Could we formally-informally get to know each other? We decided we’d find times to meet on campus and talk—not formal dates, but an intentional time to get acquainted. At least that’s what I thought. I don’t remember who arrived at our meeting point first—third floor of Kretschmar Hall. Fancy, uncomfortable-looking furniture dressed up the wide space in the hall outside the president’s office. Administrators had gone home for the day and it was quiet.

I don’t remember what I was wearing or what I was thinking. Michael wore blue jeans, a t-shirt, and that tan coat. Maybe I remember the coat because of all the time we spent together that winter, or maybe I remember it because on this day Michael reached inside it and pulled out a teddy bear. “I’d be honored if you would be my girlfriend,” he said, holding it out to me. The teddy bear held a plush heart with an embroidered message, “You stole my heart.”

If I’d known then what I know now, I would’ve grabbed that bear, squeezed it tight against my heart and jumped onto Michael’s lap. Grinning a big yes, I’d have squeezed him, tucking my nose under his ear. But, as I didn’t know him yet, I didn’t give him an answer. I accepted the bear and told him I wanted to pray about it.

If we began dating, he would be my first boyfriend. I’d fastidiously avoided dating in high school—you know, I-kissed-dating-goodbye and all that purity culture stuff. I had been in college only a few months, and other than our blind date, had been on only one other date—and a couple times guys bought me a burger or ice cream. In other words, this was a big deal.

I don’t remember how long we talked, or how long I made him wait for my answer. I prayed about it during Tuesday evening worship in Heubach chapel, an intimate sanctuary across a breezeway from the imposing College Church. It was simple—write your student ID on the leader’s clipboard, pick a pew in the nearly-dark chapel, and sing, or listen to the singing.

So there I sat, near the back, in a sanctuary of song, asking God what She thought of me dating Michael. She didn’t have much to say. In fact, He said nothing. But I took the quiet peace in my heart as a green light. I’m guessing I didn’t waste much time letting Michael know my answer. I’m not exactly sure he asked me on the 21^st, but we’ve been telling it that way for as long as I can remember, which makes today just a few a days past the twenty-year anniversary of our first yes.

I phoned my parents with the news and they developed a sudden, intense interest to come visit—an interest that had never occurred before and never occurred again. After all the parents met each other and nothing exploded, we launched into dating with a surprising amount of devotion, insecurity, and delight. Michael was my first and last boyfriend, and I feel for him, being the only one to iron out my wrinkles all these years.

Not that he didn’t have any wrinkles. The first time he took me to his house, he asked me to wait in the living room while he took a broom and dustpan to his room. I’m pretty sure that dustpan was brimming after a hasty sweep. Twenty years later we’re still ironing out each other’s wrinkles, but perhaps more importantly we’ve learned to live with wrinkles. Our foibles have just a bit of charm when we remember to laugh about them.

It’s strange after twenty years of togetherness and eighteen and a half years of marriage to revisit the moment on the couch, the simplicity, the significance. Nobody knows exactly what they’re signing up for with a yes to love. And I say yes again today with equally sparse knowledge about the next twenty years.

But this I know: Michael, I am honored to be your girlfriend, best friend, wife, parenting partner, and annoying roommate. Thank you for asking. Thank you for countless opportunities to say yes to love.

Cat-Size Heart

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I invented a new drink today—cofftea. I steeped a bag of decaf chai, added about a half inch of bottled Starbucks caramel macchiato coffee, and a splash of low-sugar, sweet-cream-flavored creamer. It was perfect. Tea, as Ted Lasso said, tastes like hot brown water. Coffee is too strong and too caffeinated. Cofftea is just right.

I’m writing in the living room recliner, cofftea beside me, snow outside, listening to the heater combat the 19-degree weather while frozen rain pelts the house’s metal siding. Michael comes downstairs for home-office pleasantries, and our cat Phiona follows. She tangles herself in a long piece of tinsel-like gold streamer. She chews it while twisting about on the floor, then gets up and saunters slowly to a different part of the room. The tinsel is wrapped around her tail and trails after her, setting off a round of wild contortions. She leaps to the couch, paws churning on the leather, propels herself across the side table and under a chair, where she pauses before rushing to the middle of the room for another tussle with the tinsel. Michael takes the gold-tinsel streamer and he and Phiona pad back upstairs where she will likely settle down on her pillow at the window beside his desk.

When I was a kid, we had a no-pets-in-the-house rule, observed without exception for dogs, and occasionally broken for a supervised half-can of cat food or bowl of warm milk on the kitchen floor for kitty. There was also an exception for summertime jars filled with tadpoles in mud-puddle water, and the hamster who occupied a small aquarium in my bedroom. Ladybug was her name, and I’m sorry to say I grew tired of her biting and pooping and messing up her aquarium, and felt relieved when she died.

As an adult, I’ve dabbled in fish and rodents, decided I don’t have patience for a dog (or children, but it’s too late to return them), and have settled on cats as my pet of choice. Last spring we lost our 18-year-old cat, Phred, to a traffic accident, leaving us with geriatric Phrank, who hasn’t yet used up his nine lives. A few months later, in midsummer, we adopted a kitten—a birthday gift for our daughter Kyli, who named her Phiona. She is unceasingly gentle and relationally devoted (as much as possible for a cat). She keeps her claws retracted during play, and if she bites, she gives an apologetic lick. She is very chatty and will often respond with trills and meows when spoken to. Our family of four is under the spell of her charming face, maniacal antics, and friendly conversations.

I don’t mean to be judgy, but I think people who choose not to have pets still think happiness is a clean house and no vet bills. Yesterday Phiona chewed the cord for Kyli’s headphones in three pieces—two large and a small. A couple weeks ago one of Phiona’s eyes clouded over and we took her to Animal Clinic of Walla Walla to get it checked out. (Nothing was wrong.) The bigger she gets the more she eats and the more she potties, which means increasing cat food and litter costs. She scratches the couch and the mattresses, makes herself at home on the dining table, and wakes me every night between midnight and 1am for no apparent reason.

The petless people aren’t fools. I just think they have grinch-hearts that need to grow a few sizes (apologies to my petless parents and friends). I can only assume my own capacity to handle the inconvenience—and receive the love—of pets has room to grow, since I am not yet ready for the exuberance, mess, and affection of a dog. Maybe my heart is only mid-sized.

It’s no secret that introducing any living thing—plant or animal—into life carries a legal-pad list of complications. Plants need water and sun and god-knows-what-else, and they grow oddly out of proportion, drop leaves, forget to bloom, and either die under ideal conditions or thrive under heinous neglect. Yes, there are books on plant care, but there are also books on parenting, and we know how well that turns out. Oh, and my parents don’t go for indoor plants either—at least not living ones. I mean, who wants dirt in the house. Silk plants are a no-fuss, wash-in-the-bathtub-every-five-years type of happiness. Good luck finding any living foliage with that kind of low-maintenance guarantee.

Recently, I drove downtown via my usual route. Power poles and power lines compete with trees along the road. Why, I wondered, do we bring in a specialized truck to dig a hole and place a dead piece of wood in the ground to hold the lines, when strong, living trees are plentiful and perfectly located? Well, because trees are alive, and life is inconvenient. Trees grow taller and wider, swallow up wires, and attract wildlife. They’re unpredictable. And for power lines we need predictable.

Where am I on the continuum of power pole to dog-lover? How much life can I tolerate? I’d say a plant is less trouble than a cat, and a cat is less trouble than a spouse, and a spouse is (usually) less trouble than a child. Rules and stonewalling, tone of voice and expectations help corral my people into something I can perceive as manageable, but how much management is too much? How do I know when I’m opting for the less-alive version because it takes less maintenance, less money, less emotional involvement? As a wife, mother, and friend, do I optimize for dead traits, or living ones?

In 2023 I settled for a mid-size heart. Will 2024 be the year to grow another size? Don’t get any wild ideas—I’m not adopting a dog. But maybe I won’t assign chores when my kids get loud, and I’ll stop counting out the pieces of fruit each family member gets at breakfast. Maybe I’ll take bedtime noise and moldy lunchboxes in stride, and smile more when I get woken at night. I’m not going for superhuman here. Just a little more life, and a slightly bigger heart to pump blood so my extremities don’t go numb.

What Is Kinship?

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This morning I’m sitting in a favorite coffee shop as I write. Country music plays a little louder than I’d like from a speaker above, but quiet enough that I can overhear conversation. Two men in their seventies talk about therapy, travel plans, searching for a church that fits, and learning to support a recently-divorced family member. These men share themselves, hear each other, and speak encouragement. This, I think, is kinship.

I’m on a quest to learn about kinship. A google search provides this uninspiring two-word definition: blood relationship. But kinship can be so much bigger than that, a new way to see myself and others, a way that assumes value and connection. In kinship we are all on the same side of the line, rendering divides impotent. No “them,” only “us,” as Father Boyle would say. Only us.

Kinship has been slow-coming in my life. I grew up in a home where social time was considered a waste of time. If it wasn’t an event—like a birthday party or a hike to the lake—socializing didn’t happen. Although I’d like to blame my family and upbringing for my struggle to settle into friendship—I lived in a tiny community and was homeschooled through tenth grade—I’ve discovered my fears are not unique. Many women feel a lack of intimacy, and fear they don’t know how to participate in friendship. And, of course, each of us thinks other women have it figured out.

Every year I make a photo book commemorating our previous year. That may sound very organized, but it’s actually quite haphazard. Recently, I’ve been sorting through pictures from the last two years. As I put photos into categories and months—pets, school, March, November—a new category emerged: fun with girlfriends. These photo books will be the first to include a friendship photo spread—pictures of lunches out, movie nights, birthday coffee dates, pottery painting, and shopping fun. Looking at them, I feel connected, grateful, and not at all sure how it happened. I used to “do” friendship; now I enjoy friendship. I wish I could tell you five steps from lonely and anxious to connected and content, but, at least for me, it has been more mystical than methodical.

For most of my adult life I have compensated for lack of friendship by joining or creating small groups. A ladies group is my happy place. Crafts, Bible study, accountability, book-reading—it doesn’t matter. The structure provides a place for me to show up, participate in the mutual honoring of each other with our time, and complete the prescribed activity. Slowly I have ventured into one-on-one time with a handful of girlfriends, and casual activities together, like shopping. My circles of belonging widen.

The terror and the joy of intimacy with friends cannot be understated. Could one text or one misunderstanding upset it all and leave me in pain? Yes, it could. But in these relationships, do I feel seen, known, and safe? Do I invite these women into my home when I haven’t mopped the kitchen floor for three months, or done the dishes for three days? Yes, I do. Do I text them when I’m discouraged and take them coffee when I have a free morning? I do. Is it still scary, and do I have social anxiety? You bet.

Intimate relationships cannot be wrangled. It is a fools errand, seeking to avoid anxiety or relational fallout. Instead, I will allow anxiety and fear of intimacy to remind me that I am not impermeable. I am not above pain and misunderstanding. And this capacity for pain, this vulnerability, is what allows me life-giving connection, the joy of belonging, and the wonder of holding safe space for another person. This is the magic of being human.

Stories about men and women who stand in the gaps, go to the margins, hold hands with the desperate—these are my favorite. I want to be the hero in every story—the woman who taught homeless children, the man who endured exhausting legal battles to free wrongly-incarcerated men and women, the writer who teaches veterans to tell their stories, and the 22-year-old who adopted more than a dozen impoverished children.

At the same time, I don’t want to get anywhere near such unpredictable, messy situations. Can you imagine teaching at a homeless shelter, where traumatized children are in your classroom for 90 days or less? What about working long hours as a lawyer, toiling for years to see one ruling overturned, more years to find out it’s too late, the execution is scheduled. That may be charity, but it’s also insanity. How much could I handle?

There is tension between my relentless desire to love, and the ever-present awareness and fear of my limitations. I don’t know what’s coming for me in life, but I know I want to rise to the occasion and choose real love over false safety. I’m grateful for the thousands who have done this before me, proving it is possible and powerful. I watch the nonprofits in my hometown of Walla Walla, Washington, as they construct shelters for homeless, hold hands with the formerly incarcerated, provide dental services, food and clothing, love and dignity. I want to be part of that.

Children’s Home Society,* a local charity that works tirelessly to keep families together through in-home visits and a score of other services, has discovered the power of kinship—linking arms with the marginalized and misunderstood. Each year at their fundraising luncheon, one of their clients gives a keynote presentation, a story of their move from the thinness of broken family, addiction, and poverty, to a wholeness they didn’t know was possible. These people, unlike many of the donors in the room, haven’t been able to keep their lives “together” and show the polished side to society. But for that very reason, their stories are potent with hope. Every person in the room feels the energy of kinship. Hearts beat faster. Smiles appear. Applause is loud and long. Every one of us loves stories of redemption, and kinship is the catalyst for redemption.

Jesus born in a barn is kinship. He grew up to touch the untouchables, teach the stubborn, and include the rejected. He forever found beauty in ashes, wholeness in tragedy, and life in death. He defied categories, sweeping them into a circle and inviting them to hold hands, mix together like a delicious, forbidden stew. With a twinkle in His eye, He invites me into spaces where the ground is dry and barren. He invites me to bring kinship—the first drop of rain.

*Children’s Home Society is in the process of re-branding as Akin. I love this short-and-sweet name that includes the concept of kinship—the earth-shaking power of standing at the margins and holding hands.

Now What?

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In a few days, 2024 will unfurl. I’m curious what the year will be like, for one reason I never expected: joy. I’m happy, content, grateful. After years of feeling heavy, taking life seriously, and forming relationships around mutual brokenness, happy is a little scary. My inner child tells me cheerful is good, but not happy. Happy is too … emotional. Cheerful is a choice. Happy is a feeling. God forbid I feel anything.

Boldness rises. I will step away from the heavy hand of survival to the wide open spaces of abundance. I will feel joy. And I will enjoy that joy. I will laugh and smile and say I’m doing great. It will be scary, but worth it.

Scary, because I’ve primarily related to God as therapist for so long. What will we do together if we’re not bonding over my anger, fear, and dislike of myself and my life?

Scary, because I’ve thrived on connecting with friends through a shared journey of personal growth. When I don’t have a problem to employ as a means to vulnerability, how will I connect deeply?

Scary, because I’ve believed that happy is irritating and naive. If I love my life, what will people think of me? What will I write about?

Yes, I’m afraid.

I’m also excited, tantalized by the potential of a tea-sipping life—warm, slow, fragrant. I’ve been dodging bullets and putting out fires, sleeping to avoid the chaos in my mind. What will it be like to enjoy wakefulness?

Here’s to 2023 for being ripe with friendship and love, catalysts for joy.

And here’s to 2024 for its potential to be well-lived rather than well-controlled.

Love Does Not Cover Faults; It Exposes Them?

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With more stops than starts, I’ve been practicing Lectio divina, a meditative reading method I discovered in The Big Book of Christian Mysticism. Although my faith tradition doesn’t go much for Latin phrases or the term “mysticism,” this practice sits comfortably within Christian tradition. It consists of four parts: 1) slowly and carefully read a small portion of a sacred text, 2) deliberately consider the message of the text, 3) respond honestly to God in prayer, and 4) allow prayer to dissolve into restful contemplation in God’s presence.¹

To begin this practice, I chose as my “sacred text” the book Reduce Me to Love, by Joyce Meyer. Each chapter is divided into sections one or two pages in length, ideal for slow reading. In the third chapter, Meyer writes, “Love does not expose faults; it covers them.”² I immediately feel uncomfortable. Covering a fault sounds equivalent to lying. What about honesty and repentance, naming our errors and confessing them? If we cover faults with love, won’t they develop an odor, or grow out of proportion like the rumor-weed of VeggieTales fame? The title of this post feels more comfortable: Love doesn’t cover faults; it exposes them.

The gospel message I learned depends on faults being exposed. It goes something like this: God identifies “right,” and also “wrong.” Once we have right and wrong, it naturally follows to avoid wrong and adhere to right. As wrongs are identified, the way is made for transformation and healing. God is light, light exposes faults, and this is important because if our faults aren’t exposed we won’t pursue a relationship with God. The more we see our bleak character, the more we depend on a Holy God. Who needs God, except as a knight in shining light to rescue us from ourselves?

I’m struggling with this narrative, but I can’t disown it entirely. I do have characters flaws and God is Savior. Maybe it’s both/and more than a division that requires a move from one side to the other. Perhaps black and white—right and wrong—share the same spaces. Could it be that in God’s presence we know our faults, and at the same time know that love is bigger? When the prodigal son returned and looked into his father’s eyes, I think he saw tragedy and pain there—but in small measure compared to love. The father covered his son’s body with a robe and his soiled reputation with the family’s good reputation. A multitude of sins, covered. Love has meaning when it is layered with tragedy and pain.

A covering of love empowers us to offer love. It is out of insecurity—the nagging fear that perhaps we are not worth loving—that we point out the faults and foibles of others. There are two words for this: middle school. Insecure, pubescent young people, feeling suddenly naked in comparison to their younger selves, find solace in laughing at the vulnerability of others, forming cliques, and keeping secrets. It’s a tough time, and even the kids who are covered in love must ask again and again if they really are safe and whole. But, when those questions are answered with a resounding Yes, love becomes a superpower. In finding themselves well-loved they uncover the courage and desire to cover the faults of their peers rather than expose them.

Let’s go way back for a minute and think about about Adam and Eve. Did God expose them and point out their misdeeds? Certainly He could have come in with sarcasm—“Wow guys, way to listen to what I said.” Or anger—“What is wrong with you?! How hard is it to obey one little thing?” Or overblown emotional distress—“I can’t believe you did this to me. How could you seek out the only thing that hurts me and do it? This ruins the whole world!” Or disgust—“I should have known you couldn’t handle this. What a mess. It’s going to cost a fortune to clean this up.”

Certainly, if God was like me, he wouldn’t have come in the evening, allowing time to sew clothes. He would’ve been there at the first bite, to point out their nakedness, ridicule their vulnerability, and mock their lack of self-control—“Do I have to watch you every second?” But God was in no hurry. Nor did He appear angry, arrogant, or distraught. Doesn’t that seem odd? His masterpiece just got spray-painted. It will never be the same again. And what does He do? He covers the perpetrators. He sees their fear, confusion, and sorrow, and provides clothing.

I don’t get this. Maybe I got stuck in the middle-school mindset. I walk into a beautiful room or a put-together group of people and find the one thing out of place. I’m quick to point out faults. The way every smell draws a dog, every imperfection commands my attention. Clean the kitchen and I’ll show you the two spots you missed on the counter. Tell me a memory of last year’s Fourth-of-July potluck and I’ll correct you on the details. To leave a task undone is a liability, and to make an incorrect statement is a lie. Accuracy is more important than love.

The brave souls who love me call this philosophy into question. As friends accept my imperfections—arriving late, overstating things, laughing too loud—I come to know that love is more important than accuracy. My husband, Michael, has opportunity to expose my faults more than any other person. But he chooses to cover with love. When he tells the story of how I plugged our camper incorrectly into our vehicle, causing over $8,000 of electrical damage, he says, “We plugged it in wrong.” When I correct him for the hundredth time on how to straighten the bedcovers, he smiles and teases me. When I get cranky and overbearing, he quietly finds a way to ease my load—fill the dishwasher, spend time with a distraught child, run an errand. My faults have hurt him over and over, but he doesn’t expose them.

Christmas, I think, can be a time of covering. Holidays may bring up painful memories or remind us of broken relationships, and often there’s not much we can do about those things. But this time around let’s find courage to cover up a bit of fault—our own, or the fault of another—with love. In time, maybe we’ll even kill the fatted calf.

Endnotes:
¹Adapted from The Big Book of Christian Mysticism, by Carl McColman, pp. 193-194
²Reduce Me to Love, by Joyce Meyer, pg. 30

God Is Not in Control, Part 3

God Is Not in Control, Part 2

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Category Archives: On Being Alive

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Beach Body

Beach Body

From Pink Leather to Diversity

Twenty Years in Love

Cat-Size Heart

What Is Kinship?

Now What?

Love Does Not Cover Faults; It Exposes Them?

God Is Not in Control, Part 3

God Is Not in Control, Part 2