26 November 2011
I spotted this sticky note posted in the bathroom of a fast food restaurant in Hays, Kansas. It says, “You are more than the make up on your face. Your’e beautiful.”
I was in the midst of an eleven-hour road trip and had been awake since 4:30 a.m. but was still in good spirits. Seeing the note made me smile a little brighter, though!
Have you ever heard of Operation Beautiful or seen a note like this?
21 March 2010
Once upon a time, I wore a sherbet bucket on my head. As I gaze at this childhood photo of myself, I remember the three year-old reasoning behind my outfit. I knew my frilly, flowered dress made me beautiful, the old purse under my arm made me grown up, and the clean sherbet bucket snugly crowning my head made me royal. The combination of accessories made me into a modern version of the Biblical Queen Esther.
I soon left my sherbet-bucket crown behind and realized that an outfit could not turn me into the beautiful, courageous queen whose story I loved to hear. I no longer believed myself a queen and realized that Queen Esther lived long in the past. Undaunted, I set my sights on a more reasonable future, “When I grow up,” I decided, “I’m going to be a princess.”
I loved the idea of a princess. People adore her because she is beautiful and sweet. As an heir to the throne, she is on the verge of greatness. She has some power but few responsibilities. She lives in a castle with lots of servants. If she gets in trouble, a gallant knight or charming prince rescues her. Finally, she always lives happily ever after.
Even at three, my favorite movies and bedtime stories featured princesses: Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and The Princess and the Pea. I practiced speaking “properly” and begged Mother to let my hair grow into long, flaxen tresses. She said that until I could take care of my tresses myself, they would stay short.
My hairstyle vetoed, I focused on the clothing of a princess. I wore only dresses and skirts, scorning pants and shorts. Not just any skirt or dress would do, they had to meet certain qualifications. Mother tried to hide her laughter every time I judged a skirt based on its twirl factor. I liked almost any color if the long skirt twisted gracefully with me when I twirled and billowed obligingly when I stopped. A princess has elegant speech, natural beauty, and fancy clothes. I had all those but was not a princess. What did I lack?
At age eight, I began to devour story after story in search of clues about my chosen vocation. In Journey for a Princess, by Margaret Carver Leighton, I discovered a brave, gracious, and resourceful princess who went on a pilgrimage and sometimes had to do things she did not like or understand. Mother and Father would never allow me to go on a pilgrimage like the Viking princess, so I tried to treat my brothers kinder and to obey my parents better (two things I neither liked nor understood). The Ordinary Princess, by M.M. Kaye, taught me those perfect, dainty, blonde princesses were boring in real life. The best princesses had problems, went on exciting adventures, took care of themselves, and even got dirty! After pondering these revelations, I slipped on shorts under my skirt and climbed a tree. Nothing happened. Like a princess, I was gracious and strong, obedient and adventurous, but I still lacked something. What was I missing?
Around twelve or thirteen years of age, I discovered the missing element: Princesses are not self-made. Every princess is either the daughter of a king and queen or married to a prince. I asked Mother whether I could have been born a princess but switched at birth. She assured me that the only other baby in the newborn ward had been the son of an Asian couple. Not dissuaded, I inquired whether she or Father had distant royal relatives. She laughed and told me about relatives who had been preachers and farmers and soldiers. Since one does not make herself a princess, I gave up my foolish princess pretending.
While in high school, I came across a passage in an old letter, mentioning my adoption into a royal family as a daughter of the king. Stunned, I reread the paragraph and showed it to Mother. I questioned its authenticity and demanded to know why I never saw it earlier. She confirmed the document’s truth and said, “It’s been there. You just must have missed it.” The letter speaks of what occurred the day I entered this royal family.
Although I knew, “The Lord is King forever and ever” (New American Standard Bible, Psalm 10.16), that day I agreed with God that my past behavior defied who He is and what He says. (I had disobeyed His laws and not cared for the consequences.) I knew the penalty for my rebellion was death, but that Jesus Christ paid my penalty. By dying in my place, He offered to rescue me if I would accept Him and the pardon He offered. I eagerly accepted, not knowing that the pardon included my adoption into the family of God. The passage I found declares, “But as many as received [Christ], to them He gave the right to become children of God, even to those who believe in His name” (John 1.12).
Once upon a time, I wore a sherbet bucket on my head and tried to be a princess. Then I grew up and learned that accessories, behavior, and research do not determine a person’s identity. On one hand, I failed at pretending to be a princess according the standards of society. On the other hand, I began to comprehend my standing as a princess according to the precepts of my faith and the grace of God.
I am a princess because I am a child of God, who is King. Today I wear jeans more often than skirts and no longer choose skirts by their twirl factor; I know my clothes do not determine my identity. I still practice kindness and obedience (most of the time), but only because I know it delights my adopted Father. I still have problems and awkward moments, but I enjoy my adventurous and imperfect life as a princess and look forward to the happily ever after.
11 March 2009
I wrote the following several years ago, but decided to post it here because it explains a lot…
In our family photo album, on a page somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas of ’84, resides a series of three pictures. I see them from two different viewpoints just as Mama tells two different stories about the day she took them. She taught me that there are two ways to look at everything.From my early childhood, Mama recognized that, although I was a compliant child, I was also highly opinionated perfectionist. I was so meek that I rarely received a spanking, she or Daddy would only say, “Abby, I’m so disappointed with you!” and I would instantly burst into tears. Despite my tender heart, I had numerous opinions and voiced them without shyness. Mama and Daddy never understood where I got some of my ideas.
For example, I always wanted to wear dresses or skirts although every female I knew typically wore pants. I did not play with my toys, Mama says, but put them in straight lines by size, color, and function. The precocious nature Mama found adorable soon became the source of our first disagreement. Tucked in the midst of holiday memories, the photos hold memories of frustration and fun. They remind me that I can look at anything from more than one point of view.
Each photo features me, an adorable three year-old, in a different pose beside a snowman. At a glance, the photos seem dark. I wear a dark blue coat with the hood tied snugly over my blonde hair. My light blue pants disappear into my dark blue boots. Below my boots, blades of dead grass poke through the trampled snow. Next to me, the snowman’s firmly wrapped scarf matches my coat. A street, darkened by melting snow, lies behind us in the first snapshot while a dark red house provides a backdrop for the other two. Even the afternoon light appears grayish and somber.
That dreary day, my stubborn opinions and perfectionism caused Mama and I to have our first (and second) arguments. I have sketchy memories of that morning, but I remember how unreasonable she seemed to my three year-old mind. After all, I reasoned that I always wore skirts, so why should I have to wear pants to play in the snow? She just wanted to spoil my fun by refusing to let me play in the snow without pants.
First, I tried to persuade and argue with her to get my way. When that plan failed, I resorted to every child’s secret weapon – whining. My persistence was notable but useless. “The long escapade with the dress lasted all morning, but I wasn’t going to budge and the snow was still there,” Mama told me later. By the time my baby sister took her afternoon nap, I gave up and wriggled into my jeans.
While the baby slept, we ventured out to the front yard and started making a snowman. Although she won our first fight, Mama still felt stressed from the ordeal and from trying to make a quick snowman with a small child in tow. “We had the baby monitor on the porch and I was trying so we could finish during naptime.” I tried to help make snowballs, but now I know my efforts slowed Mama more than they aided her. Nevertheless, we laughed and played, giggled and chatted. I remember that I enjoyed having fun with Mama and having her attention to myself instead of sharing with my sister.
Decorating the snowman caused the second argument Mama and I ever had. I watched and gave advice while she placed the eyes, nose, mouth, and scarf. Next, she tried to attach sticks for the arms. Mama still talks about our conversation, “Mama, that one’s too high.”
“Is that better?”
“No… they’re not the same.”
“Honey, I think they’re okay.”
“They’re not level!” At this, Mama began to show her stress.
“They’re fine!” Even at three, I knew God meant for things to be straight.
“But, Mama…” She did not let me finish.
“Abby! They are fine!” By her tone of voice, I knew to drop the subject immediately. The arms stayed uneven and she took three pictures of me with the snowman before we hurried inside to warm ourselves over hot (lukewarm for me) chocolate.
In recent years, Mama and I talked about the day we first fought. Like mine, her memories have two viewpoints. Immediately, she responded, “All I remember is those blasted arms!” Then she reminisced about the wonderful time we had playing in the snow and building the snowman. Looking at the album page, she commented, “If you’ll notice you do have pants on of the color of your choice and we did have a wonderful time. Little children don’t fake adorable smiles very well and yours is one of the best.”
In each photo, the snowman and I stand side by side. We make a cheerful pair with touches of color and smiling faces. The snowman has red yarn hair while my blonde bangs fall below my hood. The rainbow-striped gloves that dangle on his crooked, mismatched stick-arms contrast with the light yellow mittens that peek out from my coat sleeves. He has two faces, one for us to see from the house and one for people to see from the street. He has orange carrot-noses much longer and brighter than my own pinkish, button-shaped nose. Items that I cannot identify form his eyes and mouth, but both of his faces wear grins that match the one on my face, but mine is real.
5 March 2009
Tonight was the last ESL class of this session, so I was busy administering post-tests for reading for some students, continuing lessons and reviewing with others, and giving class surveys (in Spanish) to all. Ester was passing around Mexican candy to share as I was fielding questions about the survey. I was in the middle of an explanation when Carlos turned to me and offered me a piece, “You want some candy?”
I normally prefer not to eat candy but I do attempt to live by certain values: Loyalty, integrity, worship, flexibility… and eating whatever I am offered when befriending people of other cultures. I accepted the candy and thanked Carlos, noticing his mischievous grin as I finished my explanation holding the sweet. I had just enough time to glance down and see the word “mango” on the wrapper before I was asked another question.
As I moved toward the dry erase board for a detailed differentiation between “housekeeper,” “housewife,” and “stay-at-home mom,” I opened the candy and noticed another word just below “mango”. I quickly popped the round confection into my mouth, determined not to react negatively, and turned to write on the board. My tastebuds were instantly assailed by a wave of intense, spicy flavor. I bit into the chewy center and it was indeed mango-flavored. The outside, however, was coated with enchilada spices!
This was not the worst thing I have ever eaten (century eggs, anyone?), it was not even the worst in the candy category, but I will not be buying them for myself anytime soon!
Oh, and I did manage to keep a pleasant expression and to complete the lesson while eating the candy.
|
