Thanksgiving Tree

Last year, just after Christmas we moved into a new home. As we hurriedly packed away what sparse Christmas decorating we’d done (since our moving date was Dec. 27), I thought to myself that next year would be the year that I changed up the tree. Our children have been out and on their own for a few years, and it was high time that I “redecorated” our annual tree in some new color scheme or theme. The choices were endless… I could use my favorite colors… the farmhouse white stuff currently featured at stores everywhere… buffalo plaid… burlap… I could get delicate glass ornaments now that we have no small kids or pets to destroy them. I could fancy it up a bit, if I wanted. 2020 would be THE YEAR.

But 2020 sort of got away from me. My dad died in January and my mom’s health has been declining. My own auto-immune disease remains persistent, carrying a constant undercurrent of inflammation-related joint pain. COVID19 descended with a vengeance, infecting people and destroying plans for the foreseeable future. Places of business closed down, opened up, and then closed down again.

Conversations became mostly on screens, unmasked smiles relatively rare, and anxiety-inducing isolation the norm instead of the exception for many. There were zero opportunities for extended family and friends to safely gather. Celebrations became “drive-by”, weddings and even funerals were canceled or moved to online venues. Visits to hospitals or even senior apartments were forbidden.

This autumn held no firepit gatherings. Trick-or-treat jokes were muffled behind masks, candy delivered via 6’ distance through a decorated length of PVC pipe and received by grateful kids whose smiles we could not see. Just a weird year.

So, when I unearthed my Christmas décor from a pile of moving boxes, I just didn’t have the energy to start over from scratch. I didn’t have a clue as to what a new theme or scheme would be. I was tired, and a little sad. 2020 certainly was THE YEAR – but not how I had imagined. Maybe next year…  

My husband and I assembled the tree and I began to decorate. And I felt the shift in my heart with each ornament, and I began to remember.

This year, with all of its weirdness, difficulties and uncertainties, all the patience and endurance required, all of the losses and letting go, had more to show me. More than just hardship.

I had so much for which to be grateful, too.

Just look. Here was the first ornament I’d ever given to my love, my husband of 40 years, in 1979 – before we were married, but after I’d already surrendered my heart. There was a “baby’s first Christmas” ornament – secretly bought a year after his birth, since said baby had surprised us with his arrival on Christmas Day, leaving no time to shop for the obligatory “1^st” ornament. My oldest’s thumb-print mouse in a frame was hung next to a rodeo ornament (#3 son was a 3-year-old cowboy every day for a year!). Another son’s pre-school moon face grins from a “snow” filled glass globe.

Here was the ornament from the year we moved away from home for the first time, and here was the one from when we joyfully returned, 11 years + two kids later. Here was a stained glass nativity. There’s a glass water droplet to remind us of a favorite charity… a Mickey Mouse from a family vacation to the theme park, and a 50-something year old elf (a leftover from my own childhood) who sits cross-legged, nestled into the artificial pine needles. Angels perch on at least 4-5 branches. There’s a home-made cinnamon clay cat, painted to look like a family pet. Two cardinals are clipped to branches, facing each other, another reminder of our hometown roots (we are the St. Louis Cardinals!).

Some of them are raggedy. I put those around the back of the tree, but I take time to feel the feelings that go with them. I’m reminded to “Give Presence” as a part of a bigger conspiracy to change the way we do Christmas. I’m reminded to be grateful for each of the friends whose ornament-gifts bedazzle my branches. I am moved to tears by the enormity of blessing represented in those friendships. The newest, a starfish, reminds me of God’s invitation to make a difference in the life of one person at a time. I want to do that.

See, I needed those reminders – especially this year – of all the goodness, of the preciousness of life and of what I’ve been given. I am blessed – not because life is perfect. Life is not perfect. But I am blessed in the middle of it all. 2020 has been a weird year, but there has also been good.

I lost my dad. Yes. But I HAD my dad. What a gift! I have an illness, but I also have health – I can move about and do most of the things I want to. I have sorely missed “in-person” gatherings, but I HAVE technology which allows me to connect in other ways. COVID continues to rage, but there’s an immunization on the horizon and COVID doesn’t get the last word. I never saw one murder hornet! The elections are over and done, and God is still in charge. I have missed loved ones this Thanksgiving. But I HAVE loved ones who missed me, too, and we will gather again.

I don’t need a new tree. I don’t need a new color scheme or theme. I don’t need delicate or fancy. I’m not sure now if I’ll ever change it up. It’s better than the best scrapbook for me. I hadn’t realized how much evidence hung from those branches – evidence of the goodness I’ve experienced over the years, of the sweetest things in my life, of what I’ve been given and to what I am called.

My tree has a theme. The theme is life. And life is good, even now. And I am thankful.

Who’s got the bread?

My husband and I have had the privilege of helping to parent a few extra kids who for various reasons needed new environments in which to continue to grow. When we mention that to people, we get some raised eyebrows, and usually some kind words having to do with our bravery or self-sacrifice. We smile, say “thank you” and then tell the truth: We have gained more than we ever gave in those relationships. Our own biological children have only ever benefited. All of our lives have been far richer because of the presence of those sons God brought through other means than having given birth.

At the beginning, we wondered how we could possibly do it. Our home was already pretty full. There would be added expense to our already strained budget. How could we emotionally keep up with more than our four? But we took a chance or two and found that our needs and those of our kids were more than met – every time.

Fast forward a few years, and God has enlarged the vision of caring for those who needed extra support from added “family”. God has been wooing us into a bigger story, one which invites others into the purpose, the joy and reward of what we have experienced. God started whispering, “What if…?” to us. What if other parents could feel the same call we had? What if we could help with resources? What if we were able to provide housing by purchasing small apartment building in which a host couple could “parent” a few youngsters (18-25) and help them into adulthood?

And A Seat at the Table was born. But, here’s the thing. We can’t do it all. And we really can’t do it all by ourselves. It’s a pretty big vision and it will require a lot – willing house parents, qualifying mentees, partnering agencies and of course, financial support. We sometimes fret about how in the world we can accomplish all of this! It’s far too much. It’s hard to know where to begin, much less how to proceed. It can be a little overwhelming.

A week or two ago I was reading the gospel of Mark in chapter 8, and God showed me something that I want to share with you. In this chapter, Jesus has for the 2^nd time fed a multitude of people from just a few loaves and a few small fish. Again, there are thousands of hungry people. Again, there were baskets full of leftovers. Remember, this is at least the second time the disciples have taken part in a miracle like this. Between the two events, they have seen Jesus walk on water, His mere presence in their boat calming the wind and waves. They’ve seen multitudes healed by him, including the daughter of the Syrophoenician woman and a deaf and dumb man who could immediately hear and speak. They have also witnessed challenges by the religious scholars – the Pharisees and those who would cling to their religious traditions at the expense of true worship.

And now, in chapter 8, Jesus is teaching his disciples. He warns them to “beware the yeast of the Pharisees.” And I don’t know if they were hungry or what, but they realize they forgot to bring any provisions. As Jesus is teaching, a few side conversations are taking place. “How could we have forgotten to buy provisions?  Whose job was that? Why is Jesus talking about yeast? It must be because we forgot to bring any bread.” (my paraphrase, of course)

And Jesus overhears them, and you can almost read the astonishment in his voice. He seems incredulous. “Why are you talking about the bread? How can you still not see?” Jesus reminds them of how he fed first the 5000 and then the 4000, quizzing them each time, asking, “Do you remember?” and, “How many baskets were left?” And finally, “Do you still not understand?”

And that’s when God’s voice broke in for me, saying, “You see? I’ve got the bread! You don’t need to worry about the bread. I’ve got it. You guard the vision. You go and use the gifts I’ve given you and do what I’ve asked you to do. Enter into that to which you’ve been invited and don’t worry about the bread. I’ve got the bread.”

So what is your “bread”? What are you worrying over that God has already taken care of? What are the things He’s done in your past that have shown you that He’s got it? For us at A Seat at the Table, it feels like we need a lot of bread. But He has shown us again and again that we need not worry about the bread. He’s moved mountains for us as we’ve sought His wisdom and way. There really is no way we can do this on our own, with just our few loaves and fishes. But we serve the almighty God of the Universe – and He’s got the bread.

New Blog Post: Calling for a Truce

Seriously, can we stop this? Tuesday is over. Your candidate did or did not win, or maybe none of the candidates was “yours” and you feel disenfranchised. I’m sorry.  Or congrats. Whichever applies to you.

Either way, here’s a news flash: OUR GOVERNMENT IS NEVER GOING TO SAVE US!

I know, I know. The president is important and powerful and the election was a big deal. But please think back with me over the past 50 years. I know, some of you can’t because you weren’t born yet. I’m sorry. Read a history book. And some of you would like to go back further. I’m sorry. In fairness to our younger friends, we’ll stick with the last 50 years. Are you remembering? Notice that NOT ONE of those administrations has created the idyllic world they promised in their campaign speeches. NOT ONE.  And NOT ONE has ended the world as we know it. NOT ONE.

I don’t want to go into all of the whys or why nots, because frankly, I’m tired of the debate. I just want to make one point to all of us, but especially to my Christ-following friends.

Wherever you landed post-election, let’s not sacrifice kindness for the sake of gloating and contempt or anger and disappointment. Your words matter. It doesn’t matter if they are spoken or written. When you re-post someone else’s harsh words on a social media, those words become yours, too. However you comment – with your nose in the air, looking down at the schmucks whose candidate lost, or with fingertips dripping with disdain for the ignorant saps who voted for the winner – it matters.

Here’s another news flash: All democrats are not smarter than libertarians who are not more freedom-loving than republicans who don’t have all the answers either… please don’t make me go on about additional parties. You get the point.

When we fire pointed words across a loud and chaotic screen filled with venom, launching attacks at random into cyberspace, we do real damage. We wound. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not. I can’t tell anymore. We just launch, and launch and launch, irrespective of the target, blowing up relationships, discarding friendships regardless of former affections, letting go of actual people in favor of holding on to talking points or ideals or the grand hope that some candidate is going to change everything. We imagine our point/counterpoint chess game will lead to the checkmate to end all checkmates. But it never does.

We say things on social media sites to people we love that we would never say if we were face to face across a cup of coffee with them. The absence of proximity makes us forget that the person we’re shaming or condemning may have shared holidays with us or changed our diapers or mentored us in some way and might have some actual hard-won wisdom underneath their gray hair and bifocals. Physical distance conceals the fact that the magnificent point you think you just scored took a big chunk out of a relationship with someone you love – a co-worker, a neighbor, a niece or nephew, cousin or friend.

What if we could just sit down and have an honest-to-God, face to face, eye contact conversation rather than blowing indiscriminate steam from everyone’s favorite blow hole, the internet? Crazy, I know… those days are fading fast. But is anyone else tired of seeing the “Go ahead and unfriend me if you don’t agree” posts? It’s exhausting.

I’m sorry. It’s been a long week.

I’ll get back to my one point. Scripture has so much to say about the importance of our words, our hearts and our actions toward each other.  Listen to some of these:

Jesus had some words about our words. He said this; “The heart overflows in the words a person speaks; your words reveal what’s within your heart.”

Might it be time to check our hearts, friends? What’s overflowing from us?

“Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.” (Eph. 4:29)

This one isn’t about cussing, guys. Do your words build others up? Are they beneficial for those who listen?

“If you put yourself on a pedestal, thinking you have become a role model in all things religious, but you can’t control your mouth [or your keystrokes], then think again. Your mouth [and post] exposes your heart, and your religion is useless.” (James 1:26, italics mine)

“Whoever puts down another is not wise, but one who knows better keeps quiet.” (Prov. 11:12)

I’m not making these up!

“So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you…” (Matt. 7:12)

Has this become a golden oldie? Have we forgotten the golden rule?

“If it is within your power, make peace with all people.” (Rom. 12:18)

How are you using your power?

Seriously, I could go on, and you’d get tired of reading, and that’s not good for my blog… But we human beings are created to bear the image of God into our world. We Christ-followers are to reflect Jesus into our spheres of influence. We are to love as He loved us.

I’ll end with one more, and I encourage you to do the same:

“A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

You can change the tone of discourse, because your words matter. You have a sphere of influence. It goes way beyond your social media, and I’m begging you to use it. There are a million better ways to use your platform and your energies than to lambaste each other with one more “educational” article or superior comment.

Are you worried about the poor? Donate to a homeless shelter – give money, time, energy. Are you concerned with human rights? Use your voice, your hands, your influence to persuade – that’s almost a lost art. I promise your love will have more impact than your hate. Do you think education is the key? Go and tutor some kids. I can’t wait until you discover the power in that! Are orphans a passion? Adopt! Foster! You’ll be blessed beyond measure. Hunger, clean water, human trafficking… are those concerns? Do something beyond posting! Need ideas? Talk to me!

Our government is never going to save us. It’s never going to solve all the world’s problems. It will never even come close, no matter who sits in the oval office. But friends, we have more power than we know, in our words, in our actions, in our love. It really is up to us. And if we aren’t recognized by our love, we are missing the whole point.

For the literal love of God and each other, let’s quit sparring and actually combat evil in the world with good. Let’s replace hate with love. It really is up to us.

New Blog Post: Snowflake Christmas

Mid-way through December, not just a little late in the season, I finally decorated our Christmas tree. It had been standing in its corner unadorned for days. My Christmas season had been, not halted, but significantly delayed by a minor accident in which I fell on my face (literally) followed by a nasty upper respiratory virus and topped off with some travel and a schedule that didn’t quit just because I needed a break. So here I was, finally decorating our tree a full two weeks into the month.

As ornaments were unwrapped and laid on the floor at the edge of the tree, I reminisced over each circumstance that led to it being added to and kept in the collection. There’s a small ceramic pig. Our uniquely funny second born was obsessed with all things swine in late elementary school. He had a whole collection. A tarnished brass bell, engraved with “Chrissy & Bob, 1980” remained from our first married Christmas. There’s a cowboy framed with a horseshoe from when our third was in his rodeo phase, and a glitter framed picture of my cherub faced youngest that he made when he was in preschool from construction paper and a frozen juice lid. Our firstborn is way over-represented. His arrival was greatly anticipated, as with most firstborns. He was the object of 100% of our focus the first 2 ½ years of his life until his brother came along, knocking him off his throne and leading to a life-long bitter rivalry (just kidding- they are best friends). There are reminders of births, loved ones of past and present, of relocations and homecomings. There are friendships and vacations and even favorite fast food restaurants represented on these branches. And here and there a rare ornament has survived the annual purge just because it’s pretty.

Our tree has no theme, except perhaps the 33+ years of relationship between my husband and me resulting in extended families, kids, schools, teams, hobbies and friendships. This tree, holding mementos of our shared past, is the closest thing to a scrapbook I’ve managed to assemble, and that almost accidentally. But, there it is- this 7’ artificial fir- showcasing a vast array of baubles representing seasons and stories from our life together. As I artfully arranged the ornaments, I imagined chestnuts roasting on an open fire while peaceful snowflakes fall outside the window. I could almost hear the yuletide carols being sung by a choir… and a grainy but picturesque scene from the black and white wonderful life of George and Mary Bailey played in my mind.

And then my reality broke through.

As much as I’d like to tell you that this particular morning looked like a Currier and Ives print, I can’t. We are not the Baileys. We aren’t even the Griswolds. Allow me to pull the curtain back and give you a peek at the Stergos family reality: I’m pretty sure as I decorated the tree there was an episode of Top Gear playing at top volume on the television. One of my sons was practicing music in the living/music room as two others, both well over 6’ tall, escalated from mutual taunting to a full blown physical wrestling match at my feet. Picture me wistfully hanging precious ornaments while stepping over the flailing legs of the one who was pinned.  He screamed like a school girl as he was mercilessly tickled and pummeled at the same time by his brother.  It was to the tune of these girlish screams that the garage door opened and my perfect partner and husband swept through, in the space of 5 minutes managing to coordinate driving needs with available vehicles, rearrange proper car keys into the proper hands, check on the well-being of the dogs and then leave again to get the oil changed on the second of the three cars scheduled for maintenance that day, reminding the boys as he left to reload the dishwasher with the piles of dirty dishes in the sink. How’s that for a lovely Christmas scene?

Oh, not every Christmas season looks like this one. We’ve had some more peaceful years and even this one has had its quieter days. Sometimes we play board games, and sometimes we watch movies until late at night. Some years we tucked kids in with a reading of “The Night before Christmas” and other years we watched Die Hard together. I think our haphazard tree reflects us. It’s eclectic and colorful and different every year.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I don’t want the movie version of Christmas and family. Sometimes I see your snapshots posted to Facebook or Instagram; those of peaceful and elegant candle-framed fireplaces hung with stockings and garland, or Christmas trees with delicate lace and bows or a funky color-coordinated retro design, and they are lovely- and there’s a part of me that wants, well… your Christmas. There’s a part of me that imagines a Christmas complete with hot cider and home baked, beautifully decorated and personalized sugar cookies by the fire while the family plays charades in front to the black and silent television screen to the sound of the latest and coolest hipster Christmas album.

And let me be crystal clear- your Christmas is beautiful! I love the way you celebrate. I love all of your traditions and style. The problem, I think, is in the comparing. Your Christmas is not our Christmas, nor should it be. Your moments are different than our moments. Sugar cookies may be your thing. Charades is an awesome game. And hot cider is delicious. But lit candles on our mantle pose a real risk of fire when there are frequent exuberant wrestling matches in the family room. We love a home baked cookie, but we prefer a good basic chocolate chip to almost anything else.  And we eat them with unmatched mugs of milk and often followed by loud burping and giggles (manly giggles, but giggles, nonetheless). My husband’s bustling activity as he uses what time is available on a Saturday to take care of us is heartwarming and generous and sacrificial- as if taking care of us is his very heartbeat.

I don’t want to live waiting or longing for somebody else’s perfect scene. I want to live our moments as they come. Decorating our tree with my boys wrestling and screaming at my feet with and the imperfect strains of practiced music trickling through the house is a gift. These are all signs of the life and love that pulse through our home. And like a single snowflake, our scene is unique- formed from the elements of our slightly flaky family and never to be duplicated. It’s not the same as the Griswold’s or the Baileys or yours- it’s not supposed to be- because it’s ours.

Merry Christmas, friends. May God’s presence this year bring you peace, joy, much love and a little flakiness. 

A Little Slice of Heaven

My niece got married last weekend, and it was a big family affair. My sister and her husband flew in from the coast. The family lives in a rural area and since it’s a bit of a drive for those of us living in the metro area, 50’ish people rented space at a local resort that offered a variety of accommodations, from condos to hotel rooms to minimalistic camper cabins. It was breezy, sunny and beautiful, a perfect fall day.

When I say it was a family affair, I should remind you that my family is expansive. And in addition to my 8 siblings, their spouses and countless cousins (the bride was one of these), there were many other friends invited- soul sisters, brothers from other mothers, and a ton of little ones tearing up the dance floor. My dad, who is winning a tough battle with cancer, and my mom, who can barely walk these days- danced. My attention lingered on them as I was reminded of the brevity of it all. I remember holding my little boys at 4 or 5 years old as they slept in my lap and lamenting silently that “this might be the last time for this one.” Watching my parents dance felt a little like that. I’m not sure they’ll be on the dance floor for the next wedding.

It was an incredibly diverse crowd. My sister and her husband are warm and welcoming, grace giving and peace loving. Their friends are many. I saw camo jackets, steel-toed boots, bow ties, Windsor knots, tuxes and tennis shoes. There was a bride’s cake (looking just as you’d expect) and a groom’s cake (with primary colors in a super hero theme). There were hipster stocking caps, motorcycle helmets and ball caps. There was white skin, black skin and lots and lots of freckled skin. The Cardinals are in the World Series again, so there was plenty of fan gear to offset the formal wear. But you know what everyone had in common? Joy. Together we were celebrating two lives joined together for life. Together we asked God to bless this sweet union of two souls, now mysteriously made one. And everyone was smiling.

And as the DJ tried to keep the music as varied as the crowd, I thought to myself that heaven might be a little like this. I mean, do we really expect heaven to be full of people just like us? Does grace really extend only just a little beyond me and not further? I’m pretty sure we’ll have some surprises there, aren’t you? I think heaven will be full of color and style and individuality and personality. In light of the creative nature of the God who reigns supreme, we’d be crazy to think otherwise. I think we’ll be surprised to see church-goers and non-church-goers, Catholics, Baptists and Presbyterians and Pentecostals all worshiping at the same throne. Some will be surprised at the formerly annoying political liberals there, and others will by mystified that a vocal tea partier or two made it in. Some of us will swing dance because we love a dance with “steps” and others will dance wildly without plan as the spirit moves us because we love spontaneity. I think there will be enthusiastic shouting and silent sacred whispers and each of us will worship Him in the language that comes naturally to us, singing our own songs of praise. And it will be beautiful.

And even though everyone is invited, some of us will miss it. Because there will be one very necessary common denominator. We have to respond to the invitation. We have to accept the proposal of the groom to enter into life with Him. We have to say “I do” when Jesus asks if we will join our life to His. Then we will be his bride, filled with joy at the promise of eternity with Him- mysteriously made one with Him… and I know we’ll all be smiling.

Beneath the Peeling Paint

A friend sent me a picture on my phone the other day. It was captioned “You, in 30 years” and it was a covertly captured picture of an elderly lady with reddish hair and lots of pizzazz. In the photo she wears a bright multi-colored scarf on her head, multi-colored beaded bracelet, large teardrop shaped dangle earrings in turquoise, and a snazzy turquoise t-shirt. She also wears an earnest expression on her freckled face, her right hand in an emphatic gesture, no doubt making a point in her conversation with whoever is on the other side of the couch she’s sitting on. She reminds me of my Grandma Ruth, and I am instantly nostalgic for her.

My Grandma Ruth was fabulous. She was all of about 4’11” and sassy, but never mean. And boy, did she love me like crazy. Every visit contained some little treat for me and my siblings- dime store Barbie dolls, penny candy, costume jewelry… you never knew what she’d bring, but she always brought something.  And she would play with us. We were her first priority, and we always got some of her time before she settled into conversation with the grown-ups or any of that nonsense. I was always pretty sure that she’d rather play with me than anything else but was reluctantly obligated to spend time with the adults. I have an old compact of the Ponds Angel Face powder that she used to use and I need only to crack the lid and inhale the scent to be reminded that I am loved.

Once, long after I was an adult with kids of my own and lived out of town, she made the 6 hour drive with my parents to visit me. She must have been in her eighties by then, but wasn’t slowed down at all. She asked me to “do” her hair one day before we were to go out to dinner that evening. Whatever possessed her to ask me I will never understand.  I’m not even good at my own hair. But I fumbled with the curlers that she’d packed, got them in her hair, and eventually combed and teased the baby-fine Miss Clairol Lightest Auburn locks until we had something of a style going on. She smiled and her sweet wrinkled face glowed. She patted the Angel Face on her nose and cheek bones. She looked beautiful… but then, she always did to me.

When she passed away, oh… some 20+ years ago now, my grandma’s skin was parchment thin; with Sanskrit wrinkles telling a story on her face.  Her freckles didn’t quite mask the blue veins visible beneath the translucent surface. Her deep green eyes had grown cloudy, but her hair was still red. And she was still beautiful.

What makes us beautiful? As I am aging, the answer is becoming clearer. I’m discovering that we have it wrong most of the time. We look at the outside, the things that we can easily see and forget about the layers the hide beneath. It is only with age that the exterior and the obvious get stripped from us like peeling green paint from an old park bench and the more real- the more lasting- raw wood inside is revealed.  And what is gradually discovered is what we’ve invested in… what we’ve valued over the course of our whole lives.

I am officially middle-aged, though still 30 years younger than my grannie was when I last saw her- with unruly red hair touched up with the Miss Clairol now covering my gray. I’m way taller than my grandma was, and I still have to work on my posture. My metabolism has recently slowed, almost to a stop it seems, and though my boys are unmarried, I’m beginning to look grandmotherly, my waist thickening and my jawline beginning to sag, ready for sleepovers and story-times and peanut butter and jelly lunches in the park again.

As I peer into the mirror to apply my morning make-up (which becomes more like a spackle job every day), I see the lines that have grown increasingly deep in my freckled face, my own lifetime of experience writing its own Sanskrit tale on my brow and around my eyes and my mouth.

Inside, I am still young. I am full of curiosity. I’m adventure seeking. I’m impulsive, sometimes saying things I shouldn’t before I stop to consider my audience. I am fidgety and I bore easily. In certain un-fun situations, I have a little attention deficit… probably not a “disorder,” but a deficit, none the less. I laugh easily, play often and rebel when necessary. Inside, I am in my prime still, a young girl who doesn’t want to grow up if it means she has to pretend. She wants no part of convention, undue restraint or social pretense.

But is there beauty? Real and lasting beauty?  I hope it is in there. I have tried… am trying to invest in all the right things… good things… things that matter.  I am trying to love God and to love people like Jesus did.  I think those are the things that will bring about the slow metamorphosis from gangly caterpillar to lovely butterfly.

I hope that in 30 years, when I am the age of my grandmother, people will see past the surface without a second thought. When I am in my eighties, I hope people see someone who is warm and welcoming. I hope they feel known and loved. I want to surprise- or even satisfy them with the enthusiasm of my hugs. When I am elderly, I want it to be blindingly obvious that I have lived my life accepting, engaging, caring for and valuing the people God sent my way.

I think that was the beauty I saw in my grandmother. I see it in my mom, too, and my fondest hope is that people will see it in me… oblivious or at least unconcerned that I am old… that my skin may be translucent and my Miss Clairol red hair will be store bought…that my once bright eyes may be cloudy with age… I hope they see the real me and think I’m beautiful.

And I hope that when I am long gone from this earth that a passing scent or a picture of a familiar stranger can conjure up feelings of being loved like crazy… because that would be beautiful.