Beautiful Because

I received a grand old quilt at Christmastime. My grandmother made it. My aunt had it. When she downsized, my mom accepted it... and passed it on to me.

In the nearly 30 years since Grandma died, this is the second of her quilts that has become mine.

The first has had an honored place in my home for years, but it hasn't impacted me as this one has.

The first quilt looks like most of Grandma's projects -- carefully-planned, delicately-sewn.
But this quilt has a totally different story.

It was created from upholstery samples -- rough, scratchy and heavy. Grandma didn’t attach a backing to this quilt. The pieces are in earth-toned shades, some solid, some prints, and she cut them into different sizes and shapes. Then, it appears, she sewed them together into a random, wherever-they-fit design.

By the standards of today’s quilters, this quilt could never be pretty.

But I still find it beautiful, because it was Grandma’s, and even more so because she made it. 

In the weeks I've seen this quilt lying on my bed, it keeps reminding me that you and I are like it.

We may (or may not) be pretty as this world defines prettiness, but in a way that matters, and in the way that lasts, we will always be beautiful.

Regardless of our size, body-shape, skin-tone and even of our character, we are beautiful because God made us.

Long ago, He planned us. He designed our bodies, your personalities. He chose our family, our culture, our ethnicity.

Then, from the moment of our conception, He's watched over us, regardless of whether we're pretty, or kind or smart or charming.

He watches over us because He loves us. And because He loves us, we are beautiful.

This world’s definitions of beauty change with every season. The attractiveness we have in our youth will fade almost as quickly.

But, in God’s eyes, our beauty will never fade. No matter how we look, no matter how we act, no matter what we achieve...or don't.

He will always love us.

Therefore, we will always be beautiful.

 **Thanks to Jamie Langston Turner for putting my thoughts into words in her novel Sometimes a Light Surprises.

The Truth Will Out

Four-and-a-half weeks ago,

when a mild headache suddenly exploded into head-clawing pain,

I called 911,

and earned an ambulance trip to the hospital.

It was the third time in my life,

all in less than a week,

that I’d experienced that kind of pain.

Calling 911 on myself,

and the ambulance ride --

those were brand new.

Both the male and female paramedics seemed competent,

and, as far as I could tell, they did all the “right things”.

But of all the medical professionals I’ve encountered in past weeks,

they weren’t exactly the kindest.

They were somewhat brusque,

dismissive of my pain and fear,

and surprisingly oblivious to the comfort it would have been to have a loved one near.

As we rocketed over bumps and potholes,
I lay writhing on that narrow bed
gripping the bedside as tightly as possible with my IV hand.
The first medications they administered did nothing to relieve the pain.

My eyes covered due to extreme light sensitivity,

I could see nothing but darkness.

When we’d started our trip,

I’d called out,

“Is anyone back here with me?”

The male medic told me he was,

but even with the assurance of his presence,

I felt alone and terrified.

A few moments later,

after carefully considering it,

I asked the medic if he would hold my hand.

He responded with some surprise,

“You want me to hold your hand?”

To his credit,

he took two of my fingers –

the only ones not occupied with IV and monitor and clutching the bed --

and grasped them in his glove-tipped ones.

Only for a second, though,

for he soon excused himself.

“I’m just trying to get some paperwork done.”

So I released my reluctant comforter to do his paperwork.

In due time,

he finished his paperwork,

his driving-partner delivered us safely to the hospital,

and they handed me over to the care of Emergency Room staff.

Days later,

when I was safe at home, recovering,

the memory of the hand-holding incident floated up to me.

I’d been in so much pain.

so distraught,

so desperate for comfort!

The memory of the paramedics' dismissive tone makes me ask myself:

how many times have I,

as I teacher,

dismissed a child's emotional needs

because I had to "get paperwork done"?

Now that I’ve returned to the classroom,

that question is with me every day.

At the same time,

the memory of that night brings laughter,

for it hints at something I thought was long-hidden:

Regardless of my claims that I’m an independent, single woman,

despite the fervency of my assurances
that I’m delightedly content with my single state --

I’ll go to extreme measures to have a man hold my hand. :)

-- Reenie

Invisible Mothers
A week from today,
     we’ll send sweet cards,
     make long-distance phone calls
     and buy bunches and bunches of flowers.

Many mothers will be honoured and praised and cheered.
They deserve every bit of that, and a whole lot more.

But there are women among us,
     also mothers,
     who won’t receive cards,
     flowers,
     or phone calls.

These women won’t receive praise or honor.
No one will rise and call them blessed.
They're invisible.

They are women who used to be mothers,
     but lost children -- to death, to marital break-up, to estrangement, to abduction.

They are women who gave their hearts and lives to raising children,
     but received only pain in return.

They are women who tried to become mothers,
     but were stymied by infertility, miscarriage, or failed adoption....or all three.

They are women who gave birth before they were ready to be mothers...
     and placed their children for adoption,
     so their child could have a mother...
     and another woman could have a child.

They are women who were unexpectedly pregnant and chose to abort their babies...
     and have carried guilt and sorrow every day since.

They are women who dreamed, expected, and longed to be married and have children,
     but for whom God had other plans.

They are women who quietly, lovingly, sacrificially mother other people’s children...
     and are called aunt,
     big sister,
     teacher,
     caregiver,
     and friend
     but never ever “Mother”.

They are women all around us.

     We see them every day.
     We admire them.
     We laugh with them.
     We benefit from what they do.

But, somehow, on Mother’s Day,
     they slide into the shadows.

They are Invisible Mothers.

This Mother’s Day,
     let's pray God opens our eyes
     to see the longings, sorrows and sacrifices
     of all the mothers...
     even those who are invisible.

-- Reenie

Auntie Valentine*

Tomorrow, I celebrate Valentine’s Day with two friends. That’s right – three of us.

Three isn’t traditionally considered the best number for this particular festival,

but in this case it’s just right.

We three single women are celebrating the friendship God’s given us.

As our host-friend said in an email, “It’ll be a low-key affair, but filled with all the love we have.” I’m grateful to tell you – that’s a lot of love.

I have the joy of being loved by many friends!

The other single women I know are as I am -- surrounded by loving friends, much-adored nieces and nephews, parents and other family members.

Our lives are rich, full-to-overflowing.

Most of us are a lot freer than married people.

No one expects supper when we’re not hungry,

no one wakes us with his snoring,

no one waits for us to come home.

We come and go,

eat and sleep,

talk... or don’t talk.

As we please.

We also have freedom to give back in ways married people don’t.

Married folks’ energy is primarily focused on those at home, as is right.

Most single people can give more broadly.

For us and the world around us... Tis a gift to be single!

But for all of its wonderfulness,

singleness is a gift none of us wants.

I promise you:

none of my dozen-or-so single friends prayed she’d be unmarried
in her 30’s,
40’s
or 50’s.

None.

Being a single woman is like giving God a one-item wish list every Christmas.

Marriage, it says.

That’s all.

And we hope-upon-hope He’ll decide,

this year,

to put that oh-so-elusive gift under the tree for us.

But, every year,

the same awkwardly-wrapped, knobbly-shaped gift is placed into our hands.

Yet again,

we unwrap the unwanted gift of singleness,
biting back tears,

trying to hide our disappointment.

Then, throughout the year,

we're required to carry that awkward and weighty gift.

We shift it from arm to arm,

shoulder to shoulder,

wishing we could put it down somewhere.

Anywhere!

But to have and to hold, for better, for worse....

the gift is ours.

Everyone we meet can see that we were chosen to receive the gift we didn’t want.

Virtual strangers wonder aloud why we have it.

Friends and family hint at strategies to get rid of it.

Certain groups even exclude us because we’re carrying it.

As the year progresses, we see more and more of the ways it’s a gift,

but it’s still lumpy and awkward, heavy and unusual.

We still don’t want it.

So, when Christmas rolls around again,

we,

tentatively,

hopefully,

put that other gift on our list just one more time.

Marriage.

Please, God?

Maybe this year?

Please?!

We wait for that day and peek under the tree in vain...

and, when the big day comes,

we’re handed the all-too-familiar knobbly-shaped package once again.

As we wearily unwrap it,

we see our unasked-for gift has come with redesigned accessories...

a brand new set of sorrows and delights

that weren't attached to it last year.

We’d give away the delights so that we could get rid of those sorrows,

but it is not for us to choose.

Reluctantly, we pick up our beautiful and ungainly gift

and begin to carry it for yet another year.

-- Reenie

*Thanks to my friend I.S. for today’s title.