Close enough to see the imperfections

The other day at Bed Bath & Beyond, after having wandered through the aisles of picture frames, kitchenware, and fabrics, I arrived in front of the mirrors. Normally I am indifferent to mirrors. I glance, then turn away. But then there are the "blemish mirrors" as I call them.

The sole purpose of a blemish mirror is to reveal imperfections in order to fix them. I typically avoid these mirrors because they make me want to walk around with a paper bag on my head... It doesn't matter if I'm having a "good looks day" or a bad one, the mirror is brutal. It shows every pore in a magnified fashion. It shows dark circles under the eyes, stray hairs, and yellow teeth. Ultimately, it magnifies flaws.

But sometimes a blemish mirror like this is necessary. It catches small problems that very soon could turn into much larger ones ... that could be seen from a great distance away. Though it hurts, it's sometimes helpful and good to peer at myself through the blemish mirror.

I am also learning that even though it's humiliating, sometimes it's helpful to allow someone close enough to see the imperfections. Someone who loves me despite my flaws, but someone who really needs to be let closer to see what's truly going on.

A blemish mirror does not collect information on your blemishes and store it in order to show it to other people. No.  A blemish mirror reveals blemishes in order to help fix them.
A "blemish friend" sees all the ugliness and loves anyway. A blemish friend doesn't save juicy details to regurgitate later. A blemish friend simply allows the reflection to last long enough to fix.

I'm thankful for the ones who are close enough to see my imperfections, but who love me enough not to run.

More than beer and football

As I was at the grocery store this week, I decided to peruse some of the Father's Day cards on the racks.

After about the fifteenth one, I was frustrated. Not just at the fact that I hadn't found one, but the fact that these cards spoke volumes of how we view our fathers, and who they are.

These cards were cynical, crude, or sarcastic. Almost all of them mentioned TV, beer, or in some way celebrated the absence of male leadership. What?

As I turned my back on the card aisle, I reflected on how blessed I am to not be able to identify my father with those cards.

My dad works hard. Harder than most people I know. He supports his family. He doesn't shirk responsibilities. But he knows to leave work at work. He knows that home is for family.

My dad encourages my brother and I in our endeavors. Even though he was an athlete, he attended all of our music concerts, and never once tried to derail us from that path. He has listened to "Tell Me Ma" over a hundred times, yet still he taps his foot and whistles quietly.
When I started swimming -- his sport, his stroke -- he cheered me on, gave me tips, and loved me even when I came in last. He also understood and supported me when it was too much and I quit. I never felt his displeasure when I chose other activities.

My dad is dedicated to his family. I will never forget the outings with Daddy when we were little. He never tried to pawn us off on babysitters. He took us to the park, the zoo, nature trails, his laboratory, and museums. He was constantly educating us by choosing to spend time with us. Even now, he is willing to take a day off from work to pick me up from school, to spend Saturdays at our events, and just be present.

My dad knows how to make me feel loved. My dad has affirmed me with gentleness, kindness, and respect from birth. I have never doubted his love. I have never felt the need to earn his love.

My dad loves his family more than himself. He respects his wife. He respects our faith. Even though he doesn't walk the same path with us, he continues to attend church with us faithfully. Out of respect to us. Out of dedication to us. Out of love for our family, and for our unity.

The best way to love your children is to love their mother. My dad gets this. He does it well. I feel secure in my parents' love for each other. I have never doubted their faithfulness to each other, their commitment to their marriage regardless of the circumstances.

I am blessed to have a dad who's a true father. Who is present. Respectful. Devoted. Who loves well.

Does he like Michigan football? You bet. Is he more than that? You bet.

  

Getting Dirty

I'm not usually someone who enjoys gardening. I don't like bending over delicate plants, poking at them, watering them or getting dirty while excavating holes to plant new plants. Even if I work hard at taking care of them, they still will eventually die out... either in the heat of the sun, or the cold of early frost.

Recently, I was helping my mom plant some flowers and shrubs, and realized an interesting tendency: the idea of gardening is not attractive to me because it implies getting dirty. It implies work. It implies heat, sweat, and dirt under my fingernails. But, if I set my mind to it, I relish the dirt as a sign of my hard work. I love sloshing around in the mud puddles from the hose as we try to tear up the particularly unruly weeds... I love seeing my hands caked in dirt, and the satisfaction of a woody weed finally releasing its persistent hold on the earth. I love pulling up the tiny, irritating clovers that threaten to take over the yard if not dealt with immediately. And I love "tucking in" a new plant with reassuring heaps of good soil, support, and plenty of water.

The same day, after scrubbing my hands and watching swirls of dirt join the suds in the sink, I began to prepare some hamburgers. Normally, the idea of getting my hands sticky and dirty with juicy, raw beef is not ideal. But now I enjoyed it immensely. The cold meat inched up my hand, wrist-deep, as I mixed the ingredients.

Here's the thing: If I'm going to get dirty, I'm going to get dirty. I'm not going to avoid dirt, or try to stay clean. When it's time to work, I'm going to give it everything I have. What's the point of trying to stay clean while I'm gardening? It's useless. It will only lead to half-hearted efforts, frustration at any specks of dirt that dare cling to my feet or hands, and anger at anyone who dares ask me to help.

If I expect to get dirty, I won't mind the dirt. In fact, I will embrace it.

I guess that's the motto of my summer ... Get Dirty. I want to throw myself 100% into everything I do. No half-hearted efforts. I want to BE PRESENT. To live 100% where I am, instead of wishing I was elsewhere. I want to expect to be dirty... to get involved, to be available, to say YES. It's only when I'm dirty that things truly get done well...

I'm diving in!

When people cut me off...

I'm in the crowded capital of the United States. My sandaled feet are covered in the dirt of the city.... and I'm tired. With every step, pain shoots up my leg, starting in my heel, and spreading across the soles of my feet like an angry fire. We are all tired after hours and hours of walking. It begins to rain.... heavy, thick drops that leave their stains on our thin, summery shirts.

He steps in front of me. I have to slow down, move around him, and change my pace. I'm irritable to begin with, but now I let him have it. He's been cutting me off intentionally... I'm sure. He keeps doing it, enjoying my reaction... I'm sure. He snaps back "don't flatter yourself."

At the time I thought it was a ridiculous statement. How could I possibly think that someone cutting me off or stepping in front of me was flattery!

And then I began to think... indeed in some ways, it is. It implies that I think that everyone knows where I am and where I'm going... and that if they do cut me off it was intentional and premeditated in order to disrupt me and my path.

As much as I love people-watching, I hate being in a crowd. People continually step in front of me, push me from behind, or don't even realize I'm there. Most people talk about road rage. Since I don't spend too much time driving a car, my rage is more like "walk rage." It's the quick burst of anger at people who suddenly stop in the middle of the hallway, blocking my path. It's the increased blood pressure and fury at people who zigzag in front of me and cut me off.

But ultimately, it's pride.

It's the idea that where I'm going and what I'm doing is far more important than anybody else. It's the idea that everyone around me should see me, recognize me, and stay clear. It's the idea that my agenda matters more.

And in being so enraged at people who cut me off, I fail to notice who I'm cutting off. When I'm the offender I dismiss it as nothing... I know my reasons... they should understand. But then I'm just as arrogant as when I rage at those who cut me off.

Practical pride.