I entered the room late. I sat down and was aware that I had forgotten to brush my teeth and that there was dirt under my nails. I was also aware that my toddler wasn't there to chase. She wasn't there as a beautiful distraction from the focus- or in a more accurate view- as a sweet reminder of the focus of why we come together every mid-week to talk about scripture, to strain for a glimpse of creator-God through the mess of living. I felt like I was missing an arm or something and that the uniform of motherhood had been removed for a instant so that all could only see me- me alone as I someday will be if the growing pains keep coming and the visages of my children continue to change like all do.
As we begin to share I start to think that maybe I am not alone. I try to be an island. Islands are beautiful, you know. At least the vacation variety. The sand is white and the water is blue and crystal clear and you can see to the bottom. The weather is perfect and you get to lay on the beach and nobody bothers you when you drink your margarita. You even get to read books and work on your tan without getting sand in your teeth and the sunscreen doesn't somehow get into your eyes. You might even gingerly stick your toes in the water or wade and you will not have to have any crowds staring at your backside even though it is bikini worthy.
But I am not an island and my waters are rusty colored from red clay mud. There is no sand in sight, only grass and sticks and stones. And I am definitely not the vacation variety. My backside, frankly, needs some stair work and my skin is pale. And I cannot even remember to brush my teeth and I know that any open container at the beach tends to inevitably get sand in it anyway. I cannot drink a margarita, because I am nursing my daughter and reading a book is a luxury, not unlike my counterparts, that I rarely have. The weather is stormy and beautiful and unpredictable and I am more like a limb on a tree than an island.
We share some more. The limbs on the tree. We are all part of the beautifully made, twisted strength, all connected to the trunk and lifting our leaves and our fruit, one beautiful creation. A body that cannot be dismembered to live. Piles of dead branches and rich layers of rotting leaves around us speak to this truth. We cannot see past the mess of our lives to the richness of Christ if we cannot see past ourselves...I cannot see without becoming part of we. And really it is so much better.
I didn't get to be alone in my own little thoughts with a margarita and a book or feel the tanning power of the sun. But I tasted the wine of suffering and questions and felt the bitter warmth slide down my throat. I ate the bread and felt full even though I hadn't had dinner. And I started to see past the veneers and see people for who they were- not whether they were beachworthy or not. And it didn't matter in that moment whether the girl next to me had pearly whites and a perfect manicure. She was my sister. Or that the man next to me had attended seminary. He was my brother. And none of us were alone.
"There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave or free, neither is their male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus." Galations 3:28, NIV
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