(photo credit: Angel Smith)
We straggled in on Friday night. Alone or in groups of two, we piled out of
vehicles, lugging pillows, board games, and a few infant carriers with little
ones strapped inside. Greeted by a door
sign crafted by the brilliant mind of one of our own, we stepped into this
huge, luxurious house in the middle of the countryside – and stepped out of our
roles as teacher, waitress, consultant, transcriptionist, student, instructor,
lab technician, nurse, stylist, and (for the most part) Mommy. We walked out of weeks that held meetings and
projects, trips to the pediatrician and family crises, dance recitals and piles
of diapers. The excitement of a weekend
away mingled strong at first with the questions of whether it was really okay
to be there when life loomed so large outside the door protected by Jack Black
in a cape.
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Food came out of nowhere, exploded into abundance, and we
piled our plates to gather around tables and laugh off some of that mental
heaviness, locking eyes with friends and beginning to breathe deeply.
Beckoned to the living room, some sank into couches and
others pulled up bar stools. My eyes
traveled the room and counted twenty-three, with more on their way. Twenty-five women who walk life together as
family in Him, gathered this weekend from our different lives and circumstances in order to learn to walk more
closely.
The door-sign-maker led us in some kick-off frivolity, one
of her spiritual gifts. Within a few
minutes, we had new mental pictures of one of us as a pageant contestant/flautist,
one as an ice-boring synchronized swimmer, and one who would spend a day of
invisibility pushing people over. Tears
fell for the first time, laughter-induced ones breaking ground.
(photo credit: Angel Smith)
That night we flittered through the house, some pulling out
yarn and hooks, others bonding over Telestrations (“Aqua Cats” and “Captain
Beardy Man Boobs”? You complete me.), and
still others deciding that a sweet three-month-old really needed sparkly blue
toenails.
Bedtime stretched until the wee hours for many, voices trickling
in from the main floor well past 3:00 AM.
Still, the kitchen bustled with activity on Saturday morning, bacon
frying and biscuits warmed alongside gravy and jams. We came together again on couches and chairs,
and I offered some feeble, scattered thoughts on what it means to feel
stretched thin, reading from Isaiah 40 before we sought out secluded spots to
be still and know. To let Him lift our
eyes to those frayed places into which He wants to speak peace, rest, hope. A few brave souls shared with the group, and
still others allowed their carefully-constructed barriers of self-protection to
fall away as we broke into small circles to share and laugh and cry and pray
and hold each other up.
The afternoon offered seemingly endless possibilities. To each her own. Some stayed at home base, luxuriating in
baths and naps, uninterrupted time with a book.
Others hit the thrift stores, scouting out fun finds in used furniture
and potential crafty projects. I piled
into a car with three friends and a four-week-old, stopping for burgers before
falling so in love with a clothing and jewelry boutique that we spoke gentle
parting words to it as we left, assuring our return. Starbucks red cups in hand, we laughed and
relaxed on the road back to meet the others.
A husband phoned on the way, in a harried moment on his own with four
children at Wal-Mart. His wife cooed her
sympathy. “Well, we’re not having any
fun either.” she fibbed. “That’s right,”
I chirped helpfully from the backseat, sipping my peppermint mocha. “This
weekend sucks!” (I don’t think he bought
it.)
Back at the house, our “simple dinner” of soup and bread
turned into another culinary explosion, and I would hold the collective cooking
skills of this group up to any other in existence. Stock pots bubbled with sausage and kale,
sweet potato and quinoa, ham and cheddar.
Fresh-baked cornbread, garlic biscuits and a loaf of rosemary white sat
alongside, with taco salads and fruit bowls rounding out the meal. Conversation grew serious around small
tables, with musings on heaven, earth, pain, and perspective.
(photo credit: Angel Smith)
~~~~
We were called back to the living room, and pulled up
couches and chairs once more, circling the spot where she sat in front of the
cobblestone fireplace. This woman, with
her sparkling blue eyes and infectious laugh, she has walked an unimaginable road
in recent years. And yet, God? He lit a fire under her for this evening to
focus on the good. Because He is
good. Her burden for the evening was to
encourage us as one who has been there and come out on the other side, all and
only because of Jesus.
Her gaze locked suddenly on a young mother of three, whose
days are often long and harried. “You … I
know it’s hard, but Honey, you can do this. You’ve got this. He’s got this!” Around the room, tears welled and started to
spill over. Her eyes flashed and her words
took on new intensity, body trembling with truth she could hardly contain. Another sister in her sights, she zeroed in
again. “Woman, you amaze me. Your story … your faithfulness … “ Voice breaking, she couldn’t continue for a
moment, and more walls crumbled.
She was a woman on an unrehearsed mission, and momentum
built as she spoke directly to every person in the room. Something broke wide open in this time and
space, full-out saturated with the Holy Spirit.
And I marveled at the miracle. If
anyone had an excuse to wallow, to throw up her hands … and yet here she was, a
glimpse of God’s healing and grace so beautiful it caught my breath, pouring
encouragement into each of us until we could scarcely hold any more, calling
out a rallying cry to press on and reach up for the trade He offers.
… a crown of beauty
instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of
praise instead of a spirit of despair … (Isaiah 61:3)
She sang a few bars, and we passed tissues around. This makeshift gathering area wedged between
windows and pool table had become holy ground this weekend. Each one of these women my family, as we
resolved to be one another’s cheering sections through life, to have each other’s
backs and to speak the hard stuff – yes – but to also speak this stuff. The I-see-Christ-in-you stuff. The you-can-do-this-because-He-is-bigger
stuff.
The rest of the night held its share of crazy. The random 11:00 PM exercise class followed
by free dance, the epic trying on of handmade hats, the spontaneous midnight
rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody with brilliant piano accompaniment. Some trickled out towards home and waiting
babies. Others fell into bed far too
late again.
In the damp, cold morning hours, we packed our cars and left
for coffee and pastries. Other than the
brief glitch where several of us were almost killed on the highway by a clearly
drunk man behind the wheel of a swerving Cadillac Escalade, we enjoyed a peaceful
breakfast before joining our families and our church family for worship.
~~~~
Women, we're so often wounded by one another. We compare and despair and we are our own worst critics. We flash back to school days and mean girls and the scars linger. We wonder if it's truly safe to trust. Sacred days like these, spent together removed from the ins-and-outs of life and work and responsibilities, are reminders that we are all longing. We are so much the same, and all we really want is to learn to make the trade. To leave those ashy heaps of hurts and see the beauty that He sees - that we see so much more easily in each other than in ourselves.
I don't know that it will come easily from this point on. What I do know is that these women will speak to me the beauty when I can't see it. They have my back. And my heart, too.
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