Welcome to the Funny Farm Page 6

  But even if you don’t have the paraphernalia, wear the attitude. Be an instrument of God’s love in the lives of those around you. Offer an encouraging word, a helping hand, a sacrificial gift. Better yet, take the guesswork out of it. Go up to your husband or your kids or your mom or your best friend or your pastor and ask outright: “How can I let Jesus love you through me today?”

  And then do it.

  In fact, I would really love to hear your stories. E-mail me at thefunnyfarm@email.com and let me know what happens.

  And in the meantime, I’ll keep working on those T-shirts.

  Watch for them this spring in the plus size department of your local Christian bookstore.

  19

  Who Loves Ya, Baby?

  I EAVESDROPPED ON MY FIVE-YEAR-OLD the other night.

  She was all tucked into bed, waiting for me to come in and tell her a story, when she decided to sing herself a song.

  I was in the hallway, approaching her bedroom door, when I heard the familiar words in her child’s voice:

  “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.”

  I stopped in my tracks and listened, feelings of joy and gratitude welling up inside of me. This is because nothing blesses a mother’s heart like witnessing her children engaging in true worship. I knew I was on hallowed ground as I observed a precious moment in my little one’s relationship with her Creator.

  Kacie sang for several minutes. Then she paused, regrouped, and began again. This time there was a slight alteration in the words.

  She exchanged “Jesus” for “Walter.”

  As in, “Walter loves me, this I know.”

  Walter is our German shepherd.

  Okay, so it was still a nice moment, although I have to admit it left me with a few questions about Kacie’s theology. One day soon, remind me to have a talk with Kacie about how God is different from a German shepherd.

  Although, really, when you think about it, I guess I can’t blame her. I mean, fully grasping what it means to be loved by Someone you can’t see or touch is a pretty tough concept for a five-year-old.

  It can be a tough concept to grasp even when you’re forty.

  Let’s face it. When Walter loves you, you KNOW it. This is because even though Walter is only 7 months old and merely half of his adult weight, he has no shortage of energy and mass. At fifty pounds, he has a tendency to gallop through the house like a Shetland pony on Metabolife.

  And when Walter’s feeling affectionate, watch out: He slobbers. He jumps and skids around on the kitchen linoleum. He flings his body, not unlike a heat-seeking missile, at any warm-blooded target in the room. He wags his tail so hard he’s been known to send furniture and compact vehicles flying. In short, his affection is so tangible that it can put you in the hospital if you’re not careful.

  Then there’s God, who is invisible and intangible and does not dispense bruises, saliva, or dog hair.

  Have you ever wished God were a bit more tangible?

  I have.

  Ever wished you could see his face, hear his audible voice, feel his arms around you?

  Me too.

  In fact, I was feeling that way just last Sunday. Had a bad week and was apparently wearing it on my face, because friend Kathy Clegg came up to me and said, “How are you doing?”

  And I could tell she really wanted to know.

  “Not good,” I said.

  “I know. I can tell. You look like you need a hug.” And she hugged me.

  The truth is, I’ve had some struggles in my life the past couple years, and I’ve been blessed to have some really wonderful friends rally around me. They don’t always agree with me, or condone everything I think or say or do, but they’ve been loving me nonetheless with their smiles and their words and their hugs.

  And in the process, well, a sort of magic has been occurring as the invisible, intangible God has been showing up in my life in a visible, tangible manner.

  How do I know this is happening?

  For starters, he just feels closer, which is nice—I certainly won’t knock it—but the real proof is in the pudding, as it’s written in 1 John 4:11–12. These verses say, basically, “Dear ones, if God loved us THIS much—enough to send his Son Jesus into the world to pay the price for our wrongdoings—then we should love each other. It’s true that no one has ever seen God, but if we love each other, God dwells in us.”

  If we love each other, the Invisible dwells in us. God shows up. He’s there. He’s present. On top of all that, his love isn’t intangible at all, not when it’s being lived out through flesh-and-blood friends who are ready and willing to dispense hugs, helping hands, chicken soup, carpool favors, greeting cards, good advice, and even a shoulder to cry on.

  You want a tangible God? Then get vulnerable with huggable friends who have Jesus living in their hearts. Best yet, you won’t have to brush dog hairs off your clothes when you’re done.

  20

  Dahling, You Look Marvelous!

  A COUPLE SUNDAYS AGO I WAS APPROACHED BY A WOMAN in the church foyer. She said, “You’ve lost more weight! You’re looking so good! I can really tell a difference. You look really great.”

  Just about the time my head was approaching a circumference that would have hindered me from walking through the double doors into the church sanctuary, she reached up and began to fuss with a lock of my hair.

  “Now you just need to update your hair. One of those cute new ’dos. Yes, that would do wonders. That’s definitely what you need!”

  I thanked her and moved on.

  What else could I have done? Perhaps I should have said, “I couldn’t agree with you more, Mary! In fact, I’ll get that new hairdo as soon as you get that brow lift you’ve been talking about. They’re doing wonderful things with lasers these days! You shouldn’t hesitate another minute!”

  No, no, that wouldn’t have done at all.

  Now I’ll be the first to admit that sometimes it’s hard to know what to say and what not to say. After all, there are certain sensitive issues I desperately WANT my friends to discuss with me.

  For example, after lunch one day last week I dropped by the church office to give a bulletin insert to Monique, our church secretary. Associate Pastor Scott and Senior Pastor Toby were in the office as well, and the four of us soon found ourselves engaged in a lively conversation. (If I remember right, Toby was telling us about the time he dressed in women’s clothing for a youth fundraiser. He said the stockings were bearable, but that there should be laws banning the use of eyelash curlers by the untrained).

  After the men left the office, I looked down and noticed a large piece of lettuce resting on my left breast.

  “Monique!” I squealed. “Why didn’t you tell me I’m modeling my lunch on my mammary glands!”

  She winced. “I tried to signal you, but you didn’t see me. I couldn’t very well have interrupted the pastor’s story to say, ‘Karen, taco salad alert, left nipple.’”

  She was right, of course. But in general, I’m grateful when my friends alert me to lipstick on my teeth or spinach at my gumline.

  So here are the rules: It’s okay to comment on C-cup lettuce leaves, but diss my hairstyle and die.

  You can see why it gets a little confusing at times . . . why it’s easy to mess up and say the wrong thing at the wrong time . . . why you and I both have been on the receiving end (and the giving end) of the kind of comments that have the power to produce a shudder or a wince.

  Ever let a friendship drift because someone said something to you—something that may have been thoughtless or perhaps even encouragement-gone-awry but certainly was never intended to offend—and you just couldn’t get over it?

  Guys don’t have this problem. I don’t know why. They say things to each other all the time that would send a woman into therapy. My dad used to greet one of his best friends regularly with the phrase, “Hey, Uglier-Than-Me!” And his friend just laughed. Can you imagine saying that to one of your girlfriends? At
best, she would never speak to you again. At worst, you’d have to call me some afternoon to pick you up from the mall after you returned to the parking lot and found your tires slashed.

  Or maybe those kinds of comments bother guys, but guys are just better at letting them go. My husband holds a grudge for about the length of a television commercial. My grudges, on the other hand, tend to become elevated to the status of distinguished family members. I give them names, chart their growth, and celebrate their birthdays.

  Remember the television ad from many moons ago? The one in which we were reminded that “A mind is a terrible thing to waste”?

  Well, so is a friendship.

  If you have a friend who is always putting you down with her comments, you might want to ask her why or work on establishing healthier boundaries in your relationship.

  But if you find yourself smarting from an unfortunate comment in a usually loving friendship, I have three words for you:

  Get over it.

  Mention it if you need to, work it out, reaffirm your friendship, then get over it and go on.

  You know, the Lord didn’t mess up. He’s placed you and me smack dab in the middle of chaotic relationships with imperfect people because the bumpy road of loving and being loved leaves us richer as a result.

  Margery Williams gets credited with coming up with the Velveteen Rabbit Principle. And yet our heavenly Father has had a handle on this principle for eons. He knows that in the process of loving and being loved, we’re going to get bumped and bruised now and then. We’re going to fray at the edges and get dropped in the mud and even spend some nights forgotten and abandoned in the cold. We may even end up sporting a few scars, because sometimes love hurts.

  But when it’s all said and done, relationships—even chaotic relationships with imperfect people—leave us richer than before. They shape our souls. They make us real.

  They may even make us better looking.

  I’d explain more but I don’t have time. I’ve got to grab my purse and hurry out the door.

  Supercuts closes in half an hour.

  21

  Wanna Enrich Your Life? Swap Insights with Your Friends

  I’M ALWAYS TRYING TO TALK MY FRIENDS INTO THINGS.

  Take this week for example. I’ve tried to talk a half dozen women into taking this class with me. It’s an eight-week class and it’s very reasonably priced and we’d be having fun and getting great exercise as well. What more could you ask for?

  I just don’t understand why I’m not getting any takers. I thought EVERYBODY harbored a secret wish to take bellydancing lessons. I just don’t get the reticence.

  Maybe it’s the Armenian blood in me. Either that or I spent too many hours as a kid watching I Dream of Jeannie.

  No, wait, I bet I know what influenced me. No doubt it was that awesome photo of Liz Curtis Higgs in a veil and two pounds of eyeliner on the cover of her excellent book Bad Girls of the Bible. (There’s no way you can convince me there’s not a navel ring hiding beneath all those layers of silk!)

  Be that as it may, so far my friends don’t share my enthusiasm about the lessons. But I’ll be sure to keep you informed.

  The point is, my friends and I are always swapping ideas on how to make our lives more interesting or productive or healthy. Okay, so I’ll admit the bellydancing brainstorm might have been a little over the top. Normally our ideas are much more mainstream.

  Like the way we’re always swapping diet strategies and newsflashes. Last week, for example, I got a phone call from a friend of mine. She sounded positively manic as she squealed, “You’ll never guess what happened last night!”

  I wondered if she had won the lottery. I was getting ready to ask her to pay for my bellydancing lessons when she said, “I got into my blue jeans!”

  She hasn’t worn blue jeans in a year. But after dieting and exercising for several weeks, she got those denims zipped.

  I understand the significance of her news. I’ve fought the battle of the bulge myself. The truth is, winning the lottery pales in comparison to getting back into a favorite pair of jeans after a cellulite-induced exile.

  We also encourage each other when it comes to beauty secrets.

  And, boy, do we need those beauty secrets. Can anyone explain to me why, as we get older, our eyebrows, lips, hair and bones get thinner while our waistlines continue to thicken? It hardly seems fair.

  Not to mention what happens to our eyelids. Last week my friend Beth lamented, “It’s getting harder to put on eyeliner. My eyelids are too wrinkly.”

  I know what she’s talking about. It’s not easy getting liner up and down both sides of all those tiny wrinkles.

  Half the time my eyelids sport a dotted line.

  I have good news on the hair removal front, though. Several chapters ago I confessed that I had an appointment for electrolysis to remove a dozen stubborn chin hairs. I’ve had more than one reader write and ask me how it went. Here’s the report: I love the results! You’ll be glad to know that my chin stubble days are behind me. I no longer look like Michael W. Smith, which is thrilling to me although my fourteen-year-old daughter says she misses snickering at my rendition of “Rocketown.”

  Electrolysis tip: Take a Walkman and listen to your favorite music as your hair follicles are getting zapped. And turn the beat up loud—with enough decibels it’s possible to drown out some of the pain. (But not too loud. Your electrologist will be determining the voltage via a foot pedal. You do NOT want her tapping her toes to the beat. Trust me on this.)

  And when my friends and I aren’t trading health and beauty secrets, we can often be found talking about the relationships in our lives. We ask each other questions like these . . .

  How can I teach my kids to be more respectful? How can I forgive my husband? How can I encourage a friend who’s going through a tough time? I’m lonely—how can I create more meaningful bonds with people around me? How can I get rid of the anger I feel toward my ex? How can I get my kids to be more responsible? Do I criticize my husband too much? If so, how can I build him up instead? How can I set boundaries at work? How can I get along better with my parents?

  From there the categories get even broader. The Bible says God forgives me for my past mistakes—why can’t I seem to forgive myself? How can I stay consistent in God’s Word? Why do I have a hard time believing that Jesus loves me? How can I experience more power in my prayer life? I’m struggling with lust or envy or bitterness—any suggestions how I can win this battle? How can I get a handle on my depression? I can’t seem to trust God about my situation—how can I learn to trust him more?

  I love having these kinds of conversations with my friends. And if you’re not broaching these kinds of topics with godly girlfriends in your life, maybe you should give it a try.

  I find that my friends are a wealth of practical information. No one friend has all the answers, but between them all I’ve gathered useful insights on everything from fixing my cat to fixing my marriage, from bleaching my teeth to harnessing my tongue, from balancing my checkbook to balancing my life.

  And what’s really great is that you and I can have these kinds of intimate, encouraging conversations with our friends any time, anywhere. We don’t have to make a formal appointment! We can encourage each other over coffee at our kitchen tables, via cell phones as we commute home from work, or side by side as we browse garage sales or watch our kids play softball.

  In fact, I was sort of hoping Thursday nights would provide an opportunity for these kinds of conversations with my friends as we drove to our bellydancing classes.

  If that sounds like fun to you, give me a call.

  As of this moment, there’s still plenty of room in the car.

  22

  Never Underestimate the Power of an Imperfect Woman

  I REMEMBER THE DAY KACIE, THEN FOUR, WALKED into my office and announced, “I’m ready to go to the party.”

  Indeed, Kacie was supposed to attend a birthday party in a couple ho
urs. I looked at her. She was wearing her Princess Barbie nightgown.

  “Kacie, you can’t wear that to a birthday party. That’s a nightgown.”

  “Mom, it’s a nightgown at NIGHT. Today it’s a dress. I’m wearing this to the party.”

  Immediately I thought back to my childhood. When I was growing up, there were rules about these sort of things. People understood the meaning of the word etiquette. We not only didn’t wear pajamas to birthday parties, we didn’t even wear our play clothes. We wore party dresses, for crying out loud. We had standards. We had manners. This is what made America great.

  All this was running through my head as I evaluated Kacie’s request.

  “This is what I want to wear,” Kacie repeated.

  “All right,” I said. “But the Winnie the Pooh slippers have got to go.”

  I’ve got SOME standards, after all.

  In my defense let me remind you that I’m forty, not to mention the fact that Kacie is my second child. We forty-year-old women simply do not have the energy to raise our second, third, or fourth children as diligently as we raised our firstborns back when big hair and leggings were in style.

  So Kacie wore the Princess Barbie nightgown. I did, however, take extra pains adorning her hair with pink ribbons, and I made her wear frilly socks and Sunday shoes.

  After all, I didn’t want the other women to think of my daughter as a poor, neglected child whose mother would pack her off to a party in pajamas.

  No way. I wanted them to realize this was a beloved and well-cared-for child whose mother would pack her off to a party in pajamas.

  There IS a difference.

  Look, I came to grips several years ago with the fact that I’m not Superwoman.

  That was always my dream. I wanted to be Superwoman. When it came to homemaking, marriage, being a friend, and especially raising my kids, I wanted “perfection” to be my middle name.