The dress

At the back of my wardrobe is a dress. It’s dark green and it’s perfect for my skin tone and makes my eyes seem deep, deep blue.  It’s silk and it has a flattering neckline with just the right amount of cleavage. It has cap sleeves and a full skirt to ankle length and it’s the sort of dress that floats around your legs as you move and makes you feel elegant and beautiful.

I wore it years ago to a ball at university and afterwards I kissed the man who is now my husband for the first time.

My flatmates and I, we got ready with loud music and giggles and a cloud of perfume. I have a photograph of us all together and my hand is behind my back, holding spare fabric in a bunch to show off my waist. The beautiful dress was a little too big.

I was something else that night. My make-up was right, my hair was right, and even after a hot and happy night dancing and talking and flirting and smiling up at him under my eyelashes and over a glass of wine I was still gorgeous. Pink cheeks and the sheen of perspiration and the tendrils of hair at the nape of my neck making ringlets.  In the restroom with my girlfriends comparing notes and ruling the world.

And the dress, back on its hanger with a reverent stroke of it’s softness.

It’s years later. Another ball, another university, the same dress. Plastic cover lifted off, skirt shaken loose to float around my legs again. This time, a little bit more of me. The neckline still flattering but a little more cleavage. The cap sleeves a little tight on the arms. The bodice – there’s no gentle way of putting it – straining at the seams.  Girls in the restrooms together and this time, standing sideways, sucking in my breath, not eating dinner because there’s no room in my beautiful dress. Wondering if anyone notices the way the fabric strains across my midriff. The way the green of the silk turns slightly darker where sweat trickles down my back. Self-consciousness.

Still, a glass or two of wine, the dance floor beckons. Good friends and goodnight kisses.

Years later. I take the dress in its plastic to a lady who makes wedding dresses. Can we do it in white?  On my Big Day I want it to float around my legs and make me feel special. I want the neckline to plunge and flatter but not boast. I want the sleeves longer, this time, to cover the tops of my arms.

We search and search for fabric and I settle for something a little different. The pattern changes incrementally and I settle for something a little different. The lady lines the silk with another inferior fabric and it hangs stiff, no longer floats. I settle for something a little different. It’s a gown, not a dress, she tells me. For your wedding you must have a gown.

I do.

Years later. A wedding invitation. An evening reception.  I lift the cellophane and smooth out the silk. The seams a little strained. The sleeves a little short. The skirt so full and swirly. The fabric so very soft and just my colour.

I slip it over my head and pull up the sleeves. Flesh overlaps at the upper arms and my bra strap shows at the shoulder in a way it never did. I twist and I turn but the zip won’t come to the top. The fabric strains across my middle. The skirt still swirls soft against my legs.

The dress is doing its best but the body inside isn’t the body that took to the dance floor at university with flushed cheeks and fabric to spare.

That wedding reception, the evening one – we didn’t go. We stayed at home on the sofa with our glass of wine. 

I couldn’t face the dress, the shopping, the size on the hangers. I couldn’t face the dance floor.

Lord, this body that I’m in; I know that it only tells a small part of the story. This is the body that nurtured and birthed two beautiful girls and the ribcage that spread out to accommodate them. This is the heart that moved upwards and sideways to make room for the little growing bodies that it still beats for.

The bust that strains the fabric of my green silk dress is the same that suckled two hungry babies until they no longer wanted mummy milk. The arms that won’t fit the little cap sleeves carried my 8lb, 9lb, 10lb babies everywhere and rocked them for long hours praying for sleep. The hips that sashayed on the dance floor swayed with swaddled newborns on shoulders late at night and padded themselves to seat toddlers.

I know all this and I believe it and I salute the body that did it all and still I long for the green dress days. When I look at the photographs and know that I was self conscious and diffident then, and yet look at me now. I know that my value isn’t related to my dress size. I know that my beauty isn’t found in necklines or cleavages or the ability to wear cap sleeves and swirly skirts.

Father God, somehow will you take that knowledge from my head to my heart? Make it real to me? Make it make a difference?

Give me a glimpse of myself through your eyes. I am your child and you love me, just as I am. I am a princess and I am made for your kingdom. I am spotless, stainless, glowing perfect because your Son, Jesus Christ, valued me so highly that he died for me. He doesn’t care about green dresses or stretched seams.

Give the green dress to a charity shop. Someone might love it; someone with toned arms and without a spare tyre. They might make it swirl again instead of hanging in cellophane collecting dust. I am a mother, I am a wife, I am a completely different shape from the body for which the green dress was designed.

Forget the green dress. Life is not about green dresses.

Lord, I’m not ready. I’m not ready to say goodbye to my green dress and the dance floor days and the naïve beauty that comes from being young and unselfconscious. I long for those days and there's a part of me that still hopes that I might feel those soft skirts swirl around my legs one day even now. I so want to feel beautiful again.

Special.

My head hears your words of love and acceptance and nods in understanding, in faith. It does. My heart still beats inside the bodice of a beautiful floaty silk dress that made me feel special.

I know there is freedom in you. Free me, Lord God. 

Free me from myself. 




Linking today with Tanya Marlow at Concrete Words:  http://tanyamarlow.com
Expressing the abstract through the concrete.

Beautiful

Hello, Lord.

I've just read something a friend has written about being beautiful.

Beautiful. Beautiful in your eyes. Accepting of herself, just as she is. 

I feel quite unsettled. 

I know that you love me. I know that you made me, and I know that you don't make mistakes. I know that I am precious to you. Beautiful? 

Sometimes I look in the mirror and if I'm having a good hair day, and I've taken a minute or two to put on some make-up, and the light is right - I think that maybe I'm not too bad. From certain angles. I've often thought about how film stars and actresses are supposed to be fully aware of the most flattering angle to have a picture taken from. The best expression. I know about screen tests and directors advising them on how to look their best on camera. Do I have a best side? I suppose I'm as vain as the next person; on occasion (when I was much younger, though, honestly) I confess that I might have turned this way and that to try to establish if I was nicer looking from one angle or another but I've never really found out. And now as the crows' feet get deeper and the wrinkles set in for the long haul I suspect that this particular ship has sailed.

Now THERE'S beauty.

I don't like the way I look. I can't see beauty when I look in the mirror. I almost never see a picture of me that doesn't make me cringe. I need whiter teeth, to lose a lot of weight. Better posture. More style. Don't get me wrong; I'm so, so much better than I was; so much less self conscious really, but thinking about beauty has woken up some insecurities that I thought I had at least partly put to bed.

I'm not sure that I'm all that beautiful on the inside, either. I know that your light is supposed to shine through me, and I know that on occasion, it does. A bit like a lighthouse, suddenly splitting the darkness, dazzling across the sea - sometimes you fill me with a Spirit that can't be contained and comes spilling out. I am pretty dark, though, most of the time. Lots of dangerous-looking rocks lurking there under the water level. 

Beautiful?

Some time ago a close friend and I went to a Christian lady who did image consultations and advised us on the colours that most suited us and flattered our skin and hair tones. I had only been with her a few minutes and as she talked about beauty I started to cry. I didn't anticipate crying - I was curious about my colours in a girly sort of way and didn't feel intimidated or threatened or anything like that. She spoke about an experience that she had where you told her how beautiful she was. Today my friend wrote about a similar experience. I know that you love me and I know that you don't judge beauty in terms of dress size or wrinkles or stretch marks or cellulite. 

What am I saying? That I'd quite like divine reassurance that you think I'm beautiful? I don't know. That I'd like you to help me get rid of the chip on my shoulder about my size? I don't know. 

I can't help thinking that you made me to be different from the way I am; that like everyone I started out with a body that was just as you wanted it to be but as the years have passed I've neglected to look after it as I should and now I am too heavy with achey hips and furrows in my forehead from too much frowning. It makes me ashamed that I am where I am when things could have been different. Maybe I might have been beautiful if only I'd have followed the Maker's instructions.  My problem is that I like eating and I'm good at it. I've had lots of practice. I don't like exercise. I'm not very good at that. I look at my children with their perfect, beautiful, energetic little bodies and I realise that I started out with the same potential. You blessed me with a body with nothing wrong with it and I messed it up.

I know, I know, it works, for the main part. My body has given birth to two breathtakingly lovely children and fed them for a long time. I can walk and hug my girls and sing to you and think. Over-think, in fact. I know all this and I'm grateful. But...but...

Sigh. 

Beauty on the inside? I worry about that too. I think that sometimes I am full of discontent and selfishness and bad temper and that must show as certainly as a person's happiness and joy and positivity make them glow. 

Listen, I'm tired and I need to go to sleep. I suspect that you're not going to get too much joy and positivity from me tonight. I was at soft play with the children for nearly four hours today and have been nursing a mild headache since early afternoon. I should shut up and put out the light.

Lord, nudge me onto the right track, will you? Either do the miraculous so that I wake up tomorrow a few stone lighter and not so wobbly (I like this option) or help me not to be so critical and self-conscious. Alternatively, help me motivate myself to do something about it. (Again. Sigh.) Or give me a glimpse of me as you see me, if you think that would help. I'm not sure exactly what I'm asking there, so if that's a wholly inappropriate request then please do what is good for me instead. 

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is it? 

I know that my husband finds me attractive. I know that my friends love me and would reassure me. I just can't believe it. I don't feel it. Does that matter?  Maybe I'm asking the wrong question. Maybe it doesn't matter what I believe. 

All I know is that this thing is a Big Thing for me. How I feel about myself. How the way I feel so embarrassed about myself affects my relationships, my confidence, my self-esteem.  I feel a little tonight as if I've been working on this forever and I've taken steps forward over the past couple of years and recently a few strides backwards. Nothing is too difficult for you, Lord. Help me past this one. 

I would like to be beautiful. 

Not necessarily film star beautiful, but with the sort of beauty that comes from within. I know that's a cliche but I've seen people who have this beauty and it isn't the perfectly-spaced eyes, clear skin, dimple and sensuous pout sort of beauty - it's much harder to describe. It is something good. Something attractive, something charismatic. The sort of person that draws you to them. Someone you want to be with. Someone who has something. Beauty. 

Help me with the self-pity and the self-consciousness and the self-absorption, Lord.  There are children in the world who don't have enough to eat. People who don't have homes to go to when the night is as cold as it is tonight. People who are afraid to speak out loud to you, their God, in case they are arrested and tortured for their faith. And here am I wittering on about wanting to be pretty. 

Sorry.

Take the jumble in my head, Father God, and rearrange it into something that honours you. Take the good desires and do something with them, and help me find a bin for the selfish ones. Help me stop scrutinising myself and look outwards at the wonder and breathtaking gorgeousness of your world. 

And help me stop putting so much butter on my toast and get down to the swimming pool more often. 

An audience of one

Are you listening, Lord? 

Are you watching? 

Are you there, right there, as I sit in front of my computer with my fingers on the keys?  Because I've started this and I don't know what I'll say next. 

It's something about who I am and why I am that I want to get off my chest today; it's a bit vague and I'm hoping it'll take shape as I talk because quite often if I waited until my ideas and questions had form I'd wait forever and I'd be sitting here intending to talk to you but never starting because I wasn't quite sure what I wanted to say. 

So here I am. Are you? 

You've said you are, and so you must be. 

Waiting. Watching. Listening. Waiting with a smile, encouraging. Expectant, because you know what I'm going to say before I do.

'Before a word is on my tongue, you, O Lord, you know it completely.'

Psalm 139:4

I spend my life trying to please people. I'm not sure why, but I worry an awful lot about what people think. Always have. To some extent I'm better than I used to be, but I'm still preoccupied by people's opinion of me too much of the time. 

I'm the sort of person who stops in the supermarket to exchange a spontaneous few words with an acquaintance and then plays the conversation back in my mind over and over wishing that I'd said something else, or not said anything; considering and fretting over what the other person thought, what impression they must have of me. After such an inconsequential exchange I am quite sure that the other person is thinking of nothing but the frozen food or their shopping list but I can go over it and over it. You'll know that it's not unusual for me to make a phone call and then put down the phone afterwards and stand where I am chewing a finger, deep in thought, and I'm rehashing it in my mind. Usually there's something I'd have done differently.

So you'll know what a minefield of potential gaffes the average day is for me. And it's not only what I say - it's how I look (what do people think?) and decisions I make (do people approve?) and how I act (how do people see me?). 

I know what it is that I want people to see when they look at me; I know what I would have people think, most of the time; it's just that I always fall short of my own idea of what I should be, and so I'm convinced that I fall short in other people's assessment of me as well. I'm constantly assessing and regretting and wincing at my perceived mistakes. Sometimes I'm crippled by it. Immobile. I assume that the thing people notice is the bit I'd hide if I could. I assume that other people are always assessing too and yet I know this isn't true. Most people are much more peaceful and accepting than I give them credit for. But then again...maybe they're not...

You see how I tie myself up in knots? 

Somebody said something to me the other day that has thrown all this into relief. 

I am playing to an audience of one. 

Of One. 

It doesn't matter what other people think. The only opinion that matters is yours,  Lord God. 

Of course, I have programming that needs to be undone I think; I seem to have become wired to assess and worry and this has given rise to self consciousness and diffidence and indecision. I almost never have confidence in my own decision making; if I decide something and immediately someone questions me I am invariably shaken. I wonder if I was right after all, should I perhaps have thought differently... and the process cycles once again. 

Why am I like this? I don't know. That's a whole other Thing. Maybe one day I'll luxuriate in someone's deconstruction and come out understanding myself in a whole new way; or maybe one day I'll just learn to let go of it and be transformed into a whole new person. Maybe I can climb the mountain to a higher level where the air is different and I can be freer. Who knows, but you? 

But I had a little breakthrough.

An audience of one. 

Recently I've had to make several decisions involving different people with different expectations of me. Each time I've been in the position where I couldn't please everyone. Each time I've agonised about it and worried about it and the truth is that there is only one opinion that really matters. I still have some tricky decisions coming up and I need to be sure that I am doing what pleases you. Not pleasing other people so that they will have a high opinion of me. Not pleasing other people so that I can gain a sense of self-worth because they depend on me. Not doing something so that I look good/busy/godly/committed/needed/competent/efficient/any other adjective I can insert to prop up my frail ego. What other people think is of dramatically lower importance than what you think.

'Am I now trying to win the approval of men, or of God? Or am I trying to please men? If I were still trying to please men, I would not be a servant of God.'

Galatians 1:10

An audience of one. 

Lord, that's easier said than done. I often feel obliged to do things - I find saying no very hard. I worry that people will be disappointed or disapproving. But I find that when I take on something for the wrong reasons it becomes stressful and oppressive and overwhelming; indeed I've just extricated myself very painfully from one commitment that has been nothing but anxiety from day one and I am still not sure why I said I'd do it in the first place, other than that people expected me to. Not good enough. 

It all comes down to being close to you. Walking close enough to hear your voice. Holding on tight enough so that I feel your presence. Stopping long enough to look and see the real picture. If I don't do that then I dash past knocking things flying and getting it wrong and having to go back and pick up the broken pieces. 

So I have lots of claims on my time. Since Katy has started school I have more time and I don't know where it's going. I'm busier than ever and the only, only thing I'm sure of is that you are waiting for me to dedicate some of that time to you. There are worthy things out there; enjoyable and less so, things that are productive and undoubtedly need doing - but I need to stop, wait and discern which of those things are for me because you want me to do them, and you have equipped me for them, and which I would do only because someone else wants me to do them. 

What do people think of me?

What do you think of me?

An audience of one.

I want you to approve of me. I want you to be pleased with me. I want to be less concerned with the opinion of others. I don't mean that I want to be careless of it - but not desperate for it. I just want to learn how to walk with confidence in the steps you have carved for me, secure in the knowledge that I am doing all I can to be your servant, and my significance comes from that. Not from the ideas that another person has of me. Of course I want to be thought of highly, and I should, because I carry the family name and I should look after it.  I mustn't pursue others' approval at all costs. 

'Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as though you were working for the Lord and not for his people. Remember that the Lord will give you as a reward what he has kept for his people. For Christ is the real Master you serve.'

Colossians 3:23,24

Amen. Help me to remember that, Lord. I keep forgetting. My need to get things right has sort of gone askew and I need to ask myself who is marking the scoresheet? Who says if it's right or not? Every person in my life thinks that I'm someone different; only you know me, all the sides of me. You know me inside out. Every strength, weakness, hope, dream, fear, insecurity and foible. Many people would not love me so much if they knew what you know.  People would reassess their opinion of me dramatically if they knew all that.

But you love me anyway. More than that - you delight in me. 

You accept me because you made me and the angels celebrate when I get something right that pleases you. With everyone around me I have to play a part - even with people that I love who love me. Only with you can I lay my whole being down and be assured of perfect love however badly I get it wrong. However many times I have to ask your forgiveness. Why would I close my eyes and walk past that wonder in pursuit of another human being's flawed opinion that isn't based on all the facts? 

You are my Father and I am your child and I want to light up your face with pleasure because your opinion of me is the one that matters. I want to remember at those moments when I could go one way or another that you are my real Master. I serve the God of the Universe. Please give me wisdom and discernment and integrity. And courage.

I am playing to an audience of one.