Sunday, May 9, 2010
My Junior year of high school I was dating John. He was nice and played the guitar. We went to the same church. His parents owned a coffee shop. And he was a Senior. So that meant back-to-back formal events for which I would need dresses. The situation caused some stress and friction since I spent what would be my minimum wage earning hours at rowing practice and had no cash. I was calling friends and trying to squeeze into shiny and silky things not intended for my body type. And because I was a myopic teen, this was all a very big deal.
With two weeks to go I had resigned myself to strapless purple and an evening of self-conscious torture. Then I came home from practice one evening to find a dress bag on the back of my bedroom door. Inside was a black, tank-style dress. Beautiful. Made for me. Something I could really walk around in.
My mom had gone to Macy’s and bought a dress. That I had never seen. That fit just right. That told me she understood. And cared. And thought my feelings and my fragile sense of self were important. I came running out to model the snappy little number, lifting my arms to made room for the heart busting against my ribs. Everyone agreed it was lovely, even the harmonica teacher who was our dinner guest on Tuesdays.
When I think of the good gifts of God and the way He lavishes them with personal flare I think of that dress. And my mom. And I smile.
“Every good and perfect gift is from above . . .” James 1:17