In a moment of clarity, I realized that Bridgette saw all the good and pretty parts of my life, not all the ugly ones I was trying to hide. I had convinced myself that she noticed my mom jeans and our old truck and my lack of professional polish, so in my insecurity I put up a wall that projected I had it all together. I didn’t want her—or anyone else—to see my struggles and failures, so I kept her at arm’s length and tried to look self-assured and impenetrable. Safe—from a distance.
This was my modus operandi: friendly, but friendless. Except for Priscilla, there were very few people I let in. Few saw the real me, with my flaws and wrinkles. It was a pattern I’d started as a gawky teenager, so insecure and snaggletoothed and unfashionable next to the popular girls and successful athletes in high school.
Back then I’d learned to be funny and gregarious, hiding my introverted self behind a confident mask so that I’d fit in without risking rejection. It was history repeating itself—only now instead of cheerleaders, I substituted other women I deemed better, smarter, prettier, and more accomplished. Bridgette was all of those things. Best not to let her see what’s on the inside.
But the charade suddenly made me feel lonely.
Bridgette’s question opened my eyes. I had been jealous of her perfection, and all the while she was envious of mine. Yet neither one of us was truly what the other thought. Both of us had false perceptions based on our own insecurities. Sitting here, our elbows nearly touching on the table, my defenses began to melt, and I realized something I hadn’t recognized before: We were no longer just two women from opposite backgrounds. We were in a sisterhood of fear and comparison that kept us in a place of mistrust and loneliness. We held ourselves up to one other and always came up short. Each of us taking our weakest points and comparing them to the other’s strongest. Each of us hiding behind our strengths and wearing them like armor.
“Oh, Bridgette, if you only knew the truth—how much I’ve struggled to be a good mom and have a good marriage with the challenges we face. Maybe I made it look easy because that’s what I wanted you to see. The truth is, I fail way more often than I succeed. I don’t multitask well, and I’m always juggling more than I can handle. My pants are hemmed with duct tape. I can never find matching socks. I’m disorganized and distracted.” I sighed. “All this time, I’ve been intimidated by you. I was convinced I could never measure up to how smart and competent and talented you are.”
Vulnerable, exposed. But finally genuine and real. I had put my heart out there, and now I held my breath. Please don’t hurt me.
To my relief, she cradled it gently.
“Wow.” Bridgette pulled the word out like soft taffy. “I think we have a lot to learn from each other.” I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Tell me more about that duct tape trick.” She chuckled. “I’ve got some pants that need hemming.”
Twilight was falling as Bridgette and I stepped outside onto the porch. It was time for me to head home. The late spring air was cool on my skin, belying the warmth that usually ushered itself in this time of year. I could see the horses grazing in the adjacent pasture, just a few yards north of Bridgette’s house. Their soft nickers and blowing sounds told me they were thinking about heading back to their own barn for the night. Just then, a little set of long ears came forward to check out the movement in the yard. Little baby. How I adore your mixed-up gene pool.
Bridgette pulled her beaded scarf around her shoulders and pointed out a lone bloom amid the spent greens of earlier flowers. “Look at my last purple iris. All the other ones bloomed weeks ago, and this one finally opened up yesterday! It’s all by itself. Idn’t it gorgeous?”
“Beautiful!” I admired the frilly petals of the last iris, standing so tall and proud. “Gotta love the late bloomer.” We laughed.
And then I turned to her and whispered, “I think I’m a late bloomer, Bridgette. I feel like I’m late to everything . . . late to figuring things out, late to friendships, late to finding my whole purpose in life.” I took a breath. “But maybe that’s okay if what I’ll get in the end is a spectacular finish like this.”
“Well, me too,” Bridgette said. “Me too, girl. Better to bloom late, than to never bloom, right?”
We smiled at each other in the gathering darkness and high-fived over our heads, fingers catching as our hands dropped. How could it have taken me so long to see this jewel of a friend right under my nose? Perhaps she’d been offering her friendship all along, and I was too busy being stoic and self-sufficient. Too worried she’d discover my flaws and reject me. Declining the first and second offers on account of that’s how I do it. Circling, fearing mistreatment, but receiving kindness instead. I had been so foolish.
Thank You, God, for third chances, and oftentimes more. And for Southern steel magnolias like Bridgette.
She had helped me understand something important. A life well lived is about character—that’s true. It’s when what’s on the inside—love, generosity, faith, joy, and all that good stuff—shows on the outside. But it’s also about the people whose lives you are a part of. Those you let in . . . those whom you allow to see your most vulnerable part—the side that isn’t perfect, doesn’t have it together, doesn’t have everything figured out. It’s when you quit comparing and stop hiding that you start to bloom.
I saw that character really means nothing without people to share it with. When it comes down to it, character is really only as good as the relationships around you. Honesty, love, generosity, and truth must have an object, or they remain theories rather than becoming realities in our lives. Proverbs 22:1 says, “Choose a good reputation over great riches; being held in high esteem is better than silver or gold.” It’s in your friendships, your community, and your family that character makes all the difference.
Maybe a life well lived is about wearing your heart on your sleeve, your donkey soul on the outside, just like our little mule next door, with his distinct light muzzle and softly circled eyes. He couldn’t hide his shady paternity, even if he wanted to. But because of it, we love him all the more. Ears too big, tail too odd . . . oh dear baby.
It’s letting the love and the fear, the joy and the sorrows, the confidence and the insecurities—all of it, every bit of it—show without shame. It’s reaching out and learning to trust in the kindness that’s around you, and allowing others to know the real you.
And that’s when genuine love happens. Better late than never.
Wear your donkey heart on your sleeve.
A well-lived life is an authentic life.
Drought. The year Flash arrived, Texas was hit hard by its worst dry spell since the 1950s. Ranchers were forced to sell off herds, and farmers lost entire crops from the lack of rainfall. Reservoirs were hitting rock bottom, exposing old tires and radiators in their fissured lake beds. It seemed that on every street corner and in every barbershop, coffee shop, and convenience store, casual conversation was marked by weather speculation.
“It’s the La Niña effect,” a wiry rancher told me over his Styrofoam coffee cup in the church foyer. “That’s when the colder air and water in the Pacific cause drier conditions in the central plains and southwestern parts of the country. If we could just get that jet stream to move . . .” He explained that what we really needed was El Niño—the opposite of La Niña—to dump boatloads of rain on us.
Others were certain that sinister conspiracies were at work.
“Definitely the government,” said a friend who was known to get inside information from Internet sources. “Well, not exactly the government. It’s a secret organization, which is run by the government, to control radio frequency waves in order to change the weather.” She elaborated at length on the high-altitude chemical vapors intentionally created by aircraft to alter weather patterns worldwide. Interesting. While this theory didn’t explain the purpose of such nefarious governmental interference, it did make for lively discussion.
“Global warming,” said another friend. “The
greenhouse gases are ruining the planet. Just look at the pollution in Asia and you can see why we are suffering.”
Still others proclaimed the drought to be the result of righteous judgment, a serious accusation against the state that regards itself as the buckle on the Bible Belt. This one seemed curious to me. Perhaps instead it was our self-righteousness—and not the outright sin and debauchery more prevalent in other geographical areas—that was to blame. Still, it was probably a good idea to do some soul-searching anyway. The governor called for statewide vigils, and people everywhere prayed for rain. We needed it badly.
Flash showed up just as rainfall totals were starting to plummet. By the time we realized the drought wasn’t going anywhere, he was part of the family, and no matter what it cost in hay and care, he was here to stay.
He was the only one who seemed oblivious to the troubles around him, and I loved hanging out with him as the sun would set on another arid day. I brushed his sleek summer coat and applied fly repellent. Picked dirt out of his hooves and carefully cleaned around his eyes. It seemed Flash suffered from the same allergies that we did, and his eyes would get watery from dust and pollen. Flash’s contented demeanor and quiet appreciation for the tender care always brought me a sense of calm as Tom and I continued trying to patch together a living and finish raising our kids in the midst of the Great Recession.
You had to hand it to Flash: He maintained a busy schedule. If he could have typed up a daily to-do list, I am certain it would have looked something like this:
1. Wake up among the cedar trees.
2. Enjoy the morning quiet.
3. Wander to the back pasture.
4. Follow the trail to the barn and check on breakfast situation.
5. Eat hay.
6. Solve world problems.
7. Nap.
8. Check resident mesquite trees for leaves.
9. Find delicate flowers to nibble.
10. Mosey to front pasture.
11. Scratch body parts on fence posts.
12. Socialize with neighbors over fence.
13. Munch on tree bark and weeds.
14. Stand near bois d’arc tree and wait for someone to pick up fruit and throw it to me.
15. Bray. (For best results, do this without warning.)
16. Nap.
17. Check on “people activity” near gate.
18. Loiter near barn.
19. Take a dirt bath in favorite roll spot.
20. Poop in designated piles. (Do several times a day, not particularly scheduled.)
21. Bird-watch.
22. Call it a day.
Flash’s days were so full, it’s a wonder he fit it all in.
After checking on the water level in his bucket and finding Flash finishing up #2 (enjoy the morning quiet) and starting on #3 (wander to the back pasture), I packed a sack lunch and grabbed my earbuds so I could head to a mural project. Tom loaded my ladders and paint supplies. He would spend the day working with his father on a little side business that brought in some extra income. The day promised to be an interesting one, as I’d never painted a scene on a wall of a room that housed an indoor swimming pool and felt excited about the prospect.
“Remember, Lauren and Robert and Meghan and Nathan will be home for the weekend,” Tom said as he kissed my forehead through the open Explorer window. “Try and wrap it up early so we can order pizza and get a movie going.”
“Can’t wait,” I said. Nothing sounded better than a weekend of comfort food and hanging out together. Maybe I could get the mural laid out and the underpainting done by the end of the afternoon.
Ignoring the check-engine light that had been lit up on the dashboard for weeks, I put the Explorer into reverse. A loud squeak emanated from the front end as I rolled backward. Well, this was new. My excitement for the day disappeared in an instant. I hit the brakes, and Tom and I grimaced at each other as our eyes met.
Well? my face said.
No time to look at it, his expression replied.
My eyes narrowed. I hate this bucket of bolts.
I know. He shrugged in sympathy, palms raised. Me too.
“Come around the house and park in back, next to the yellow Jag.” My client’s sultry voice oozed through the entry speaker as the heavy iron gate swung open. I pulled through the arches onto the expansive property and found a spot to park near the fleet of vehicles in the detached six-car garage. No matter how slowly I crept along, that squeak from the Explorer echoed off the courtyard walls as I rattled the vehicle into place. Lovely.
A yellow Jaguar, a blue Mercedes, a HUMMER, a convertible BMW, and a black Lexus were neatly lined up and polished in their spaces. I’m so glad I got a car wash on the way—not that it makes much difference.
The homeowner was the wife of a man who had acquired his wealth in the oil business. As we headed for the pool, she pointed out all the treasures she’d amassed from her overseas travels.
“You’ve probably never been to China, but I fell in love with Asian arts and crafts and brought some large pieces home with me. They cost a fortune to ship, but they’re worth it.” Her monologue was punctuated with odd inflections that felt like tiny pinpricks under my skin, and we were only minutes into the day.
She introduced me to the other service people on-site: the car detail guy, the cleaning lady, the window guy, the fireplace guy. I quickly discovered that she’d hired me as much for conversation as for painting. Unfortunately, I had not included “talking” in my estimate, so I was quite anxious to stick to the part where a paintbrush was in hand. All the kids would be home tonight!
There was not a minute to spare. I surveyed the scope of the project while looking over my shoulder as she ushered me along. Because first I would need a tour through the new east wing and indoor tennis courts, apparently to properly understand the feel of the home.
Finally we reached the end, and I was dismissed to begin my real job. “I’ll let you get to it,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’ve got some online shopping to do in the other room.”
The humid pool room was also home to an indoor garden. My mural would cover one of the walls, to give the illusion that an Asian “garden” continued on into the distance. Crammed with tropical plants, moss-covered rocks, and imported statues, there wasn’t one level spot on the floor for my ladder. No place to set my tools. Dear me, it’s like a sauna in here. I could feel a trickle of sweat make its way down my neck, and I knew my work was cut out for me.
As I unpacked my supplies, it was hard to shake that check-engine light and the humiliating squeak that had announced my arrival at this sprawling North Dallas manor. I should be grateful for this project, but man! It was tough to feel thankful after parking next to that yellow Jag. And all those comments that made me feel subservient. . . . I didn’t know what to make of them, but they didn’t help my mood. I was irritated.
Plugging in my earbuds, I tuned my iPod to worship music in hopes that it would improve my outlook. Listening to Chris Tomlin sing “My Chains Are Gone,” I felt my pulse begin to subside to a normal level as I focused on the words and let the melody wash over me. I pulled out my sketches, already soggy from the humidity, and began to plot the mural design onto the wall.
Around lunchtime, my stomach was rumbling and my arms were aching when I heard a distant, muted pounding on a window. I turned on my unsteady ladder to see the lady mouthing something urgent to me and pointing to the door that opened into their game room. I removed my earbuds and climbed down as she went around to open the door to my sauna.
I stepped into the air-conditioned room in a cloud of moisture and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the bar. Oh for crying out loud. No! My hair was stuck to my head like a greasy squirrel, mascara circled my eyes and ran down my cheek, and a green mustache graced my upper lip where I’d smudged paint. I looked like a Goth-inspired bag lady. And I was pretty confident that my deodorant had failed. It was the full package of Awful.
My client, o
n the other hand, smelled of freesia and oil money. In her manicured fingers was a catalog of the latest Mercedes models, which she laid open on the table next to us.
“I desperately need your help,” she implored. “You have an artistic eye. I can’t decide which Mercedes to buy: the classic dark-gray sedan or the hot little red convertible. Which do you think makes the best statement?” She blinked at me with her flawless makeup and waited.
I looked back at her with my raccoon eyes and my drippy hair, clenching my paint-covered fingers behind my back.
And I felt about an inch tall.
I was angry. I felt belittled and small and ungrateful. I was sweaty and bitter.
Um, have ya seen my awesome vehicle out there? Do you really think I’m qualified to tell you which car makes the best statement?
How about the one that doesn’t squeak? Yeah, that one. Pick that one.
But I pointed to the red coupe with my knuckle and heard myself say, “Oh, take the red one! It’s sporty and flashy and fun!” Did my laugh sound natural and light? Because I really wanted to sound natural and light.
The rest of the conversation blurred, along with the final hours of roughing-in the painting. As I threw my brushes and tools together to go home, she insisted that I take everything out again to touch up a furniture piece she needed for a party that weekend. In my mind, it was another strange stab to put me in my place and keep me longer than I wanted.
Squeaking home (without air-conditioning, I might add) in the red Explorer that made a real statement, I lashed out at God for His lack of care. Weeks between projects and then to get this one, working for someone with a sense of superiority? I knew the economy was hurting everyone, not just the farmers and ranchers and artists, but I expected a little better treatment here. I was sick of this recession. I was tired of cutting expenses, beaten down by that orange light blinking at me. And my hair still stuck to my head, although now matted into a crispy mess. If ever I needed those highlights, it was now. It’s just that there was never quite enough. Never enough money, never enough time, never enough success, never enough of anything to go around.
Flash Page 12
