Look-alikes

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Today I was rummaging around for one of those snap-shut eyeglass cases to protect sunglasses in a beach bag. Since Nate was always careful with his glasses, I looked in his top dresser drawer, and sure enough, there were five snap-shut cases, just the way he left them. One had reading glasses in it. Two had prescription sunglasses. One was empty, and the fifth surprised me. Inside was a small, shiny pair of scissors.

Although Nate occasionally complained about the noise and debris of his school-age children, he didn’t nitpick his adult kids. There was one exception, however. Over the years he couldn’t hang onto a small pair of scissors he kept in our bathroom medicine cabinet and blamed different kids for its repeated disappearance. Eventually he’d always head for Walgreens to buy another one.

Today I discovered how he’d permanently solved the dilemma. He’d bought a scissors and hidden it in a glasses case, which made me laugh. But why did he want tiny scissors anyway?

In all the years we were married, although I often heard about his scissors disappearing, I never asked what he was cutting. Now I know. Tucked in with the scissors was a tiny comb resembling a Barbie doll accessory. It reminded me of something that happened at a wedding reception three years ago.

A young girl came up to us as we stood chatting with another couple, balancing our appetizer plates. Although we didn’t know her, she asked to take Nate’s picture. Would he mind? His quizzical look made her finish his thought. “…because you look just like Donald Trump!”

As I took his appetizers from him, Nate reluctantly agreed. The young photographer asked him to point his finger as if he was saying “You’re fired!” Nate did, albeit without enthusiasm. The rest of us enjoyed the moment much more than he did.

On the way home, he talked about the girl and her photo. “I hope it doesn’t turn up on the internet.” But my surprise came when he added, “I get that all the time downtown.”

“You get what all the time?” I asked.

“Get taken for Donald Trump.”

And that, I decided, was what the scissors and mini- comb were all about. When his brows got too bushy and the likeness became strong, he’d trim and comb them neatly. He wasn’t interested in being taken for Donald Trump.

Folklore says everybody has a double somewhere. I don’t believe it, because God is creative enough not to have to “ditto” anyone. But the concept of doubles is intriguing. Celebrity look-alike contests abound, and the side-by-side photos do grab our attention. Some people even develop flourishing careers based on looking and acting like someone they’re not.

In reality, each of us is exactly who God made us to be.

And he wants us to be ourselves, but makes one exception. He gives permission, actually urges us, to become look-alikes of somebody: him. Although we don’t need a scissors or a mustache comb to develop the resemblance, we do need something much more difficult to acquire: a non-stop attitude of sacrificial love.

Now… if only that were available at Walgreens.

“Imitate God… in everything you do, because you are his dear children. Live a life filled with love, following the example of Christ.” (Ephesians 5:1-2a)

Perfection

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It’s hard to be perfect at anything. No matter how we try, our efforts are flawed. But when I was a kid, I got to be perfect at one thing: Sunday school attendance.

In the ‘40s and ‘50s, our church involvement went well beyond sitting through one hour-long worship service. Sunday school came before church, followed by a “fellowship time,” followed by “real” church. Since my family lived in the Chicago suburbs and Moody Church was in the city, we left home early and returned mid-afternoon, often heading back later for an evening worship service.

Nevertheless, many of us chased after perfect attendance. If we ventured out of town, a diligent search was made for an acceptable local church to attend. And it wasn’t good enough just to sit through a church service. In order to get attendance credit with our home church, we had to be present at a Sunday school hour, too. Then we proved that by bringing home a note from the vacation Sunday school, preferably written on their church letter-head.

If we successfully attended Sunday school for 52 weeks in a row, we received a gold and enamel brass bar attached to an attendance pin. Each new year came with a fresh chance to win another bar.

Although some Sunday school attendees continued to pursue perfect attendance even after high school, most of us figured going off to college closed the door to any additional bars, which is not to say we didn’t remain at least sporadically faithful anyway.

What made us want to attend Sunday school every single week of the year? In the beginning we were obedient little children just following orders, but that evolved into the fun of coming together with pals, which then grew into forming long-term friendships (and quite a few marriages).

As small fry we also loved the flannelgraph Bible stories and the teachers who taught them. During our teens we were coaxed to ponder life’s hardest questions and watched closely as our leaders lived out their faith in front of us. Many of us still point to these Sunday school teachers and youth pastors as important mentors in our lives. They encouraged us to “walk the high road” rather than take the easy route with instant gratification.

But the #1 motivation toward perfect Sunday school attendance was all about a person… actually three people. As we showed up week to week, we grew to know and love (1)  God our heavenly Father, (2) Jesus our personal Savior and the mysterious but powerful (3) Holy Spirit who, amazingly enough, was willing to live within us if we asked him. And because of these three, we learned that in God’s hands, even life’s negatives eventually yield blessings.

Whether or not we find perfection in any category on this earth, the Trinity has offered to provide eternal perfection to all who believe. And we don’t even have to attend Sunday school to get it.

“Let us think of ways to motivate one another to acts of love and good works. And let us not neglect our meeting together, as some people do, but encourage one another, especially now that the day of [Christ’s] return is drawing near.” (Hebrews 10:24-25)

Playing Games

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The death of a spouse prompts so many changes and so much confusion that life can resemble the old group game “Fruit Basket Upset.” The game proceeds in a gently rambunctious manner until someone calls out, “Fruit basket upset!” At that, every person in the circle of chairs has to leap out of their seat and try to find a different chair before there are none left unoccupied.

The death of a family member is much like that, especially in the case of a spouse/parent. During a marriage, life bops along with lots going on, husband, wife and family members running here and there, meeting commitments and following to-do lists. Then suddenly the husband/father dies and it’s like the crash of “fruits” in the middle of the circle, people feeling shoved and pushed in their attempts to scramble to a “new chair.” In “Fruit Basket Upset,” this kind of chaos is fun. In life, not so much.

This morning after waking up and staring at the ceiling for a while, I got up and turned around to make the bed. Then it occurred to me that it didn’t really matter whether I made it or not. Who would care? No one was going to see it but me.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, fighting the temptation to lie back down. The first thing that popped into my head was a picture of Nate turning down his side of the bed at night time, just before climbing in. It was a good moment of every day, no matter what had happened between leaving the bed early in the morning and returning to it later that night. And he loved the idea of pulling back the covers. It was as if everything had been properly prepared for this appealing moment.

Now, of course, things are different. He won’t be turning back the covers, and I didn’t really care if the bed was made or not. Climbing into bed used to be an “ahhh” moment of relaxation and peace. Now it’s a time when the world has gone dark, the night stretches long and I miss Nate being where he always used to be. It feels like I’m in the middle of a “Fruit Basket” circle after all the places have been taken, wondering where to turn next and what steps to take.

Although we’re left without our usual, familiar places in life, none of us has really lost the game. We haven’t been eliminated as a chair-less game player would be from “Fruit Basket Upset.” It’s just that Nate’s death has necessitated writing new rules of play, and we’re trying to walk away from the “upset” part. We’d rather play a different game anyway… like, say, “Candyland”.

“Candyland” has greater appeal than “Fruit Basket Upset.” It’s a peaceful game that leaves strategy up to the game-makers rather than the game players. And the truth is, Nate has actually won it already. He’s by-passed the negatives of Molasses Swamp and Cherry Pitfall, not just to reach Candyland’s Home Sweet Home but to arrive at a whole new kingdom where the sweetest home imaginable awaited him. And there aren’t any beds to make either, because there is no night there.

As a matter of fact, this new home is “delicious” in every way, surpassing Gumdrop Mountain and Lollipop Woods by such a long shot that it’s not even on the game board.

“The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and will bring me safely to his heavenly kingdom.” (2 Timothy 4:18)