Oh no! Not again!

“So. Did you forget to, um, shave,” I say to my husband who, showered and dressed, appears ready to go out to dinner.

“No. I didn’t forget.”

My suspicions confirmed, I say nothing. I simply turn my back to him, begin washing dishes. Maybe this time if he doesn’t elicit my usual protests, if I pretend not to care, it will take the fun out of it, and he’ll shave sooner.

Joanna knows nothing of my scheme. “Oh, no, Dad, not again. Don’t you know how we hate it when you try to grow a beard?” I shoot her a look. “Don’t start.”

It doesn’t matter. He’s not paying any attention. As usual. Later that night I cut his hair. I compliment his beautiful hair, how the exercising is making him so strong. I don’t say a word about the pricklies.

The next day is Sunday. I’ve been good. I’ve not said a word. I’ve kept my lip from curling when I look at him. He still hasn't shaved.

Maybe I should start in. Maybe by ignoring it, I’m prolonging the agony. What if there is a set number of times I have to cringe, complain, cajole, beg, resist his advances before he’ll cave in? And by not saying anything, I’m just dragging out the process. The last time I looked at him, my lip was beginning to curl. I don't think I can hold out.

The following are some thoughts from the last time he attempted facial hair:


My husband is growing this strange tuft of hair on his face. It’s a circle about as big as his thumb, just below his lip – above the cleft of his chin, if he had one – a cleft, I mean – not a chin.

He has a chin - a nice, square-jawed, clean-shaven chin. I love seeing that chin. In 25 years it’s probably the only thing that hasn’t changed. It’s a can-do chin – young, but graced with fortitude.

Over the years I’ve objected to his growing a beard, saying, “You have such a nice chin. Beards are for men with weak chins.” Besides, his beard was always spotty and reminded me of a potato sprouting. Of course, beginning beards are scratchy, and in the end he would rather have kisses than fulfill his dream of looking like Jeremiah Johnson. It’s been a good, long time since the last attempt.

Until last week. He must have been growing this tuft for quite some time, because by the time I noticed it, it was quite thick and full.

“What in the world is THAT? Surely you’re not planning on keeping it!” Subtlety and diplomacy are not my strong suits.

“Yes, I am.”

“But why? It’s awful…and gross.” I should know by now hyperbole doesn’t work, but I use it anyway.

“Because I like it. It’s cool.” End of discussion #1.

I’m not without comrades in this. My 13 year old Joanna agrees, “Dad, that’s disgusting. When are you going to shave it off?”

He just shrugs. That tuft is going nowhere.


He did shave it not too long after that. But only when he was good and ready. Not because I had badgered him. The badgering probably kept it on.

I can’t be like Pam, who lovingly encourages her husband’s attempt to grow a beard she no doubt despises as much as I do. I don’t have the character, the selflessness.

So, I will try to wait it out, to let him have his way, and console myself with this thought, “Do I really want him to give in, give up?”

Because, in truth, though I really do hate anything resembling a beard on my husband’s face, I am thankful that I married a man who just won’t do what I tell him.

Keeping Up Appearances

I love the British comedy, "Keeping Up Appearances". Hyacinth fancies herself part of the upper crust because she married a banker. She spends her time promoting herself with her "candlelight suppers" and charity work, but inevitably she has to deal with her low-class sisters, which usually involves hiding them from people she is trying to impress.

My favorite sister is Daisy, who lives with her husband Onslow, neither of whom care a bit about appearances, preferring instead to read romance novels and watch the telly, respectively. Onslow sits with beer in hand, wearing his signature sleeveless sweater vest that barely covers his belly, but not his beefy arms.

The kitchen counter and sink are always filled with dirty dishes. One day Hyacinth came to call and Daisy offered to make her a cup of coffee. Noticing her sister's disapproving looks at the messy kitchen, Daisy took a dirty rag and half-heartedly started wiping a spot on the filthy counter, all the while chatting merrily. She never rinsed the rag, never even moved from that one spot. She essentially just smeared the grease around, accomplishing nothing. That extra touch on the actor's part wasn't central to the scene, but made it so funny, I laughed until I cried.

I remembered this scene while in church last Sunday. No, not because someone reminded me of Hyacinth, Onslow, or Daisy, nor because the sermon was boring and I needed a diversion. I had been thinking about my own life and how cluttered with sin and irrelevances it has become.

The indulgence of the holidays and the forsaken resolutions of the past year are piled up like the dishes in Daisy's kitchen. Like her, I sense that something needs to be done. I'm uncomfortable under Hyacinth's gaze, so I begin making a motion that resembles cleaning, but all I'm doing is just smearing the dirt around.

There needs to be an end to pointless, minor adjustments that are designed to distract, to prop up, to cover up, to maintain the status quo. Promises to do this, not do that, are merely attempts to take the edge off guilty feelings while preserving life as it is.

I long for a fierce, icy wind to cut deep, to blow away all the dead leaves. I need a tsunami to wash over me, to blast away the cobwebs of habit and indifference. I want words like, "Take up your cross and follow me" to make me tremble.

A Father's Heart

It's not that I can't think of anything to write myself. It's just that I keep coming across things I want to share.
My niece Sophie had just arrived in Knoxville as a second semester freshman. Her father, Tim, emailed this to her so she'd have it when she got back to her dorm room after the long ride.

Hey kid,

You made it back safe. That was no accident. God has a plan for you and your degree is part of His plan. Sooo wriggle your toes in the dirt, take a step closer to the edge, breathe deep and jump. While you're falling, you may wonder why you are surrounded by so much air. Nothing is solid; it feels unnatural. Don't worry - you are just passing through. You have a destination. It's the deep, cool water of life and you get there by leaping off the cliff named Easy. Standing on the cliff of Easy, you only get to watch the lake of life.

I am proud of you.

Hold your nose and tuck your legs because darling, when you hit the water, you are going to make a big splash in LIFE.

Dad

Something to Consider for 2008

My daughter Natalie, 21, wrote this in August, but it's a great New Year's piece that challenges me and I wanted to post it here, which I'm doing with her permission.

"An Unpolished Thought"
Natalie Bernardini

I have been thinking lately that my life is pretty dull. Exciting things have happened around me, but not in me. I have been reading all summer, from Harry Potter to The Four Loves, to books on living among the poor to National Geographic, and they all have challenged my thoughts in different ways. I have been learning, of late, about standing for something. I have always been pretty opinionated, thoughtful, but I have realized that something of grand importance has been missing in my life. My mouth moves, but my feet stand still. I sit down, longing for adventure; waiting for something to do with my hands, but I don't move. Why is that?

I think I have been given too much. I am full, but it's not the kind of satisfying fill you get when you eat after a long day of work; it's the kind of full feeling that never goes away. It's almost sickening because it's undeserved. I rarely possess hunger because I rarely struggle. I don't know the pain of searing loss; I haven't been "burned" in love, I do not know what it's like to be without a home. However, I am realizing that spiritually, I have experienced all of these things in full. I believe this is the starting point. I might be "full" physically, but my soul is parched. I find no adventure because I don't take chances. Taking a chance would require loss, possibly the loss of everything for which I have worked. I desire to do great things, but I am unwilling to sacrifice the mediocre things to which I am enslaved.

The challenge seems to be two-fold: first, I have to give up my entire life and then I have to go and do. Not an easy task by any means. Then again, herein lies the issue: it's not a task! I have made it out to be a job that needs finishing. Wrong again; it's a joy above all joys. I am realizing that if I lay down my life and follow Christ WHEREVER He wants me to go, I actually live. The adventure starts here.

I say I want to be able to take a stand for something, but how can I if I have only stood still? If I live in a way that seeks to protect myself from all things that could potentially harm me, strike discord with my daily life, or bring about struggle, I have failed. I have lived in fear, rather than faith. My work is rubbish. I say I want adventure, and I am realizing that God places it before me everyday; I just choose to ignore it. I choose the cheaper, less fulfilling life. One that has turned out to be dull and empty at the end of the day. But, there is hope.

I don't think that we should put down our books and go save the world without proper equipping. Too many people get the "feeling" that they have been called to go spread the Gospel, but they forget that it takes discipline and study of the Word to be effective. Working among the poor, caring for those in need, helping one's brothers and sisters are all actions made of good intention in most circumstances. However, can't anyone do that? It takes more than a motive, more than a "good" or outgoing person to take on the challenge of which I am writing. It ultimately comes down to sacrifice and understanding. Sacrifice of one's life as they previously desired it and the understanding that this sacrifice will bring about immense joy and freedom; and not to mention, adventure!

How I will get to the point of putting myself out there, being bold, yet humble, and also equipping and disciplining myself; standing for what is good and right and fully trusting Christ...I have no idea. I do know that I long for adventure, but one that is lasting; and it starts when I stand up on my feet for once and follow Christ; and that means going wherever He will have me go and doing whatever He will ask me to do.

The Tree Explained

This tree makes me think of a quote my mother repeated many times when my sister and I were growing up. “To thine own self be true.” I can still remember her saying that as she pulled a roast from the oven, although I’ve forgotten the context. She resorted to it when giving advice for most of my childhood and teenage dilemmas.

Maybe it was the elegance of the word “thine”. Perhaps it was the emphasis of “own” that appealed to my growing awareness of self. Then again it could be the presence of the final word, that Mt. Everest of adjectives, that diamond of concepts. I knew nothing of life mottoes, nothing of what this really meant, or its opposite. I just knew that my mother, who wasn’t given to much philosophizing other than with her friends over bourbon and Coke, was trying to impart something that identified her, that she wanted to live by.

Whether you think this tree is awful or beautiful, for those who know and love my mother, all we know is, “It’s perfect; it’s her.” In some ways, this tree is proof of a life lived by this Shakespearean line turned motto. For when a person lives that way, for good or ill, what results is a sterling personality, one of which people will remark, “Well, that’s Joanne for you.” Or, “That’s so Joanie.” Or, “You know how your mother is.”

Every year, my sister and I insisted that we have a real Christmas tree that touched the ceiling. My father would play the part of protesting the prices, threatening to buy an artificial tree, a smaller tree, finding a cedar to cut down. We played along, begging and pleading, arguing it just wouldn’t be Christmas without that smell, a tree that filled the corner of our living room, knowing all the while that he could never refuse us.

He made a big show of placing the lights just so, attaching individual lights to the branches. My mother, who can’t abide things in transition, was always saying, “Oh, hurry up, George. Just put lots of lights. It will be beautiful.”

The final touch, after yards of sparkly garland, after shiny and silken balls, was the icicles. My father would pronounce, “Now, girls, these have to be placed one at a time, very, very carefully.” While my father was strategically placing silver icicles and my sister and I were debating the existence of icicles in red, green, gold, and silver in the natural world, my mother ripped open another box, saying, “No, girls, this is how you do it.” With flourish, she threw handfuls of tinsel in the air at the tree, “Shoom! Shoom!”

The ensuing argument ended with them leaving the tree for my sister and me to finish while they returned to their gin and tonic.

As our tastes grew more sophisticated, we begged her to let us use white lights, chunk the balls, garland, and icicles, string popcorn, to which she said, “That’s no fun. I want lots of glitter, lots of color, lots of shiny stuff. It’s not Christmas without it.” Extravagant, slap-dash, generous, fun. The tree. Our mother.

As the years passed, the 8 foot real tree gave way to an artificial one, which was ultimately replaced by a series of table-top travesties, bringing us to the one you see here. "I had to put all that garb on there because your father just threw those lights on. I'm trying to cover up those white wires."

And yes, on December 26th, they unplug it, pull a lawn bag over it, and my father takes it up to the attic.

My Mother's Tree

I wish all my friends would ponder this tree, try to imagine what kind of person would have this tree. For those of us who know and love my mother, this tree says so much. I will post soon about her. For now, enjoy this picture my daughter Emily took on Christmas Eve.