When I was a tween, I loved the “Flowers in the Attic” books by V.C. Andrews. They were among one of the first “scandalous” books about love and family I’d read, and they initiated my cross-over from the babyish “Young Adult” section to the grown-up “Fiction” section of the book store. In the pages of those books, I had become so engrossed in the lives of the characters, that I was truly sad to say goodbye to them. So you can imagine my elation when, a short time later, I learned that V.C. Andrews was releasing a new book—the start of another series. Wanting to read it right away, I knew it would take a while for me to get a newly released book at our local library, so I made a plan to save up my money and buy it as soon as it hit the book store shelves. For weeks, I saved up my hard-earned money until finally, I bought the book! That is why it was such a painful decision when my neighbor–somebody that would hang out with me out of convenience of proximity more than out of interest in being my true friend–asked me if she could borrow the book. I hadn’t even read it yet, and I told her so. To me, the fact that I hadn’t yet read it explained everything, but she didn’t seem to think so. She continued to pester me for the book. She assured me she would take good care of it. I felt guilt sinking in. I began to reason the possibilities. It’s a brand new book. She might lose it. She might not ever give it back. She might drop it in a mud puddle or spill food on it. There was no way I would give it to her. But then, my Sunday school upbringing and the image of the Santa Clause-like God that was supposed to teach me goodness and save my soul, (even though He seemed a little bit scary, incredibly powerful and very judgmental), pushed the guilt I felt to an intolerable level within me. The angel of my conscience must have been all but visible on my shoulder. You should share. Let her borrow the book. It will get you to heaven. In the end, my conscience overpowered me. What could really happen? I shrugged and reluctantly handed her the book, fully expecting it would come back to me as good as new.
Not surprisingly, it took weeks for her to give it back to me. I would ask about it and drop hints that I would like it back pronto, but it seemed that she was in no hurry. Further, she informed me the book wasn’t nearly as good as she’d thought it was going to be. When she finally did return it to me, I nearly cried. While I clearly enjoyed reading books and tucking in bookmarks to mark my pages in an effort of new-book preservation, she clearly preferred to wrap the front cover around the book as she read, and dog-ear pages or leave the book cracked open, face down to mark her place. The book no longer looked new. I was sick to my stomach thinking about the generosity of my heart and the sacrifice I’d made to give her the book. The world had taught me an important lesson: Don’t be a doormat. Stand up for yourself. Do not be bullied into sharing things that belong to you, even if someone makes you feel guilty.
I never forgot that lesson the world taught me. I rarely loaned out books at all, and when I did it was only when I was sure I was done with them, totally prepared to lose them forever. In other words, only when it would be of no sacrifice to me whatsoever.
As the years wore on, I met others who loved books every bit as much as me, but seemed to have no attachment to them at all. Instead, where my paranoia and need to control who was taking and bringing books from my personal library had me feeling frayed and frustrated, they would demonstrate—time and again—their lack of attachment by sharing with me books they’d enjoyed, with no expectation or deadline for their return. Their actions demonstrated for me a new way of handling my books. For me, it was the “Jesus way,” the flesh-and-blood-God-with-us experience that opened my heart to reconsider my death-grip hold on my books. That experience softened my approach. I began to share my books a little more freely, but only to those I had faith in, those who were deserving, those who’d earned my trust. This loosening of control over my personal library left me feeling God-like. Generous. Almighty. What I failed to see though was that I had only “evolved” into the God of my youth—the Santa Clause-like God who gave toys to only the “good boys and girls.”
Years later, the fact was dawning on me that perhaps my “generous” actions to embody the “image” in Whom I’d been made were no longer a true representation of the God in which I believed. This was barely a thought, really. But it is clear to me now this thought was dawning on me because I’d made a new friend who was raising the bar for me in the world of book-loaning. I had taken note with awe at countless books she’d given me. Time and time again. At least a dozen. Maybe more. And I mean GIVEN. Freely. “You might like this,” she would say. And inevitably I would. I would like it. I would LOVE it, in fact. And I would tuck it safely on my library shelf, partly because I didn’t know of anyone else who would be interested in reading it, but really–mostly–because I wanted to OWN those books for myself.
Then, barely recognizable, an opportunity presented itself.
Some might call it a “test.”
My husband told me of someone he knew who was really struggling, a recovering addict who was trying to hold his marriage together and stay “recovered,” but who was also feeling so lost and confused and unsure—particularly about God—that he just didn’t know what to do.
I felt for the man as my husband shared his story with me. I wanted to help him, but how? Suddenly, I had an idea. I went and grabbed a book out of cardboard box. “Tell him he should read this,” I said. And I showed my husband what I thought would be the perfect answer for this man. It was my newly bought, unread copy of my favorite author’s book that I had just received from Amazon. As I showed my husband the book, I felt something stirring inside of me. A long-forgotten memory perhaps? I knew this man was struggling. And I desperately wanted to help. “Tell him to get this book and read it,” I said again, tightening my grip on the book and waving it in my husband’s face.
That lesson of the world was still with me. I knew that giving things away that were special to me, could leave me feeling very short-changed. This book was unread. Brand new. Mine. I was starting to panic a bit because I had a sinking feeling that I should give him this actual copy, and not make him order his own. Let’s face it, I knew that when I am struggling–full of fear and doubt and concern and worry—like this man, what helps me most has never been someone telling me to spend my own money, order a book, wait for the book to arrive, and then begin reading. What has helped me has been someone putting a book in my hand and saying, “Read this.” Just like my friend had done for me time and time again. But then a voice of reason chimed in: if I haven’t read it yet, how do I even know if it’s what he’ll need. A good point, but quickly forgotten, as my eyes came to rest on the spines of all the books on my shelf given to me over the years by my friend who’d never once asked for reimbursement, nor for their return. In fact, in that moment I came to the full realization that she’d never even asked me if I’d read them. And I didn’t know a single person who was more at peace and content with life than her.
I realized then that she, through her actions, had provided for me the experience– the Spiritual embodiment –of “gifts freely given.”
It was the God-like image I was being invited to become myself.
It was also the same opportunity to experience transformation now, just as it was when I was a tween. The only difference was that now, so many years later, I had the Triune wisdom—the Father, Son and Spirit–of my choices to topple the “worldly wisdom” that had been prevailing within me for so long. What seemed like “common sense” to hold onto something I’d just bought and hadn’t yet had the chance to enjoy, suddenly seemed hollow and empty in comparison to the opportunity to provide something that just might be the tool this man needed in his struggle. The “ramifications” of my choices were crystal-clear now: I was no longer choosing between an angel on my shoulder and my so-called friend’s guilt-trip. Now, I was choosing between my own selfishness and reaching out to a man in the midst of struggle. I was experiencing the promise that Jesus made of “his yoke being easy and his burden light.” The decision was so easy, it could hardly be called a decision. It was more of a shifting in the wind. A change in perspective. A “giving in” to the flow of a current much more powerful than I.
“No,” I said then to my husband, “scratch that. Don’t tell him to get it. Just give him this one.”
And I see now that both as a tween and as an adult in these two opportunities, I said yes. But, the first time, I didn’t have the life experience to understand the benefit of my actions, and so I was left with only the “world” pointing out the foolishness of my ways. Don’t be a doormat. Stand up for yourself. Do not be bullied into sharing things that belong to you…. Those thoughts transformed me in ways that I am only now– decades later– beginning to undo: the hardening of my heart, the giving in to reason, the berating myself for being “too nice.”
For me, had I not stayed on a spiritual journey– not “found God”– I believe it wouldn’t matter how old I lived, I would still have the mindset of my tween-self. Because without God, without Jesus, without the Holy Spirit to guide me, there are really only two choices in every decision: one that leaves me feeling like I did the “right thing” or one that leaves me feeling like a “fool.”
Now, as I continue on my journey, I am reminded time and time again through similar opportunities to give away, to share, to be made a “fool,” that it is not so important what we give, or to whom, or even why…but that we do give. Freely. Because the truth is that I am neither the “good person” I once thought I was, nor am I the “fool.” I am merely an “image” of the God I love. And that “image” –in every instance –has the power to transform.
The Mystic Mom 