I couldn’t say a word, though. I just cried.
When Coach Johnston finally got close enough to hug my neck, I left a trail of mascara all over his jacket (I believe the expression you’re looking for is “subdued elegance”). He was, to say the least, surprised by such an emotional greeting, and he patted me sort of awkwardly on the shoulder as he shook David’s hand.
“Hey. We’re gonna miss this girl,” he said. “But I sure am happy for y’all.”
I don’t think I ever formed a sentence. I did, however, hiccup with a frightening degree of regularity.
And while I’m sometimes confounded by my reactions, I knew exactly why the sight of Coach Johnston affected me like it did.
Somewhere in my early twenties I’d fallen into the trap of thinking that if there was ever going to be a long-term rekindling of my faith, the flame would arrive in the most melodramatic way possible. I’d pictured a long walk down the center aisle of a church, probably at the end of a revival when conviction had just worn me down and worn me out over the course of three or four nights. Maybe I’d find myself in the center of a prayer circle, surrounded by loving friends and family members who would urge me to turn from my doubt and trust the Lord more. Or maybe Emma Kate would drag out all those old Scripture index cards from her college bulletin board, and the fresh realization of all the ways I’d most certainly disappointed Jesus would open the floodgates of repentance and sorrow.
Turns out I was wrong.
The issue in the first half of my twenties wasn’t that I didn’t know the Lord. The issue wasn’t that He had forsaken me. The issue was this: I began a relationship with Jesus in an environment where faith was super easy. I didn’t have to go deep in my relationship with Him because superficial worked just fine in my safe little life with my safe little family and my safe little church and my safe little friends. But when I went to college, that safe little faith was no match for the big, real world. I had the benefit of good friends to keep any major rebellion at bay, but anything that looked like obedience in my life was mostly just good behavior. It was almost like, when I was eighteen or nineteen, someone pressed a pause button on my faith, and the process of growing in maturity as a believer came to a screeching halt.
But finally, when I was twenty-six, that pause button got pressed again, and I can tell you even now exactly who was responsible (well, in addition to, you know, the Lord): a big ole assortment of folks who lived in and around Jackson, Mississippi—and who had the courage to live real life right in front of me. They weren’t accountability partners or mentors or counselors, though certainly all those are valuable. They’d never asked me to sit before them and recount every mistake I’d ever made. They didn’t try to implement a five-step discipleship strategy for my personal sanctification.
But they dropped by my apartment with their babies, and they invited me to the Iron Horse, and they stopped by my classroom after school just to see what was going on. I’d met some of them in college, I’d met some of them at work, and I’d even met one of them in the crib (that would be Kim). They were my friends. Plain and simple. And there was something about their unconditional acceptance that met me right in the dead center of my need. I doubt that any of them knew how much they were ministering to me, but they opened up their homes and their arms and their hearts at a time when what I needed more than anything else was to see real life integrated with real faith—in all of its messy wonderfulness.
And oh, did they ever show me. Even when they had no idea.
So when I saw Coach Johnston at my wedding, I didn’t cry because I was sad. I cried because I was so stinkin’ grateful. Just seeing his face reminded me how those two years in Jackson had been pure grace in my life. Pure grace. That didn’t mean that I stopped making mistakes—but it did mean I started learning from them. Slowly but surely I started to realize that a return to faith doesn’t have to be melodramatic, and it doesn’t have to happen overnight. For me, as simple as it sounds, it was just a series of really small turns in the right direction. It was so gradual, in fact, that I’d barely even realized it was happening—until one day I discovered that instead of feeling drawn to the darkness, I much preferred to walk in the Light.
I had a long way to go, of course.
But it felt mighty good to be on the right path again.
MY LITTLE ONE-BEDROOM apartment in Jackson wasn’t anything special, but it boasted one feature that brought me a considerable amount of joy during the two years I lived there: a walk-in closet. That walk-in closet was the perfect place to try on clothes or put together new outfits or look back through my personal fashion archives. I kept it impeccably organized, from my casual clothes to my dressy clothes to my purses and scarves and shoes. It was a happy place.
Marriage, however, meant that I’d be moving to Baton Rouge, where David had lived and worked for several years, and that transition forced me to face the Ghosts of My Fashion Past. Since David and I were moving into a small rental house with two very tiny closets, I had to pare down my wardrobe and my accessories, or else we were going to have to turn the second bedroom into a closet. This seemed unwise considering I wanted our house to look more like a pretty home and less like a clothing showroom at the Atlanta Merchandise Mart.
So I cleaned out. I donated. I threw away. And somehow I managed to fit all my clothes in that tiny, two-by-four-foot closet. I can only attribute my organizational achievement to the Lord; He did so many incredible things during our time in Baton Rouge, and I’m fully convinced that getting all my stuff in my closet was the first.
Here are some of the things I had to leave behind.
Color-coordinated shoes and accessories Back in the day, there was nothing like finding the perfect pair of bright-yellow flats to match that tiny touch of bright yellow in my newest Cambridge Dry Goods skirt. I’m sure I also looked for a bright-yellow bow that I could wear in my hair—just before wondering why I never could convince anyone that my personality was actually very dark and edgy. It was a tough decision, but my assortment of hot-pink, royal-blue, kelly-green, and multicolored flats and pumps didn’t make the trip down I-55. Only the neutral shoes had an opportunity to laissez les bons temps rouler.
Stirrup pants Sometimes I wonder why someone who loved me didn’t pull me aside when I was wearing my purple or my houndstooth (!!!) or my plaid (!!!) stirrup pants and say, “Listen. Sister. You just can’t. I don’t even want to go into the specific reasons why, but you just can’t. Well, here’s one specific reason, and I hope it’ll be helpful: those pants make your legs look like fat exclamation points. It’s a hard truth, I know, but it’s good to know your limitations. Embrace the wide-legged trouser pant. You can thank me later.”
Bedazzled sweaters From time to time I’d “inherit” an outfit from Mama if she didn’t love the way it fit or if she felt like I’d get more use out of it than she would. This is how I ended up with an orange-and-turquoise tunic-style sweater that featured pearls, beads, and sequins in the shape of a giant sea horse. I thought it was beautiful and told myself that it made my eyes pop. The reality is that people were so blinded by the sparkly sea horse that they never noticed my eyes. Also, this sweater came with a matching pair of stirrup pants. I looked like a clown at a sea-life festival. No need to take that look to the bayou.
Red blazer with shoulder pads, gold buttons, and a crest over the chest pocket This was one of the first pieces of clothing I owned that I considered to be Very Professional. It went with a long, matching red skirt and a gold sweater, so when I wore all the pieces at one time, I pretty much could have blown a whistle and raised a baton and an entire marching band would have followed my lead. The crest over the chest pocket was a nice touch too; I often thought it would be the perfect jacket for Blair Warner to wear when she returned to Eastland Academy as headmistress. Hypothetically speaking, of course.
Cutoff sweatpants worn over running tights There’s no good reason. I don’t even think this was a trend. I just decided it looked good and
ran with it. Or walked with it. Or aerobicized with it. In retrospect, I can assure you that it was wise to spare my husband the sight of this particular ensemble.
Knee-length denim jumper These were everywhere in 1996. I bought mine at T.J.Maxx and wore it at least once a week with a different T-shirt and one of those little square scarves that we called neckerchiefs. The jumper was basically like a denim sack with straps, and I especially liked to wear mine with clunky, rubber-soled sandals. It was something Brenda and/or Kelly would have worn to the Peach Pit on Beverly Hills, 90210, which probably tells you everything you need to know about why it didn’t make the move to Baton Rouge.
Tiny barrettes You know what adds that extra measure of class and sophistication to an outfit when you’re getting ready to hit the town (or, in the case of the nineties, just sitting around watching TRL on MTV)? Why, try some small, rhinestone barrettes or clips shaped like animals (preferably butterflies or dragonflies, but a frog will do in a pinch), and place them in the front part of your hair, mostly for decorative reasons! I wore these for a solid year. My only defense is that Drew Barrymore also wore them, and she was very sassy.
That perfume I wore When I was twenty-two, I decided I needed a signature perfume that I could wear for the rest of my life. I picked out one that I thought smelled elegant, but I now know that it smelled like jasmine flowers covered in powder and then left in a hot car for the better part of six days. I’m not going to name the perfume in case you or someone you love wears it (and I’m sure it smells wonderful on you). But it didn’t smell great on me, and I must have induced many a migraine, so I’m so sorry, everyone who knew me. You deserved better. And so did David.
Two-piece windsuit Because there’s something special about wearing clothing that your friends can hear long before they see it—am I right?
David would want me to tell you that he had to give up some things too—like his black-laminate, swivel-top TV stand with the smoked black glass—and oh, how he grieved the loss of that five-foot monolith that took up an entire corner of the living room. However, in order for us to create a home together, I had to give up some unfortunate clothing choices, and he had to give up some furniture that was specifically designed to hold electronic devices.
It’s no secret that marriage is all about compromise.
And this is especially true when you’re dealing with bedazzled sweaters and laminate entertainment centers.
SO. We’ve reached the portion of the book where we’re going to get a little up close and personal. I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything, but I’m about to share something that I really believe will take our relationship to the next level.
Ready?
I’m an INFP.
Don’t you feel so much closer now?
No?
Okay. I’ll explain.
On the Myers-Briggs personality test assessment thingamajig (official name), I’m an INFP. That means I’m introverted (well, actually I’m a borderline introvert/extrovert, but we’ll discuss that in just a second), intuitive (no facts for me, thanks—I’ll just pick up on whatever’s going on by watching you from afar at Starbucks, not that that’s creepy), feeling (I’m sure it’s a real shocker that I don’t approach things logically, huh?), and perceiving (most issues aren’t black and white to me; I see all the gray and have to camp out in the middle ground for a long time before I pick a side—if I ever pick a side).
My husband, by the way, is my complete opposite—except that he is also a borderline introvert/extrovert. He is all about what is true and logical and just, so he is basically the only reason I have any boundaries at all in my life. Seriously. He’s reliable, consistent, and fair. Thank the Lord. Because I, on the other hand, am pretty much a wet noodle who moonlights as a peacemaker.
People always seem surprised to hear that I’m an introvert, but that’s because being a borderline introvert/extrovert is a handy little social tool. I really do love people, and one of my favorite things in life is finding connections, figuring out common ground, and hearing other people’s stories. I get terribly excited about the smallest little details (YOU LIKE BRUSSELS SPROUTS? SO DO I!), and I can go to dinner with friends and talk my head off for the better part of three hours.
BUT.
There is never, ever a point during those three hours when I wouldn’t rather be listening.
And as soon as I get home from that three-hour dinner, I am going to put on my yoga pants and crawl under the covers and watch Bravo until my eyes bleed. David knows that if he asks me how a night with the girls was, there’s a very good chance I’ll say, “It was awesome. Big fun. And I can’t wait to tell you all about it when I have some words again.”
I am grateful that he remains patient despite my annoying idiosyncrasies.
I also try to be patient when he spends forty-five minutes with a customer service representative going over the fine print in an appliance warranty.
Fair is fair, right?
Long before David and I said “I do,” I knew that marriage was going to be an adjustment, so I tried to prepare myself accordingly. Most of my friends had been married for five or six years by that point, so I had the benefit of their stories and advice to keep my expectations in check. Even still, I’m an idealist (please note all that INFP business), so I was a little bit offended that real life set in so quickly after our honeymoon.
Because I’d been in Baton Rouge—known to locals as “Red Stick”—about five minutes when it occurred to me that I didn’t know a living soul.
Sure, I knew some of the people at David’s work, and they couldn’t have been any more welcoming and kind and gracious. But south Louisiana is its own unique animal, full of plainspoken, no-nonsense folks who all seem to have known each other since birth, and I felt like the shy kid who got dropped off at somebody else’s family reunion. I was used to being on a first-name basis with clerks at the grocery store, and suddenly I was in a situation where I wasn’t sure how to even pronounce the names of the grocery-store clerks, because that French influence runs deep, y’all.
I still haven’t recovered from the time I saw the name Melancon and pronounced it “Melon Cone.”
Apparently the central Mississippi influence runs deep too.
David and I were renting a little two-bedroom house in a neighborhood that was “in transition,” and what that means is that I would walk down to the K&B drugstore at the end of our street during the daytime, but there was no amount of money that would make me walk down there at night. The K&B always freaked me out a little bit because it was also a liquor store, and there was something odd about running in to buy a bottle of Advil and having to pass by the shelves full of K&B brand whiskey.
(Or maybe my mentality was wrong.)
(Maybe that K&B brand whiskey could’ve fixed some ailments that Advil couldn’t touch.)
The other end of our street ran right up to the entrance of a large hospital, and that provided its own unique brand of entertainment. There was a fairly steady stream of foot traffic in front of our house at pretty much any given point in the day, so the people-watching was excellent, and at least two or three times a week somebody would try to steal a wheelchair from the hospital and speed by our house as they made their getaway. Usually there was an accomplice who ran behind the wheelchair and pushed, and by the time the perpetrators reached the front of our house, fatigue would kick in and they’d start to get winded. I mean, a four-hundred-yard dash is tough enough, but pushing two hundred pounds while running takes a toll—and fast.
Any good strength-and-conditioning coach will tell you that.
And who knows? Maybe people weren’t actually stealing wheelchairs. Maybe they were just borrowing them to make a quick trip to the K&B for a quart of their famous ice cream.
There’s really not a bit of tellin’.
Regardless, during that first week in Baton Rouge, those wheelchair enthusiasts were my primary source of entertainment while David was at work. I didn’
t have a job yet, so getting the house in order and staring out the front windows were basically the only things on my to-do list. Besides watching Knots Landing reruns, of course.
By the weekend I had reached my limit in terms of nesting and ALLEGEDLY stolen wheelchairs. I knew that if I was going to meet people, I needed to find a job—and quickly.
It would have been so much easier if I’d had an inkling of an idea about how to make that happen.
When I was still in Jackson, I somehow came to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to teach when I moved to Baton Rouge. I’m sure this decision was the result of two to five minutes of deep analysis and prayer, and it seemed like moving to a different state was a perfect time to make a break from life as a high school teacher.
And yes, in case you’re wondering, I did have another career in mind: paralegal.
(I have no idea.)
(Maybe because I kind of enjoy research?)
(And I thought I’d get to type a lot?)
(Or maybe Holly Hunter played one in a movie?)
I was so certain of my future in the legal field that I actually applied for jobs at several law firms. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote in my cover letters, but I might as well have said this:
Dear Sir or Madam,
I am writing in regard to the paralegal position that you advertised on April 26. I believe that I am well qualified for this job considering I once took the LSAT when I was undecided about what to do after college. While I’m not at all sure that I scored high enough for admission to an accredited law school, I do know that the two hours that I spent skimming over the questions in the LSAT prep book instilled in me a deep reverence and zeal for the law. Also, I am familiar with a great many cases from the first six seasons of Law & Order, and I can recite—from memory—the names of the assistant district attorneys who served under both Adam Schiff and Jack McCoy, two (pretend) gentlemen whom I hold in very high regard.
Home Is Where My People Are: The Roads That Lead Us to Where We Belong Page 17