I love my Abby.
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The
Pink Room: Thoughts About Intentional Living
Chapter
7/ Grace Abides.
Part
1 (Previous post contain the previous chapters.)
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There are certain people who are
safe people. You know they will love and accept you, no matter what you do, or
who you are that day. I’m fortunate enough to have a few of these lovely types
around, including my cousin-friend, Abby. She is an absolute delight. Just
about the loveliest person you could wish to know. I’m not making this up.
Abby and I appreciate many of the
same things. Including but not limited to: foodie-food, Pinterest crafts,
sushi, photography, graphic design, event planning, Downton Abbey, clothing and
accessories, fun socks, giving gifts, documenting family history, laughing
until you cry, not hanging up the phone first, experiencing odd things and re-telling
stories of strange things that happen to us, and last but definitely not least
appreciation of the ridiculous.
She is an expert in connecting and
making others feel connected. She loves-on people and when she reluctantly
allows them to return to their homes, they feel happier, better about life, and
filled up. She’s sparkly. And…as if all that wasn’t enough, she’s humble, too.
She and I were talking one day, she
said to me that she feels like she is really lucky to have married her husband.
We talked about fears and I said: be happy, you won the freaking lottery. But
what I should have said after that is: he won the lottery! Hindsight.
Not too long ago we decided to meet
for breakfast. We were going to a coffee place, having a quick bite and mochas.
On my way there I noticed that the sunrise over Lambeau Field was amazing.
There was fog and sunbeams through the clouds, and jet streams. It looked like
fireworks or an explosion had been frozen in time—pinks, blues, oranges and
other sunrise colors. It was gorgeous. I couldn’t stop or I’d be late so I went
to get her. Instead of forgetting about it, knowing we both have an affinity
for photography, I may have blocked the drive-through to the coffee shop, a smidge.
No time to spare, the sun was coming up!
I yelled through the window, “change
of plans! Get in!” and frantically pointed to the passenger seat. We got our
grub and bolted back to Lambeau. A couple hundred pictures later, we drove back--we
then sat in my car, laughing like fools until I had to go. She lets me be my
authentic crazy self, no questions asked.
Abby has been a part of or borne
witness to many of my adventures. She was who I called after I spent an evening
with Donald Miller, at his house, and Marshall Allman; Donald is a writer I
used to love. She helped me with ArtSpace at Lifest, where only a few thousand
people came through the activity over three days. We made four bins full of
holiday decorations for her sister-in-law’s bridal shower. She is the one who
talked me into writing this book. (She says I have stories that need to be told—she’s
in some of the best ones, many of them.)
She let me visit her in London
several years ago. If she had known what she did not know, she may not have. We
walked so extensively that she says the tendons in her feet made foreign noises.
It was weeks (maybe months) before the heel pain started to go away; that a
pair of shoes was completely ruined. My feet have never hurt like that before.
There is foot pain from standing that hurts, standing on cement that hurts even
worse—this was more like that, but burning throbbing pain, and I swear the
bones in my heels were bruise severely as well. And after we walked insane distances,
on the last day, we then stood for an entire performance at the Globe Theatre
watching one of Shakespeare’s plays. Ouch! Shifting from foot to foot every few
seconds for a couple hours—it didn’t matter though, even the foot without
weight on it still hurt. I loved that play--I still loved London.
I drew Abby once; she was a model
for a series I did representing women in the Bible--I wanted to picture them as
real people. That was the most popular blog entry I’ve written--2,901 views. Drawing
someone you know is an interesting experience. People you know well and drawing
are not a good combination—even the most experienced will struggle. As you get
to know someone the details melt away a little and the edges soften; you stop
seeing them as just a physical form and as something mixes in. It is a mix of
the insides and outsides and not quite tangible. Their spirit and mind show up while
you are drawing and interrupt.
That series of drawings was all
about telling the stories of the women, and why their names showed up in the
Bible text. A wide variety of lives, from queens to servants, all of them played
roles of importance and were called by name.
Names and nicknames are a funny
thing. Some bring fond dear memories and others not so much. My siblings and I
all have a nickname that just my dad uses. It signifies, a secret code,
something that holds meaning, and has history, no one else will understand. I
worked with a guy who would try-on nicknames. All the people on the team got
them. Always with a slight bent toward name-calling or being off-color like
Farter, and Butts. For some reason though, everyone allowed it, even liked it. My
brother does this too, changes names to slightly off nicknames; my sister is
Bethy-poo-poo.
A special person’s name sounds
different when we say it; part of our heart is engaged. A nickname, a name to
us given by someone special—I think that name sounds different to us because we
receive part of the giver’s heart when they say it.
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Jesus used names to assign new roles
and identities to people. A changed name signified an activated calling, and a
deepening relationship with Him. These new names were a lot like nicknames at
first, something only Jesus called the disciples. These new names signified
grace on their lives--a special relationship and an engaged heart.
I would have loved to hear the first
time Jesus address the disciples by their new names. By what meaningful name would
Jesus call you?
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