When I was in 8th grade, I looked like a miniature of my mother. A flowered dress, scoop neck, hanging right below the kneecap. Black pumps, nylons with a seam up the back. A pillbox hat with net pulled over one half of my face, lips barely tinged with pink... both of us in the family station wagon on our way to church with a bunch of noisy boys.Although feeling grownup, I also felt awkward. Wearing nylons meant wearing a girdle. I remember being concerned I would get a run in my hoes before getting to church and everyone, everyone would notice. A girl can only wear a girdle for so long, and then you get a belly ache. The net from the hat itched my nose and got caught in my eyelashes.
During the week, when at home, I wore what we called "chore clothes." .... patched jeans, worn-out shirts--everything had been washed until it was faded, soft, and comfortable. Our clothes were so worn, that I remember hiding when a neighbor or the Watkins man came to our door.
My mother, however, wore a house dress every day of the week. If a neighbor or the Watkins man happened at our door, she would take off her apron and be ready for company. She eventually bought a pair of pants to wear with her flowered shirts around the house and a couple of navy blue pant suits to wear to church.
It seems to me that there are no age-appropriate clothes anymore. Gals of every age wear leggings or tight jeans or flip flops. I remember my Grandmother Hulda wearing sensible, sturdy shoes. I don't believe she owned a pair of pants or slacks or anything with legs. Picturing either my mom or Grandma Hulda in leggings is laughable.
Life and what's in and what is out is ever changing, even, at times, wild and unpredictable. I don't think God really cares what we wear on the outside. It's what inside us that counts. He's looking for the kind of LOVE that God first gave us. Talk about comfort? It's all there, right there in his love.
No comments:
Post a Comment