Dear Scott
From time to time we take you to the barber. We love your
crazy blonde curls but if we leave them for a couple months you resemble the
wild toddler of Borneo.
So today you endured the taming of the locks. It happened
like this.
We park outside the barbershop and you say, ‘I still don’t
like it!’ I’m calm-on-the-outside and even-keel, coaxing and cajoling. They see
us coming –the two girls who work there – and I know they’re mentally preparing.
Inside the shop you start screaming. It takes two of them to get me-with-you-clinging
into the chair. They put one of those gross shower-curtain hairdresser-cloak
thingies over me – a black one – and you – funky jungle theme – but you claw it
off and claw at them. I grip you like it’s the days before anaesthetic and they’re
about to hack off one of your limbs. You are scarcely breathing from hysteria but
you manage to scream unnervingly and unremittingly. And loudly. One of them –
the slightly more hardcore one – fires up the clippers [insert sound effect: chain saw] and attacks the luscious flaxen thickets.
The other one tries to distract you with her blue bling manicure. The scrum
collapses several times and we have to regroup. Eventually it’s a flailing loose
maul except there are no gum guards though there probably should be.
When the whistle blows there’s less hair. More snot. I clean
you up though we’ll both be itchy until we’ve showered and changed.
And you look gorgeous. Cherub-like. Tiny handsome little
man with the smart new haircut. You promptly cheer up. Because the ladies
always give you a lollipop when we’re done and we go to the Wimpy for chips –
standard Reyburn haircut treat.
But they’ve run out of lollipops. They are mortified! Apologetic!
You are nonchalant in a sort of I’ll-be-the-bigger-person way. You forgive and forgo
the sucker without frenzy. Possibly you’re just suffering from post-tantrum
exhaustion. (You later describe the haircut ordeal to Cammy with animated head
gestures: ‘Lady shooting me!’)
I’m getting you back into the car with some groceries
when the hardcore one runs out with a cherry fizz pop. She went and bought it
for you. She says she hopes you don’t hate her. I give her a hardcore hug.
So this all made me think.
I’ve been given the amazing opportunity to do a course
through Regent University on spiritual
formation, under the gracious teaching of Dr
Corne Bekker. He talks a lot about community and the essential, inevitable
role it plays in making us more like Jesus.
It’s like, if I hadn’t taken you to the barber, we would
have passed a peaceful Wednesday morning in the playroom. You would have been
angelic and engaging and curious and busy and full of kisses. You wouldn’t have
had cause to unleash your indignation when your security was threatened. But we
can’t live in the playroom. We live in a community. With hair clippers.
Dr Bekker points out that whenever I say ‘Yes’ to any community
– church, family, friends, marriage – God will send people my way to reveal
things about me. Communities make me bump into all sorts of folks but mostly I just
bump into myself. I don’t know the dark depths of my character or my intuitive reactions
until I’m backed into a corner or challenged or annoyed or envious.
And the key to being transformed as I live and move through
the big and small Venn-diagram communities that make up the patterns of my life
is humility.
Which means, as Dr Bekker puts it, that the posture of my
heart should be so kind, so honouring, that every handshake or hug or casual ‘Hi’
should say, ‘You’re more important.’
So my bear, the privilege of living in community is that
all sorts of people show up to give us a short-back-‘n-sides and almost always
it’s when we really don’t want it. And almost always it shows us how much we
need Jesus. And almost always it’s a sparkling opportunity to choose a response
that will show the world a bit of Jesus. It’s how they will know we are his.
I love you with my whole heart, soft sweet brave child of
mine. I’m unspeakably grateful for the privilege of living in community with
you. You’re a game changer, my Scott-Scott.
Sleep tight now,
Mom
xx
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