It Needs to Be Seen

On rummaging through the closet and finding the girl I was

“I don’t have anything to wear,” I mused as I shuffled hangers around.

Ironic, since I was the person who put forth the dress code for the evening.

I had offered the idea of a ladies night out, something fun that would evoke, one could hope, laughter. I was withering, somewhat isolated, from lack of light and laughter. Solitary wintering does that, and soggy conditions outside hampered my mood further. I planned an evening out with a couple hours of rowdy bowling, followed with a delicious meal overlooking the bay with clams and calamari and ribeye.

The catch was, you had to rummage through your closet and purposefully wear something you own, that for whatever reason you don’t actually put on anymore. The hat with the wide brim that seemed so lovely on the lady in the catalog. The bridesmaid dress you agreed to wear three years ago. You understand: the garment you keep, perhaps had intention of wearing again, but there it hangs sadly to this day, encased in plastic, hung on a fat wooden hanger. For Someday.

Like last Saturday. Bowling and a meal out with girlfriends. With Outfit Rules.

My trouble at that moment was that my closet, the only real part of my life and home I had complete control over, had already been pared down to what I wore on a regular basis. I didn’t have the dress I wore to my daughter’s wedding. I didn’t own the cowboy hat that actually looked great on my head, but I couldn’t find the nerve to wear to the grocery store located so far away from actual cowboy country. I would’ve considered going to the charity shop to find something fancy, perhaps just for the evening, but I’m no Rule breaker.

I stood with my hands upon my waist, willing some magical dress to reveal itself. My eyes, however, shifted to the bin at my feet. AHA! I knew what was in there: piles of my childhood artwork and papers, various evocative knick knacks, and a tee shirt I wore when I was ten.

Stop laughing. I didn’t try to put that on.

Instead, I pulled out my gently folded and tucked in letterman’s jacket. It was heavy, made of a wool blend, blue and red. The letter “L” was full of pins: years of varsity volleyball, editing the school newspaper, managing the softball team. Pins for the National Honors Society and the Hard Rock Cafe, and one for seeing Les Miserables at the Palace Theatre in London when it first opened. I still remember all of the scaffolding outside of the theater, and how enthralled I was by the performance and music. This jacket brought it all back. And I wanted to tell the ghost of the teenager within it, “You’re going to be all right.”

The inside was quilted and soft. I dared to try it on. It slipped over my arms and onto my back like it had a memory of its own. Granted, I wasn’t going to be able to button it right up; ten babies later gave me an extra plushiness of about twenty pounds (I think that was worth the trade, personally). I paired it with jeans and a black tee shirt, one of probably seven black tee shirts in my closet. I picked the one I wore the least.

The wind had picked up outside by the time I headed out. The air smelled and felt like snow was on the way, but I still wobbled in my heels (also rarely worn) across the gravel drive and got into the car.

At the neighborhood bowling alley, the laughter came in regular waves as friends arrived. Perhaps the winner of the evening was a women dressed in a light purple Caftan and sporting a fluffy golden wig that at least a few picks could have nested in, if not a couple of birds, unnoticed. During the games, we laughed about our bouncy balls and the comments running across our scoreboards (“You were so close!”), tried to beat one another in how fast the balls were thundering down the alleys, and ate nachos that had every level of no-no you could think of. I recall wishing (hoping?) someone would recognize the school upon my back and introduce themselves, but letterman jackets seem to be a thing of the past, reminiscent of the oldies station on the FM. One bowler who shall remain nameless, a certain dark haired mother of five, pointed to the year upon my shoulder and incredulously asked, “Is that when you really graduated? That’s the year I was BORN!”

Yes, I know. I’m wearing the jacket, but I see myself in the restroom mirror. Gray. Wrinkles slowly carving into my face. My chocolate brown eyes fading into a semi hazel. My voice sounds deeper, thicker. We’ve already mentioned my waist.

But I’m still Keri Mae. Yes, gratefully redeemed and a new creation since those 1980’s. But still headstrong and smart and sassy and full of passion for life and a desire to be loved. I’m older, I’m wiser, and by God’s grace I shall grow still older and wiser. And someday, I’ll leave the jacket behind. Jesus Himself will tap me on the shoulder, and when I turn to look into His face, He will tell me that He knows me, and wants to know me, no matter how I look on the outside.

The snow started falling as I arrived home, full of pleasure and provision that went beyond what I had hoped for. I didn’t hide away my jacket; it’s hanging still in my closet, on one of those fat wooden hangers. Sometimes I touch it. It needs to be seen.

1. I bowled at 144 :)

2. What do you have in your closet that you never wear?

3. (Add anything you’d like)