Life Lessons That Tell Me "I Am"

            When we were little girls, my sister Kristen and I shared a bedroom.  The room was oversized, originally intended to be split into two rooms.  We split the room into sections, instead.  We used one side for our two twin beds, and the other side became our playroom, complete with a dollhouse that put Barbie’s Malibu home to shame, stuffed animals (that I wound up teaching a few short years later---great class; they never talked back or threw things at their teacher), art area, and bookshelves filled with our treasured picture books.  Mother and Daddy encouraged artwork --- painting, drawing, coloring, although Mother snubbed her nose at traditional coloring books, claiming them to stifle any creativity.  But I remember distinctly getting a package of paper and a box of Crayola crayons (I may or may not still harbor a secret resentment---okay, maybe not so secret anymore---- that my parents gave Kristen a 64 box of crayons, and I got a 24-count box). Artwork, however, was not encouraged to be completed on the walls of our bedroom, as I personally found out as a young girl.  Like Harold with his purple crayon, I somehow got the idea that drawing on the wall by my bed with a blue crayon was a good idea.  Not so.  A strong scolding was all it took to convince me to not do that again.

            So, when Mother and Daddy suggested Kristen and I begin measuring ourselves, using a pencil to mark our height on the bedroom wall, I was a bit gun-shy.  Was this a trick?  Were we being "punked" (look it up---I'm old). Could we really mark on the wall?  “Yes", we were told, "it’s fine in this case."  Plus, we are only using pencil and we’ll wipe it off as we make new marks.  Reluctantly, I backed against the wall to allow Kristen to draw a line above my head with a #2 pencil.  In case Mother and Daddy changed their minds and got onto us for writing on the wall, maybe I wouldn’t be first in line to be scolded. Eeeeek! 

            How odd to turn around and see where the mark on the wall was.  It seemed so low.  Could I really be that short?  But week after week, we returned to the wall to measure.  Lo and behold---the lines slowly but surely crawled up the wall.  And despite the original notion that we would have to erase each time, we were able to keep the older pencil marks so we could see where we had come from.  “Wow! Can you believe I was ever that short?” we would each marvel.  Kristen and I grew taller, and we grew up, leaving that house behind when I was 8 years old to move to another part of Texas.

     Nichole Nordeman’s song “I Am” (click on the title to hear the song---it is so beautiful in so many ways) begins with the words:

“Pencil marks on a wall, I wasn’t always that tall.

You scattered some monsters from beneath my bed.”

            This melodic song depicts growing up, calling out by name the need for a savior, secret keeper, elbow healer, and comforter, with a loved one, with a fierce tribe of friends, a parent and, ultimately, God answering, “I am”. 

            How I measured myself changed as the years went by.  Marks on a wall were exchanged for milestones such as shopping for a first bra, “falling in love” with my first boyfriend, and moving into a college dorm.  College, for me, brought a host of new experiences including making lifelong friends, two of whom ending up being bridesmaids in my wedding.  Kelly, Robin and I saw each other through major boyfriend breakups, late night studying, and, ultimately, weddings. 

            Forty years later (from meeting in college), there are 9 of us who get together every single year. When we called out for a “secret keeper” or “heartache healer”, the others would be there. We have listened to each other declare we would never be able to love again.  When we were weak, we would call each other.  When Robin called so long ago to say she was getting a divorce, I asked “Do you want me to come be with you?”  She answered, “Come if you can.”  I said, “I am.” 

           In 2015, I was taking a bath when I felt a weird lump on my left breast. Just then, the phone rang. It was my doctor, saying they wanted to follow up my mammogram I had had the day before with an ultrasound. I remember saying, "If it is a lump, I already know where it is. I've never known what I was feeling for when told to do a self-exam in between mammograms, but I do now."  They did a biopsy, and the unbelievably difficult wait for the phone call (that, I somehow knew, was a "You have breast cancer" call) continued until I was in Princeton, NJ for a work retreat.  I was actually driving 6 colleagues to dinner when I got the call from my doctor. I had pulled the car over and gotten out, and she said those exact words to me. Everyone was super supportive, and I called Dave from the "dinner house", bawling my eyes out. I immediately changed my flight to get back home the next morning. Once back at the hotel, in the room by myself, I called Robin to tell her the news. It was gut-wrenching but we laughed and cried the whole time, while I know Dave was trying to figure out how we were going to "fix this". My "tribe" rallied around me with such intensity (including packages of things that melted my heart to Robin, Kelly and Michelle (one of my dearest friends as we went through our doctoral cohort together) coming to stay with me when Dave had to go back to work). "Are you sure it won't be a burden for you to come?" I asked. They all said "I Am".
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These lines from Nordeman's song still resonate with me for such a time as this:

“When I am weak, unable to speak, still, I will call you by name.

Oh Shepherd, Savior, pasture maker, hold on to my hand. And You said, ‘I am’.”

            After all these years, from measuring myself by pencil marks on a wall to measuring myself by the love I still feel for my sister and these God friends, I want to take a minute to remind them that when we are weak and unable to speak, if you call out for a secret keeper to hold your hand, I will answer “I am”. 

Blessings to all of you on this Sunday! 
Happy Communicating,
Shelly

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