(c) 11/2024
“Come here.” Sofia instructed us to
lay hands across the stack of fabric bolts held in the turn of her elbow.
The fabric bolts were similar: a
faded buff, like overcrowded sunflowers that should be relocated, and in turn, over-patterned
with beige, ivory and pale-yellow flowers. The size and pattern of the florals
differed, though those differences were slight.
I almost instinctively hated all
four of the prints. Neutrals, off-neutrals, they made me feel mute. I also
hated the Simplicity Jiffy dress pattern we’d prayed over. Its movement-enhancing
elastic waist, the puffy sleeves, like a plea for romance and marriage. And
then that wide ruffle around the hem was one to many nods to femininity. At
least our deadline prohibited lace trim and rosettes.
Lois, Cindy and I dutifully walked
over to lay our hands across the fabric. How much paler we all looked than when
we arrived at the Mission Base seven months earlier.
Sofia began to pray, “Dear Heavenly
Father,” followed that with a litany of things we were thankful for, such as
the apples a neighboring rancher donated for our breakfast, my minimum wage,
part time job that provided the bus fare to the mall, and now, this wonderful
opportunity to connect with God.
She prayed, “and God, we ask that
you guide us to the right fabric, for your glory.”
I opened an eye to look at Sofia
and wondered if this really was important enough to bring to God.
The four of us were interested in
dance. Despite my aunt’s reprimands about dancing magically leading to
fornication, every Saturday night you couldn’t get me out of the all-of-three
under-age discotheques in the Seattle area. All that glamour and glitter. The
shimmer and shine. The jewel brights. It was difficult to remove those colors
and cuts from my wardrobe. It was easier to remember to slap on a bra every
morning, overtly modest, since I was called in to the base leader’s wife’s
office every couple of weeks. It was about my presentation every time. It
seemed to bother so many different people for different reasons.
The night before our shopping
excursion Sofia had showed us a photograph she still clung too of herself
two-years earlier. A photo predating becoming saved. In it her hair was spiked,
and while she didn’t have a tattoo, her nose was pierced. Now that was exotic,
the piercing. She let it grow back. In the photo Sofia wore a basic black-tee,
a leather biker jacket and combat boots. Scowling, Sofia looked so edgy,
confidant even. I think Sofia meant to show us the photo as an indicator of
just how far Jesus had to reach for her to bring her over to this maudlin
femininity of ruffles, bows, and demure knee-skimming skirt lengths.
“I feel guided to this one.” Cindy
touched a medium-sized floral bolt with a nail she no longer lacquered. Clearly
our Heavenly Father had guided her.
Lois felt guided to suggest a
different medium-sized floral bolt. Which of us had the shortest path to God’s
heart?
“God’s not speaking to me,” I said,
letting Sofia be the tiebreaker.
We scheduled a performance at a
neighboring church’s Tuesday night service. I’d written a short story about a
young boy being saved while walking along a beach. Battering Waves. A wise old
man. In hindsight, nothing remarkable. We didn’t have musicians and even though
we had a cassette player we couldn’t find a single song any of us wanted to
move to. Lois was in the process of finding suitable bible passages to
accompany a dance.
None of us were trained in dance.
Not even childhood ballet lessons. We couldn’t articulate whether what we were
doing was considered free-form, modern, jazz or whether we were just four
20-somethings swirling haphazardly across the shag. Creating choreography and
trying to remember it when we performed was a complexity at least two of us
couldn’t handle. Every movement slowed and repeated ad nauseum. A lot of lifted
arms and gazing upwards. And performing
in prairie-girl dresses? I hadn’t seen that before. And yet, all four of us
felt called to use what we were calling worship dance and testimony.
Eventually, our dresses were sewn.
They were too formless to need fitting. Cindy and I slathered on some eye
color, but Lois and Sofia had already given up on cosmetics. According to the
script my role was that of a hapless, hopeless young boy and I suggested that I
wear dress slacks and a button down.
“I’m sure that will be convincing”
I said, “all also honor God, since he directed my writing in the story.”
After much prayer and listening to
God thankfully that the others agreed I did not need to wear that hideous
dress.
During a swirl with an upward gaze
and arms opening to God, I heard a man gasp, and another say, “Oh, so
beautiful.” Suddenly I felt certain our message of redemption was getting
through to the audience. I was hopeful that should the minister end the service
with a call to the alter at least one person would have been moved by our dance
to walk to the alter.
After service I was approached by
two men who wanted to let me know how beautiful the dance had been. How
beautiful I had moved. How beautiful I was. They didn’t mention the story line,
nor whether the movements put them into a worshipful space. I have been one to
hang on to any small bit of praise or validation as though it were the last
meal of my life, already snuffling for more. Clearly, I’d been living on the
base long enough, because I was more concerned for once in giving the glory to
God. I had no sense that they were going to find a quiet spot and pray. I
interpreted the look in their eyes as being as desiring as the looks in the
discotheques.
The next day I was called again to
the Base Leader’s Wife’s office.
“I’d like to steer you to join the
Children’s puppetry team.”
Okay. Puppets are fun. “I want to
dance though,” I answered.
The minister had complained to our
base leader. I was too seductive. I portrayed a seven-year-old boy wearing a
baggy button-down shirt too seductively.
“I didn’t even make eye-contact.” I
paused. “I had my hair pulled back into a bun!” I was mentally thinking of all
the ways in which I had definitely not been seductive. Maybe it was the blue
slathered around my eyes. It wasn’t my smile; I hadn’t smiled. And yet, I had
broken one of our strict for-females-only rules: Do not entice men.
“I didn’t entice anyone,” I said.
“It’s their responsibility to control their own reactions. It’s their
responsibility to deal with their own lust.”
But apparently, it wasn’t.
The next week I was on puppet
making duty, safe in the craft room. Even if I did perform, I’d be hidden
inside a large cardboard house. Foam, paint, and bright colors manipulated by
my hands. My body, completely invisible until the final curtain call when I
could reveal myself, draped in beige.
