The Integrity of the Dress

Last night at my son's baseball game, I was talking to another mom.

Pause for a second for me to share one of my favorite things about baseball, adult conversation. Most games, I try to pay attention to the game as much as I can, but part of enjoying the game is enjoying the ball park and the families that are right there along side you. Plus, this season, we've had such a great group of boys and families, that I'm really sad to see it end. Anyway....

I was talking to another mom at the game last night and she mentioned that she and her daughter dress up together for fun and play (go ahead and say it, awwwwww), and she will put on her wedding dress when they do. Wait. What? My first thought when she said that was, "you can still wear your wedding dress?" I completely forgot about how sweet it is that she plays dress up with her daughter and could only focus on one thing. She can still wear her wedding dress. I'm 35 pounds heavier than I was when I got married almost twelve years ago, and I run marathons (ok, one marathon, but I'm doing more soon). I kept thinking I probably couldn't even get it over my head, for sure not my hips, and there's NO way I could fasten it. The game went on, and we talked about other things. Did I mention how much I really enjoy talking to other moms at the baseball field. Yeah, anyway, I kept thinking about the fact that she can still wear her wedding dress. For real, I kept thinking about it. I couldn't get it out of my head. So, you know what I did? This morning after I got back from my run and got done showering, washing off the sweat left after the rain, [I always feel so hardcore when I run in the rain. Even though it was really just a drizzle, my shoes were wet and squishy when we got done, and that made me feel even more hardcore. Back to the dress thing...] I decided to put mine on. Everyone else was still asleep, so no one would see me, and I HAD to know if I could fit in it. I probably should have just allowed myself to wonder.

Here's how this whole thing went down. I couldn't get it over my shoulders. Not really sure why that is. My bone structure hasn't changed, at least not up there. I guess since I had zero body fat back then, getting it over my hips wasn't an issue. I probably never tried to put it on over my head. It's a strapless dress. So, I'm pretty sure I stepped into it the four times I wore it, once at the bridal store, twice for the fittings and once on my wedding day. Here's the thing, though, I'm almost positive I gained all 35 pounds in my hips and thighs. Stepping into dresses no longer happens for me, but with a little wiggle, I did it. I got it over my hips and almost squealed! Shhh. Don't wake the kids. Then all those darn buttons, and the zipper. Yeah, NONE of that was happening. My rib cage has grown. No for real. I'm not trying to say that when I should really say I've gained weight. It really has. That happens when you have kids, right? They stretch out your rib cage. Seems like I read that somewhere. Anyway, it really has. I sucked in like an inverted tornado and got the first part of the thing fastened around my waist, but once I got to my ribs, it became clear, I was NOT fitting into my wedding dress. It was actually ok, and I had a really good laugh at myself, sat on the floor, and took a selfie. I'm Gen Y, of course I took a selfie.

I'm not good at selfies.
I'm even worse at all the filters and junk.
Which is sad since I'm a graphic designer.

In the process of all this craziness, thinking about how much bigger I am now in nearly every way but one, I remembered something the woman told me during my first fitting. There are two cup sizes of padding in the chest of that dress. Two cup sizes. Why? Well, there was only so much she could take in due to the way the dress was made. All the beading and detail made it hard for her to do too much with it. She told me, "too much alteration would ruin the integrity of the dress." Apparently all super skinny women wearing a size 2 wedding dress have giant Barbie chests, right? Sounds like the integrity of the designer should be questioned, or maybe I should have just found a different dress. It was so pretty, though. Anyway, that was ages ago, and it's not important now.

Things got deep sitting on the floor of my closet which also happens to be my favorite place to pray.

I got to thinking about what else has changed about me since that day nearly twelve years ago. Honestly, besides the things that usually come with marriage like kids and bills and stress and the effects of long term sleep deprivation, not much. At my core, I'm still me. Still got all the goofy awkwardness I was born with. It's just packaged a little differently now. What has changed, though, is my desire to fit a mold I wasn't designed to fit. The standard must retain it's integrity. It can not be altered, or it ceases to be. I tried to fit. Pushed and squeezed and worked SO hard, ignoring the pain and the obvious signs that I would never make it happen. The more I squeezed, the more brokenness and imperfection I found. At one point or another, I couldn't deny my failure anymore. I don't handle failure well. It isn't natural for me to let broken things BE broken. It isn't natural for me to just let things be, to let me be me. I have to fix it. Make it right. I have to be the good girl, the good mom, the good wife, the best me, or at least I did. When I figured out that wasn't gonna happen, I kind of slipped into a private rebellion. If I can't be that girl, then I'll be this one. No wild partying or open rebellion, no abandonment of my family, just giving up and trying not to care. You know what changed? My desire to fit that mold, and when I realized that mold wasn't for me, a revelation of another kind came to me.

There is no mold.

I'm sorry. I couldn't help it.

I spent many wonderful childhood summer days forming little pots and figures out of the beautiful blue clay we had at our creek. I also took a sculpting class in college where we used a special rubber material to make molds of our originals so we could make copies out of resin. To make a mold, you must first have an original. The mold never comes first. See, there is no mold for me to fit into because I am the original sculpture, carved and formed by the hands of God. Now, he's not done yet. There is still a lot of work to do, but forcing me into a mold made by someone else isn't part of the plan. I was never meant to be a copy. He doesn't make copies, and his plan involves molding me into the image of his Son, sometimes with his hands, sometimes carving with tools and sometimes cutting away the excess. When he's done, though, when I stand complete, I'll be the best me, the me he meant me to be, more perfect than the image of the mold I wanted so much to fit myself into.

I get impatient very often. I struggle with no longer having that vision of perfection, that standard to live up to, but I like not trying so hard. I like feeling like I'm already enough. I like knowing all the molding is up to my Savior. I like letting the broken be broken, and knowing that healing will come. Maybe not now, but before God puts his signature on his creation and calls it good, healing will come. I will be whole. Someday.

The trick today is being ok with a dirty kitchen and laundry overflowing the room it should be confined to. I've enjoyed the day with my kids, though, and I've enjoyed writing. Here's to someday and the awe I know I'll feel when I see my Creator's handiwork complete and whole from the inside out.