Downy Smells Like Love

She was up late. She always stayed up late. I suppose this was normal for a grandmother trying to keep up with caring for her five rambunctious grandchildren (three more would soon follow). My two brothers, two sisters and I were quite a handful. None of us older than five, we had boundless energy that would’ve probably exhausted women a third my grandmother’s age. I, at four years old, was easily the most kinetic. This might help explain why I never slept like normal kids. I would always stay up later than my siblings and watch Mammaw. She was the only other person up at this late hour. Pappaw went to bed and got up with the chickens.

Mammaw & Pappaw’s (this is what we called their home) was situated in rural Indiana, past a lot of cornfields and on an elevated patch of land that I would call a hill, except that it stretched out in a fairly flat manner for some distance before the ground would dimple. These 110 acres were well wooded with a variety of deciduous trees that would blush the landscape in autumn. Creeks were etched into the countryside and came in an assortment of shapes and sizes; the largest one we affectionately named Big Papa Creek. The pristine waters provided playful and refreshing relief during the sweltering summers. Mammaw & Pappaw’s, with all the farm animals and nature, was a wide-eyed little kid’s wonderland that stood in stark contrast to the city life in which we were too often left alone. And I liked contrast.

I had a special bond with Mammaw. Maybe it was because I kept vigil with her as she worked late at night? The country life was no easy existence. Age and hard labor had weathered Mammaw’s skin. It was soft and thin like most elderly people and lay loosely over a very solid frame. I would try to smooth the wrinkles from the supple skin on her arms and hands. Laying my cheek against it, I imagined it was my pillow. Her skin’s soft texture was contradicted by her Puritan work ethic and imposing physical strength, both necessitated by the times and place in which she lived.

There was always work to be done and never enough time in the day to do it all. That’s why Mammaw borrowed time from the night. Mostly, she would wash things at night. Dishes. Floors. Laundry. Laundry . . . was my favorite.

Mammaw washed using an antique wringer washer. It wasn’t an antique when she bought it, but like her, it had aged gracefully and was still up to the task; she saw no reason to abandon its usefulness just yet. The washer and dryer were located in an old house adjacent to the one we all lived in. This house had been there since before they had purchased the property. Made completely of wood, it sat on a foundation of blocks and smelled like a log cabin. My grandparents never tore it down, but instead chose to make use of it as a giant storage unit where they kept the deep freezers that preserved the many fruits and vegetable they grew, and the meat which they butchered yearly. It was also the perfect home for the washer and dryer because it was just several yards from the backdoor, down the walkway.

I used to follow Mammaw out there late at night to keep her company. I would watch her meticulously and methodically go through her routine of checking the pockets, turning the clothes inside out, and stamping them down into the running machine with a clean wooden stick that had been rendered rather pallid from its years of duty in detergent and bleach. I would gaze as she would literally run these garment through the wringer, being ever-so-careful not to catch her fingers between its crushing rollers. She would never let me stand too close because she worried that I would “lose a finger.”

She would transfer the clothing to these large stainless steel tubs of rinse water to which she would add Downy fabric softener. I loved Downy! Mammaw said it smelled April fresh. But to me it smelled like love.

After the clothes had soaked for a while, she’d run them through the wringer again. Then she’d put them in the dryer and start the cycle. This was my favorite part. The dryer exhaust blew through an aluminum conduit that ran through the old house wall and protruded out from the building about two feet. I would run outside and pull this heavy metal lawn chair—rust-freckled, covered with flaking red paint—around the old house and position it right in front of the dryer exhaust. I would sit there and let the warm air wash over me, caressing me in the scent of Downy. The steady hum of the dryer would sing me to sleep. I especially loved it when the night was cold because the warm dryer air would create a contrast that would raise goosebumps on my skin. I loved contrasts.

After she had finished the laundry for the night, which was usually around 3 a.m., she would softly pick me up out of the chair so as not to wake me. But I always knew she was doing it; I just never told her. I wanted her to carry me into the house and put me to bed. I loved the closeness. And the best part came when she tenderly laid me in the bed and covered me up. She did this by tossing the blanket into the air and letting it gently glide down. As I peered through my eyelashes, it seemed like an angel’s feather floating down on me. This action would generate a mystical breeze as it came to alight upon me. Wafts of clean air scented with Downy would effortlessly fill my nostrils. Mammaw would tuck me in carefully. Downy smelled like love.

One particularly cold winter night, I caused quite a commotion. Departing from my normal routine, I had fallen asleep before Mammaw started the laundry. She had just placed the last load in the dryer and had come into the house to watch the news. I awakened and slipped out the back door to see if she was in the old house washing. But before I left, I grabbed the feather bed and dragged it out the door with me. I never understood why they called it a feather bed and not a feather cover. It was roughly the dimensions of a sleeping bag but was lined with feathers. My young mind didn’t understand the terminology, but I knew it was exceptionally warm, so it was going with me.

It was really dark that night. With no street lamps for at least 20 miles, the only illumination came from the pale Midwestern moon as it cast a soft warm hue over our snow-covered backyard. Down the walkway I went, and since the lawn chair was already in position and had been preheated by the sweet-smelling dryer exhaust, I bypassed going into the old house to look for Mammaw and just crawled up into the chair, cocooning myself in the feather bed. In no time, I had been rocked fast asleep by the dryer’s lullaby.

Tranquility would give way to turmoil as my panicked grandmother discovered I was missing from my bed. She upended the house in her frantic search for me. She was sure I had frozen to death as she came hysterically running out the backdoor. Snow had speckled my sleeping head, but I was snug and secure beneath the warm down-filled blanket. Like always, she gently carried me into the house, this time with tears flowing down her high cheek bones. And just like always, I feigned sleep so she would nuzzle me in the Downy-scented covers on my bed.

I miss the country. I now live in a quiet residential area somewhere in suburbia. Often, I take walks late at night; I especially like them when it is cold out (I love contrasts). As I make my way up the empty streets of my dimly-lit neighborhood, every once in a while I will catch a waft of Downy coming from someone’s dryer exhaust. The smell is unmistakable. As I pause and my eyes close, I inhale deeply. For a fleeting moment, I am enraptured by Mammaw’s warm ethereal embrace. I don’t know if love has a scent. But for me, Downy smells like love.

© 2008 Nathan/StealthyDarky

The Balaam Syndrome

If you send in your love offering of $100, then we will send you this “free” gift, a packet of mustard seeds. If you plant them in this special soil from the Holy Land (yours free with your $125 love offering), then they will produce a glorious plant that will bear miraculous fruit. If you give $200 dollars, then we will provide you with a personal prophecy that you can speak over your mustard seeds that will ensure that they grow both faster and taller (cause we know you’re in a hurry and need results now).

We now have the opportunity to buy free things from ministries that will change our lives, heal us, make us rich, and save our loved ones. After all, it is God’s will that we all be billionaires living extravagant lives in excess. If you are not walking in such divine prosperity, then, obviously, something is wrong with your spirituality, your faith, well . . . you.

The Balaam Syndrome is an increasingly common blight plaguing the contemporary Church. Material wealth is now proudly worn as a badge confirming one’s “genuine” spirituality and faith. If you don’t own one of these badges yet, don’t fret. You can purchase a free prophecy that will, eventually, if you keep giving and believing, impart one to you. Then, you can be part of this elite spiritual club – well, if you really believe.

Something is strangely amiss here. To be sure, the Bible has a lot to say about giving and finances; there’s no argument there. Christians should be taught what the Bible has to say about such matters. There is a lot of wisdom there to be gleaned. But where does the Bible establish wealth as the deciding gauge of someone’s spirituality?

It seems that if material wealth necessarily indicates one’s piety and commitment to Christ, then Bill Gates would be America’s most faithful pastor and we’d all be worshipping weekly at our local Wal-Mart SuperCenters. Come to think of it, maybe he is, and maybe we do?

But I’m not completely convinced yet. I mean that I’m not so sure that I can say Chinese Christians, faithfully living under religious persecution, and earning around $40 per week for working exceedingly long hours, are somehow less spiritually adept than wealthy American Christians. Well, maybe they don’t pray enough? Or maybe they don’t believe strongly enough? Or maybe they just aren’t “true” believers?

Surely, it could have nothing to do with the economic climate of America versus China. I mean, if a true American Christian had been born in China, surely he or she would be wealthy by now. Right?

Wealth and health doctrine, because it is often accompanied by power and popularity, can be an extremely enticing message. Who doesn’t want to be healthy and wealthy? And by the way, I believe in divine healing and in the notion God wants us to prosper (although I detest that so many construe this in only materialistic terms). And what can even be more enticing is that genuine spiritual gifts are often prostituted for financial gain. Gifted pastors, prophets and teachers misuse their gifts to gain money, power and popularity. Well-meaning, but misled followers recklessly throw their sparse finances at these dazzling displays of signs and wonders. Again, I am not speaking against generosity, miracles, signs & wonders, or spiritual gifts; I’m speaking against their abuse.

The rub comes in when people naively equate spiritual gifts with spiritual character. It is just as erroneous as equating material wealth and genuine faith. People, then, blindly follow these “spectacular” ministers and buy into a lie because they believe that gifts and money is God’s stamp of approval on these prophetic peddlers.

This is the Balaam Syndrome – merchandising ministry. The Bible uses Balaam to illustrate this deceptive doctrine in reference to false teachers:

“By abandoning the straight path, they have gone astray and have followed the path of Balaam, the son of Bosor, who loved the wages of unrighteousness . . . Woe to them! For they have traveled in the way of Cain, have abandoned themselves to the error of Balaam for profit, and have perished in Korah's rebellion” ( 2 Pet 2:15; Jude 11).

Balaam had pimped out his gifts to the highest bidder (see Num 22-31). Because of his “spectacular ministry,” people were willing to pay him for his services. The Moabite king, Balak, had hired Balaam to curse the children of Israel. Of course, it backfired. But the lesson is obvious. People, even kings, are often attracted to gifted people because of greed and power. And too often these gifted individuals are willing to prostitute their gifts because of the love of money. Money is simply appealing and motivating.

Paul said we should be nothing like those kinds of people. “For we are not like so many others, hucksters who peddle the word of God for profit, but we are speaking in Christ before God as persons of sincerity, as persons sent from God” (2 Cor 2:17). He goes on to warn that “those who want to be rich fall into temptation, a trap, and many foolish and harmful desires, which plunge people into ruin and destruction. For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil, and by craving it, some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pains” (1 Tim 6:9-10).

This inordinate fascination with money and material prosperity is leading many astray, displacing the (one, genuine) faith. It appeals to our fallen nature, our greed. And because it is sweetened with cleverly-skewed Scripture, it becomes an easy poison to swallow.

Please hear me. I am NOT saying that God wants us impoverished or sick, nor am I suggesting the Bible has nothing good to say about giving, sharing, financial prudence, or miracles. I am simply saying that contemporary Christianity – particularly the American flavor – has become so enamored and misled by materialism dressed up in spiritual garb, that it has become detrimental and something entirely different than what is described as godly in the Bible.

A lot more could be said regarding this important subject. For further reading I suggest Merchandising The Anointing by Rick Renner and Thus Saith the Lord? by John Bevere.* I want to thank my dear friend Tammy for being bold enough to bring it into our little blogosphere; she inspired this tirade (er, I mean discussion).

Material prosperity should never be the gauge by which we measure someone’s Christian walk. Selling what God has freely given should never be named among God’s people. Money should never be put forth as the panacea for all problems. Enough said.

*It should be noted that by listing these books as suggested reading, I am in no way categorically endorsing everything they teach. I do think there are elements in them that would be informative though. There are some things in them with which I would take exception, however.

Enigma

Enveloped in enigma. I didn’t want it to happen like that. But it did anyway. Pages from my life’s story were ripped from my hands, and I was powerless to do anything about it. And with these pages went my face. What remains is but an apparition, an amorphous visage, of what was once a clarion countenance.

I could lay out my story, in part, from faint memories that haunt me with their persistent pleas for recognition, for some validation of their now trivial existence. But others have re-written my story for me. They said it was too dangerous to affirm what was once manifest, but now carefully camouflaged. With the avulsion of my face, a new one was crafted with the same surgical skill used to remove the former image.

And they took my voice too. It wasn’t enough to simply supplant the superficial. No, they had to delve deeper and smother every vestige of vocal tone I could call my own. I must be muted. No longer could I be me. I had to live a new life – their life.

Over my barren soul they layered papier-mâché, a convincing construct, whose only truth is that it is wholly a lie. “But this is the price of your freedom” they muttered. But why does it have to cost so much? Why can’t this scandalous truth be embraced by the light? Is it still too treacherous? And whose life plummets for your preservation? Mine, if there still is a “mine.”

Everything that was me they laid waste to with calculated cunning. The scattered shards of my soul puncture and bleed my callous feet as I try to stagger away from the life that was once my own. I must bury me. They have provided the casket and will surround it with soil if I will but lay myself into their sepulchral solution. Solution? For whom?

Content with my extinguished existence, they celebrate their triumph over my troubles. They congratulate themselves on delivering their duty, my erasure. “Another case solved. Another tragedy averted” they exclaim. But it is I who starts over. They just continue, lives uninterrupted and unencumbered.

Casually they comment, “You have done the right thing by preserving justice and bearing bravery.” My consolation is isolation, my reward reinvention. But I find no comfort in this novel, lonely life – no reward in starting anew by denying my distorted history.

I was once. Really I was. I am not now. Really I am not. An amorphous façade, enigmatic by necessity, not nature. A fictitious face, forced by fortune, not by fidelity.

Do You Feel Me?

“Do you feel me?” I’ve always had some strange attraction towards words – especially the hidden meaning behind them. It’s rarely been enough for me to just let them hang in the air without reflection or analysis. Do you feel me? is no exception. Why do people say that? Why do I say that? Why not just ask, “Do you understand what I mean?”

Today’s blog has been inspired by some new friends I made today: Terri, Di, Christianne, and Chloe. That’s four, count ‘em 4!, friends in twenty-four hours. That’s gotta be some kind of record. Uncovering these new friends has helped me better understand that question about Do you feel me? in a way that I don’t think could’ve been done otherwise. [By the way, Hi guys. (Hope I can call you ‘guys’ cause it’s kosher where I grew up). Thanks for all of the kind words; they helped.]

People want to be more than understood; they want to be felt. There is some legitimate nuance of meaning here. It might be best understood by contrasting the subtle differences between sympathy and empathy. For me, sympathy means you can visualize with great intensity the feelings and experiences of another; empathy means you have actually experienced and shared the feelings and experiences of another. It’s the difference between watching on television an exhausted Olympic marathoner desperately throw herself across the finish line, completely exsanguinated of energy, and actually running one yourself and having to care for your blistered feet and tattered carcass afterwards. On paper the definitions seem subtle, but in real life, they are painfully palpable.

A person who really feels you literally shares your pathos, those intensely deep feelings that encompass our joys and pains; our losses and gains; our ups and downs; our smiles and frowns. A person who feels you is also one who shares your passions – whether that be reading, writing, music or teaching. It could be the passion you feel when you warmly embrace your child or the passion you feel when you are tightly held by your significant other. If it is shared, it’s called compassion. Compassion literally means to share passion!

I think we all desire this kind of shared intimacy: empathy and compassion. We unconsciously seek it out, and we do so desperately when we feel alone and disheartened. Maybe that’s how I met my new friends? I wanted someone to feel me. And from what I read on their blogs, I felt that they might just have that capacity.

Can I get Biblical for a minute? I don’t do it much anymore because I feel so distant from God, but I’d like to give it a whirl for just a minute. Do you know why I’m a Christian (albeit backslidden)? I know there are a number of reasons I could give, but at the top of the list would be that God can feel me and I can touch Him. And that is only possible because of the Person of Jesus Christ.

“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but One who has been tested in every way as we are, yet without sin” (Heb 4:15). Jesus is that High Priest. The Greek word sumpatheo is translated sympathize but carries the force of empathize. It is a shared, fellow feeling. It is because Jesus can genuinely feel my pains and temptations that I am a Christian. A God that is so ethereal that He cannot touch me, nor be touched by me, offers little practical help or hope to me. I could find a deity like that in a number of other religions. Yes, an ethereal, impassible God like that might look good on theological/philosophical paper, but when life is painfully palpable, that “perfection” (if it could be construed that way) is utterly alienating, completely irrelevant, and almost certainly unconcerned with my needs. Doesn’t sound very loving, does it?

But God’s not like that. We know this because Jesus, God in flesh, is as palpable as the pain we experience. He, Himself, experienced this pain. He ran the marathon, and He felt the agonies of temptations and rejections, yet without sinning. Why do we create such an artificial ceiling between us and God? To be sure, God is holy and transcendent, and we have to be careful that we don’t, in self-deceptive pride, diminish His greatness, perfection and holiness in our minds (I think this is what Barth feared and reacted to accordingly). But if God was ever impassible, then Jesus Christ punctured holes into His floor/our ceiling of impassibility by becoming human. God can now be touched! In fact, it is the man, Christ Jesus who is continually making intercession on our behalf, precisely because He is so intimately acquainted with our pathos and shares our pains and passions. “For there is one God and one mediator between God and man, a man, Christ Jesus . . . Therefore He is always able to save those who come to God through Him, since He always lives to intercede for them” (1 Tim 2:5; Heb 7:25).

And did I mention He is full compassion? And because He shares our passions, it moves Him to do many things – intercession and healing to name just a couple. Somehow we have created this rigid, emotionless God completely devoid of compassion. He never really responds to anything. He is just pure action; a self-absorbed unmoved mover. And if per chance He does respond, it is only because of faith or some other manipulative “blessing lever” we can pull. But that is not how the Bible depicts God, certainly not in the Person of Jesus. “Moved with compassion, Jesus touched their eyes. Immediately they could see, and they followed Him” (Matt 20:34). And there are other examples where Jesus did something, not because of anyone’s faith (although He certainly responds to that as well), but because He is compassionate. God is more concerned with compassion than any religious levers we can pull. "But go and learn what this means: 'I DESIRE COMPASSION, AND NOT SACRIFICE,' for I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners . . . But if you had known what this means, 'I DESIRE COMPASSION, AND NOT A SACRIFICE,' you would not have condemned the innocent” (Matt 9:13; 12:7). You could literally go on ad nauseum with Biblical examples of compassion. Just do a simple word search.

There’s something to this empathy and compassion thing. Old Testament prophets were able to tap into the pathos of the people through poetry, orations and other writings. They even illustrated these things by acting them out in dramatic ways at times. They did this because they wanted to correct social injustices and inequities, and because they knew that things like poetry and music can connect with people in a way that mere speech making cannot. The arts are many times subversive (literally, below the word). It is a way of injecting deep feeling into the hearts of people who otherwise would not receive anything. Today, music is a good example of this. It taps into our pathos. It moves our passions. And our passions move us. And when we share those passions – have compassion – a dynamic, potent force is generated that brings transformation. On a vertical dimension, we have that in Jesus. We have it in the Holy Spirit as He comes along side us and shares our burdens as the Parakletos. And on a horizontal plane, we have that in each other, as members of the same Body and through our shared experiences as humans. We can empathize and we can be compassionate. And through our passionate, subversive words – our poetry and stories – we can convey that life to people who desperately need it, and yet consciously are not willing to hear it. We can move beyond understanding someone’s needs and actually feel those needs.

Let me step away from the cyber-pulpit. Sorry, I feel a lot of passion about this subject. What I am trying to say is that I am grateful for a God who shares my passions, and I am grateful that He brought four new friends into my life to share those passions with me. Do you feel me?