A Work in Progress

This year I've committed to reading a chapter of Proverbs every day during my quiet time, and I can't tell you how much I'm enjoying it. The entire book is filled with so much practical wisdom -- little "one-liners" of truth that have me mulling over them all day long.

It seems like I discover some new verse every day, but there's one particular passage that always hits me right between the eyes. Proverbs 31. The Virtuous Woman. She's like Martha Stewart on steroids. I cringe when I read it because this woman is everything I am not. For example:

• ...she gets up before dawn to prepare breakfast for her household (verse 15)
• ...she is energetic and strong, a hard worker (verse 17)
• ...her lamp burns late into the night (verse 18)
• ...she makes her own bedspreads...she dresses in fine linen and purple gowns. {i.e. she sews and has a daily wardrobe that does not consist of old t-shirts and sweatpants} (verse 22)
• ...when she speaks, her words are wise and she gives instructions with kindness (verse 26)

And then there's this one:

• she is clothed with strength and dignity (verse 25)

Dignity? That word is hardly even in my vocabulary. If you asked anyone who knows me well to describe me, the word dignified would not come to mind.

Dignified calls to mind a very classy woman. Someone who wouldn't accidentally leave her zipper down and who never snorts when she laughs. Possibly wears her hair in a bun. Composed. Respected. Graceful.

I am a first class klutz. I could probably fill a month's worth of blog posts with examples of my clumsiness. Here's one.

The year: 1998

My family is about to embark on our annual trek to the lakes of Minnesota for a vacation with my cousins. I'm upstairs curling my hair, trying to hurry so we can get on the road. I finish the last curl, set down the curling iron, reach for the plug and smack. I knock the curling iron off the dresser and it falls to the floor, but not before it grazes the inside of my upper thigh.

It took a second for me to register what happened but when it did I let out a cry. Not because of the pain, but because of what I saw seared on my leg -- the words "Conair". Yup. Branded myself like a cattle rancher.

It took the entire rest of the summer for that bad boy to heal. There's nothing like going back to school in the fall and trying to explain to your volleyball team why you've got a giant Band-aid shaped tan line on your leg.

So am I surprised when I lock my keys in my car? Trip over the curb in front of the library? Stub my toe getting out of the shower? Fall up the stairs? No, not surprised. But sometimes a little bit discouraged.

There is at least one encouraging thought -- God never calls us to something that He doesn't equip us for, right? So that means somewhere, deep within the recesses of my clumsy body there is a dignified, graceful woman trying to climb out. It's just that Klutzy Girl keeps knocking her over...

Someday maybe I'll get it right. Then you can come to my house and we'll sip tea with our pinkies up and talk about how we got up before the sun so we could finish sewing bedspreads and grinding wheat for our homemade bread.

Until then I'll just thank the Lord that, "He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."

He's not finished with me yet. Can I get an, "Amen"?