Tangled

Muffled whimpers escaped the closed bathroom door.  It was past the time when she was due downstairs for the morning, so I’d gone upstairs to check on Boo.  This darling daughter o’ mine is a basketful of surprises:  I had no idea what I’d find when I opened the door.  Perhaps frustration over getting earrings into her recently-pierced ears?  Sadness over one escaping down the sink drain?

I found her dripping wet from her shower, trying to extricate a comb wound so tightly with hair that I feared removal would require surgical intervention.  She was pulling and twisting, ratcheting the hair tighter with every failed attempt to free it, like a Chinese finger trap.

“Why didn’t you ask me for help?”  She was afraid I’d laugh.  Laughter was a generous assumption of my response, given the dictates of the over-filled morning that lay ahead.  I tabulated the number of minutes remaining until we needed to leave for the bus stop, knowing breakfast hadn’t been consumed nor backpacks loaded.  I silently asked God to help me put those concerns aside to meet her needs, physically and emotionally.  She didn’t want my help, but she needed it.  If she didn’t trust me to do right by her, we weren’t going anywhere – literally or figuratively.

I cajoled her into getting dressed and coming downstairs.  (Or did I threaten?)  She finally appeared in the kitchen in a school-appropriate outfit and a terry cloth wimple she’d constructed from her towel to conceal her ‘issue.’

The best strategy I could devise to salvage as much hair as possible was to pour oil on her head, hoping it would lube the locks.  I massaged it into the gnarled comb-hair mass.  I tugged.  It hurt.  She cried.  I fetched wire cutters from the garage and snipped teeth off the comb, in hopes of freeing still more hair.  It was tedious work with dismaying results, sometimes loosing merely a few strands at a time.  It pushed the limits of my patience.  And hers.  Still, she needed my help.  Eventually, it was clear that scissors were warranted.  I snipped carefully and finally liberated my daughter from her encumbrance.

As I washed the oil from her hair in the sink, I gently inquired what caused her predicament.  She couldn’t offer much explanation for motive, except that she wanted to see what would happen, and really thought she’d be able to get it out.  She lay outstretched on the counter, her head cupped in my hands over the sink, and she looked up at me, her Disney Princess eyes finally free of tears and embarrassment.  The vulnerability of her gaze and position were striking to me.  There was closeness, intimacy, in being trusted to help, and proving faithful to it.

How often I’ve found myself in a tangled situation, facing an outcome I hadn’t predicted.  I retreat into my misery, whimpering as I tug on the strands of error, lack of forethought, and sin.  I hide my face from the Lord, covering myself with other competencies and busyness to conceal the glaring problem-that-can’t-be-hidden.   Ultimately, though, there are messes in my life that I cannot unravel; I need Another’s help.  Though I may not want to feel so exposed, I need His help.  Sometimes His tools are fragrant oils that wash easily away, other times wire cutters and scissors are necessary, with more painful and enduring effects.  In either case, I must lay myself out on the counter – the altar, place myself into His cupped hands, and in trust look up.  In that vulnerability there is Holy intimacy. And He is faithful to help, never forsaking me.

And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.
— Philippians 1:6 NLT

Recommended reading (or listening!): Psalm 40

Story told with permission from the hair ‘stylist,’ who felt blessed to know that her story taught me something, and was then willing to have it shared with you.