No. 31: What Love is This?

Melaleuca + the March favorites

When I was growing up, my parents fiercely protected our safety and time together at home. I felt I lived in a frustrating circle that went a little bit like this: 1. our parents wouldn’t allow us to go anywhere with friends unless they knew their parents. 2. our parents refused to go to any school event, park meet-up or coffee date…thus never getting to know anyone’s parents. And on and on it went. Lest you gasp and think, “that’s terrible!” I’ll let you know that I have the exact same rule for my own children and I am also probably a bit less social than I’m sure my children would like. Touché, mom and dad. Touché.

For this reason, we weren’t allowed to go to friend’s houses for playdates often, so on the rare occasion my mom agreed to a couple hours at Lynne’s or a quick swim at Stefany’s, it was as if I was getting a behind-the-scenes look at the film set of my favorite television show. I was absolutely amazed by every detail, every routine, every privilege. While my friend would be eager to get upstairs to play dolls/makeup/skip-it, I’d prefer to stay downstairs just taking everything in. I’d admire the Precious Moments figurine collection, take note of clusters of picture frames on dressers and piano tops. I’d take a full mental inventory of the contents of their refrigerator and pantry like I was about to play a high-stakes memory game. Uncrustables. Sugar cereal. Extra Large container of Cheese Balls. Dunkaroos. Lunchables. “Lucky,” I’d think to myself.

When I finally could be pried from the downstairs and made it to the play area or bedroom of my friend, I’d start all over again. Always, always, she had her own room. Her own space. Her own stuff. “Lucky,” I’d think again. Because even though you could always fit about three of my friends’ houses inside our sprawling home filled to the brim with toys and activities, my house was also filled with four sisters and two brothers and having one bright pink room with a zebra desk chair and lava lamp seemed like the best thing in the world.

But the thing that I always left feeling most envious about wasn’t the nail polish collection or the snack access—it was the discipline.

Or lack thereof.

I remember one time a friend was being sassy to her mom in the car on the way home. When she told her mom the song choice was “embarrassing,” and told-not asked-her to change it, I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my head. I nervously looked out the window trying desperately to pretend I wasn’t there. I couldn’t believe a human was talking to their mother this way! When she unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed up to the front to change the station herself after her mother denied her request, I squeezed my eyes shut and wished to be truly anywhere else in the world. I wanted to turn into silver Capri Sun like The Secret World of Alex Mack and escape through the closed car door. But do you want to know what happened? Absolutely nothing. Not so much as a reprimand.

I witnessed other friends talk back, hit their sibling, completely ignore their parent and everything in-between without so much as a time out and friends, this BLEW MY MIND. Because in my household, my parents didn’t play like that.

We had a hierarchy of punishments. In this illustration better than>worse than, okay? Our very intricate hierarchy went a little but like this: running laps around the lake > a spank, but a spank from mom> running laps. Something I could pretty much always shrug my shoulders at, however, and declare ‘The Perfect Punishment’ was chewing soap. This was a rare, back-pocket type of thing. Typically a bold lie or blatant disrespect of a sibling would be a spank. Sometimes, though, the offense was so minor that it warranted some form of punishment, but not the full ordeal. Enter chewing soap.

Most of the time, it would be swishing around some liquid soap from the powder room. Often times, it was lemon or a Christmas scent we didn’t use up before the snow melted. One time, it was watermelon which was honestly quite lovely. But one April day in 1999, my mom changed the game on me and I’ll never forget it.

It was the day before Easter. I was nine. I was caught in a lie—which was a pretty common occurrence since I’ve always been the absolute worst liar in the world. Our table was already decorated for our big party the next day and I was rolling a dyed egg in my hands while I waited for my mom to get the soap. Instead of the pump bottle I was expecting, she came back with a two inch segment of a bright gold Melaleuca soap. I gulped. This is where the punishment hierarchy was tricky, because swishing watermelon liquid soap > a spank, but hands-down, chewing Melaleuca bar soap the day before Easter< a spank.

I sat at that table, crying and shouting through a closed mouth full of what can only be described as poison, paint thinner, tree sap and old sponge for minutes that felt like days and when it was finally time to spit it out and rinse my mouth, I suddenly remembered I wouldn’t be able to taste anything for a while.

With the Dial watermelon soap, my taste buds only took hours to adjust. This Melaleuca, though, came with the big guns and when I tell you it wiped out everything in its path, I mean everything. I swear I didn’t have a single surviving taste bud after that moment and I just knew all my dreams of being able to taste the meal I had smelled, helped prepare and looked forward to for months were gone. The next day, when I filled up my plate with high hopes and selfish prayers, I truly believed there would be an Easter miracle. God raised his Son from the dead, certainly he could do the same for my tongue!

Much to my dismay, bite after bite of honey baked ham, Mrs. Beverly’s homemade rolls and cobbler, my mom’s banana pudding and pretzel salad—it all tasted like an old washcloth dipped in Melaleuca.

I remember that night, in my nine year old brain and my nine year old way, I was shaken out of my own self-pity and turned my mind to Christ. I had collected jelly beans and chocolate coins. I had been elated to wear a fresh dress and ruffle socks. I played tag with our friends and probably choreographed a dance or two. And I had felt sorry for myself all day long for not being able to taste as a result of my own sin. That was my Easter.

Years later, I look back on that day with both a smiling shake of my head and also gratitude because this was the first Easter I experienced true conviction. Sure, I had cried every year at the Good Friday service and at every reenactment of Christ on the cross at my summer Church camp. But largely, Holy Week meant looking forward to a house full of friends, an Easter basket with fresh bubbles and a new CD and an endless supply of pear Jelly Bellys in a bowl on the counter.

That year, the Easter with no tastebuds, I was suddenly transfixed at the thought of my King in a crown of thorns. Nails in hands. Stacked feet. Wine in wounds. Forsaken by the Father.

And I was sad to be missing out on the once-a-year bliss that is a shard of ham on a Hawaiian roll.

I had to look at how often and how easy I did just that. To live a life full of minimizing the miracle. Caught in the muck and mire of my own pre-teen misgivings and misfortune and missing the point of it all. The beauty of the gospel. The sacrifice of a Savior who died for me yet while I was still a sinner. He loved me enough even then, knowing two thousand years later I’d be crying at the kitchen table with bar soap foaming in my mouth for being a sinner still.

And every year since, I sit with new tears streaming down my cheeks on Easter thinking, “What love is this? That you gave Your life for me and made a way for me to know you.”

(If you need a song to play on repeat all weekend, this is the one that rolls around my brain all day long and gets me every time. )

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I had said we’d talk about Spring Cleaning this week but when I initially typed that, I didn’t realize “next week” at the time of your reading would be Easter weekend. Rookie mistake (!) The Spring Cleaning deep dive will go live next week and for now, I want to remind you to truly be still this weekend. My prayer is that we wouldn’t let the hustle and the egg hunts and the baking and the sugar high fool us into thinking we’ve truly celebrated Easter. Whether it’s a fifteen minute prayer while you rock your baby to sleep or a moment to yourself before you crawl into bed—really, wholly, truly turn your eyes to Jesus.

"How deep the Father's love for us
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch His treasure
How great the pain of searing loss
The Father turns His face away
As wounds which mar the Chosen One
Bring many sons to glory

Behold the man upon a cross
My sin upon His shoulders
Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice
Call out among the scoffers
It was my sin that held Him there
Until it was accomplished
His dying breath has brought me life
I know that it is finished

I will not boast in anything
No gifts, no power, no wisdom
But I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection
Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom”

Have a beautiful weekend, friends.