She was eight years old when she walked, almost ran, down the aisle of a little Baptist Church in Pasadena, Texas. For well over an hour, she listened to a sweaty man in a wrinkled, brown suit yelling and waving his arms. Like a small-town carnival barker, he tantalized the crowd with a story of epic proportions, complete with scenes of terror and promised escape…for those who would listen.
“Step right up, get it while you can. Your very own shiny new Suit of clothes, guaranteed to make you whole and to save you a spot in the afterlife.” It was compelling, for sure. To be able to get the love, belonging, and purpose we all crave.
Itch…scratch…pinch…tug, Surely a fair trade.
She knew all about the gaudy and ill-fitting suits. They were ubiquitous in her part of the world, where people wore them to show off their membership in the club. The women in her family each had one – all the same size, color, and style and they were each cut in a way that made movement awkward. She often giggled when watching how the women would adjust and squirm to do even simple, everyday tasks. It was particularly comical when they were in a group. She always knew she would wear the female uniform, no matter how tall, round or allergic she might become.
Itch…scratch…pinch…tug. The life of a godly woman.
The man’s yelling quieted to gentle pleas and tears as he signaled for the soft music to continue. His patience was rewarded as she relented and made her way to the front and she slowly put on the suit.
Itch…scratch…pinch…tug. Maybe it won’t be too bad.
Her new suit was the talk of the family for weeks, but she secretly struggled from the beginning with the way that others looked and talked to her when she wore it. Though she loved the tailor and the story, she began to take it off every now and then.
Itch…scratch…pinch…tug. Shame.
By the time she was a young adult, the guilt of not wearing the suit took over and she knew that getting serious would be the answer to her problems. This time, it would be for real. She wore it all the time, and with great pride. The suit gave her an identity, and brought order and hope back to her life. She even became a champion of the suit, convincing other women that the tailor was never wrong, and this suit would save us all.
Itch, scratch, pinch, tug. Hope.
But that itch and pinching were unrelenting. It seemed like she was always at war with that damned suit. The worse it got, the more she doubled down and worked harder to contort herself, to squash her desires and the attributes that made the suit not work. If she complained, kind people would nod and then follow up with comments about future bliss, crowns in heaven, and reminders that the suit is necessary because we don’t know what’s best for ourselves, after all. Always, she was reminded that she was the problem.
Itch…scratch…pinch…tug. Her body didn’t matter.
In rare moments there were rumblings in her community that maybe the suits were a problem. Maybe they should be altered in some way. Committees were formed and papers were written, usually ending in an acknowledgement that though the suits were problematic, change is hard and everyone must be patient. Oooooh how she bristled at this idea that she should sacrifice her life for some future hope of change.
Itch…scratch…pinch…tug. Very deep sigh.
The ill-fitting suit affected every part of her life – from marriage and the way she parented, to decisions around education, money and work. As she aged, she struggled to remember the benefits she experienced as a younger woman, and she began to question the tailor. Was he, in fact, the tailor? Why would he make the suit so painful? And was he really a he?
It was here that she began to suspect that she was NOT the problem, after all.
Itch…scratch…pinch…tug. Enough.
- Stock image via Pexels
