Worn Out.

I put my foot through my bottom sheet the other day. I wasn't even doing anything really physical, just stretching! There was this soft scritchy sound and I realized my rough heels were snagging the pillowtop.
Peeling the covers away (I needed to get up anyhow~!) I saw that there were several completely threadbare spots on my sheet. It wasn't even that long ago that I purchased them- 400 thread count queen size sheets from T.J. Maxx. You see, I was pushing Kid #2 in her baby seat... oh. Kid #2 will be seven in a few days. I guess that was a while ago...

Just now, I dried my face off on a towel and my finger went through it. Most of the towel is still pretty fluffy, but there are holes here and there, and ominous dangly strings. I sighed, remembering when I bought those. That awful shade of lavender was my favorite back then- eight years ago. I'm almost glad they're wearing out!

We drove our car off the lot- gleaming, purring, and brand spanking new. After two round trips to New York, several more to Columbus, and infinite running-around, it is starting to show its age. Things creak and groan when we drive, and there is an infernal rattle somewhere near, but not in, the glove compartment.

Things that I own are wearing out.

It happens.

When I look in the mirror, even at the tender young age of thirty, I see lines, pockmarks, puffy eyes. For the first time in my life, the skin under my chin does not spring back when I push on it. It just kind of- droops. My teeth are a mess, mostly from grinding them at night for the past twenty-five years. After three lengthy and weighty pregnancies and one car mishap, my right hip is in constant pain and my carpal tunnel is acting up again.

I am wearing out.

It happens.

Years of wear made my sheets threadbare- washing, bleaching, tossing & turning, kids jumping, wrapping around paintings while moving too often... they've seen snuggles and throw-up and passion and arguments and two children being nursed in the few moments of sleep available to a young mother. They've served their ignoble purpose, and soon they will be commissioned to my ragbag, to be replaced by something fresher and newer and probably scratchier and hopefully better fitting on my mattress (remember: T.J. Maxx)

Years of wear is making me just a little threadbare. I've also seen snuggles and throw-up and passion and arguments and nursed three children in between the few moments of sleep available to a young mother. This body has carried me across the United States a good few times, through more Renaissance Festivals than I care to remember, up a white-decked aisle, around in thousands of circles on the skating rink floor, across the Atlantic and back again, into three different maternity wards, and past countless other bodies on the face of this earth. Like my sheets, it is a bit bigger than I actually wanted, but nicer than I really thought at first. Unlike my sheets, however, it isn't going to wind up in the ragbag anytime soon. I need it for another thirty or forty years.

I went to a funeral a couple of weeks ago. It was for a dear friend of many years- Carl Vincent. He was the man that you see always in the front of church: hugging, singing, loving, comforting, teaching, encouraging. He and his dear wife operated a girl's home for nearly two decades where they served as surrogate parents to many troubled young women. When they came to the Cadillac area in the nineties, my sisters and I were confused and vulnerable young girls just beginning to enter adolescence. Carl took hold of us and adopted us as his own grandchildren. We'd only had one grandpa growing up, and his broken English and alcoholism made it hard to get to know him, much less love him.
Carl became the grandpa that we had only known in stories. He and his wife lavished affection and encouragement on us, and patiently bore our teenage phases without judgment of any kind. Plenty of other kids in and around our area were their surrogate grandchildren as well, but there was always enough love to go around.
One of my sharpest memories is of him and Bertha (his wife) telling people, over and over, "We pray for you every day." I heard that so often for myself, and many others, that it almost lost meaning. Surely no one can pray for that many people, every day! People just say that, a platitude almost: "I'm praying for you."
But then one day I was invited to their humble apartment for lunch. Bertha kindly fixed a meal according to the odd dietary requirements I had at the time, and we sat and munched and chatted amiably. They took me on a tour of the apartment- tiny as it was- and I saw something that I will never forget,
"Here's our prayer list, Sarah," Carl said, pointing at a mess on the wall near their bed, "we kneel here every morning and pray over this list." I stepped closer and saw pieces of paper taped to the wall, piece on top of piece on top of piece, all taped down with that shiny clear cellophane that yellows over time. I could see the age of some of the papers from the yellow in the tape, while others were obviously newer.
Name after name was written in crabbed handwriting on those papers. I recognized many names of people that we went to church with, but many, many more were unknown to me.
"There you are!" Bertha pointed to one of the papers, her face creasing with a smile. "So now you know it's real, we really do pray for you every day!"

Carl loved unconditionally. When he sang in church, his voice cracking with genuine emotion, everyone sat up a little straighter and listened a little harder. He would hug you without abandon, in a church of otherwise rather stiff menfolk. He could speak of his love for Jesus and allow people to see the tears in his eyes, and he could hear of some stupid thing you'd done and not like you any less for it.
When he finally died this month, at age 79, he was worn out. He was eagerly awaiting his meeting with Jesus, and not afraid of death at all. Had he been given a few more years on this earth, I am positive that he would have found extra love for more stray children.
Carl gave everything that he had. While people, including me, were snug and warm in their beds every morning, he and Bertha would crawl out- dark still permeating the landscape- and bend their aging knees and pray over dozens of names. When the list grew longer, well, they just got up earlier!

That's the kind of worn out that I want to be.

Threadbare from love.