Chapter 3 ~ Becoming a Woman

I grew up surrounded by "proper" woman. They wore nylon's, slips or petty-coats and "vormdrag" (such as step-ins and wired underthings.) They donned hats for church, had their coifs coiffed at the salon for high days, and kept at least two pairs of soft gloves in the wardrobe. They had embroidered handkerchiefs, tucked into neat and stylish handbags. (Unlike the bottomless hold-all that I prefer). They wore low-heeled leather pumps or sensible shoes for house-wear. They did not take strong liquor except for dainty spoon fulls of homemade "advocaat" (Dutch eggnog - much like a rich creamy brandy custard). They did not wear make-up except for face-powder. The scent of talcum powder still takes me back to Sunday mornings in the church pew, surrounded by powdery ladies and Brylcreemed, cologned gentlemen. A woman did not wear the pants and generally no pants, slacks or jeans either. The marks that the passage of time left on them were accepted, and little or no attempt needed to be made to hide it.

Earlier today, while I was wiping the kitchen table, I noticed once again the tell-tale marks embedded in the wood. I traced them with my finger, remembering. There are some small half-moons made by our firstborn, where he used to sit in his feeding chair beating out a rythm on the table with his bowl, singing at the top of his voice. All curls and dimples and sweetness. A mark were a hot iron pot was dumped in haste as I slid on a toy car on the floor... I could sand and oil them away. But they are mementos of precious moments in time. Lending character. Making our old table unique.

These woman of my childhood days, did not have the luxury nor inclination to hide the marks of a hard but rich life. Theirs was a closed world of  mysterious workings. And not at all as boring or limited as it may sound. There was just a definite divide, and most (if not all) woman felt safe in it.

Much has been said about womanhood and femininity. The arrival of a girl's first menstrual cycle used to be celebrated as the physical "rite of passage" into womanhood. But no one has ever been able to capture when the "crossing over" actually takes place. Probably simply because it is so gradual, and not necessarily something which merely takes place in the body. Rather intended as a gentle awakening and awareness. It is so sad to see little girls dressed in woman's clothes with knowing eyes.  A woman’s distinctive, unique and captivating female person-hood is not incidental, it is a Godly design. For a Godly purpose.

Somewhere in my childhood, I had come to the conclusion that the curse(s) in the garden of Eden was the woman's burden. Her fault. She allowed herself to be beguiled by the serpent, then enticed her man to become an accomplice in the deceit. I imagined it must have been her muliebrity which caused the fall of man. In retrospect, it seems that some of the confusion about my own femininity stemmed from the fact that I did not realise that I (like Eve), had a Godly purpose as a woman. Regardless of her (and my) foolish disobedience.

The vulnerability that I so guarded and suppressed, was the one thing I had to embrace, to be able to surrender to that gentle strength, which can only flow from a soft core.

BECOMING A WOMAN

"Because of your great compassion you did not abandon them (me) in the wilderness."(Nehemiah 9:19)

I finally overcame the desire to control my weight and appearance after I was given a second chance at love and marriage. I felt totally accepted, admired and adored and I did not want to taint it in any way. At the time, it felt as if some part of me had been “unlocked” and I stepped over the cliff, happily falling in love with love and with the man whom I thought was the answer to all my doubts and longings.

It was during this sweet time that I came to a deeper understanding of what it feels like to be completely content with being feminine. Vulnerable. Soft. I had become so proud of being “tough”.

Prior to this, I had been living on my own for about four years and had taught myself (as far as possible), not to depend on anyone. I had two wonderfully goofy Dalmatian dogs as companions - emotionally undemanding and uncomplicated. My tough act probably scared away quite a few pre-arranged and well-meaning "suitors". But I distinctly disliked the idea of being “set up”.

Even though my relationship with God was sporadic at the time, I knew that He would choose a life partner and friend for me when the time was right. Rather than just someone to "do" life and be seen with.

I realise now that even if I did appear to have a relationship with God at that point, it was based on a sense of duty and a need for meaning in my life. Much like the yoga classes I attended, and the belly dance lessons that made me feel beautiful and sensual. Daily bible reading and prayer gave substance to each day. It was something to cling to, but it was not based on total acknowledgement of what was sacrificed for me at the cross. I did not know Jesus as my Saviour, the true lover of my heart. All roads do not lead to Rome as the "older" people liked to say. Even though the saying is based on the fact that the early Roman Empire’s excellent road system radiated from the capital like the spokes of a wheel, I came to a clear understanding that this is not the case with the Kingdom of Heaven.

I used to sit very serenely with my legs crossed in the lotus position; listening to how the system of Karma and reincarnation was used to explain the suffering in the world, even by some who claimed to be Christians. My heart knew that I had this one life to live as a woman with a purpose, but I was not quite sure how.

Over the years, I leaned towards so many deceptions myself, that I cannot even remember which I favoured when. The one thing that I have often heard people say who used to be “marginal” Christians, (but came to be saved through Jesus much later in life), is: “I wish I had not not waited so long”. This would be my own regret too – only, I realised that there was a path I had to walk.

As a result of these times in "the wilderness", I received more compassion and understanding for others who have to go through similar trials or have strayed into a wilderness of their own.

And then there was the sweet promise of becoming a bride...

My beloved spoke and said to me, “Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, come with me." (Song of Solomon 2:10)

Some years before meeting my second husband, I joined a Vineyard fellowship on invitation of a very dear friend and mentor at the time. I was not sure what to expect. My Reformed background and brush with the Methodist church had left me with a fairly solid basis, but it lacked heart (or maybe I did), and I had stopped attending formal church for many years.

The first thing that stood out from that Vineyard gathering was its informality. People laughed out loud and little ones ran unchecked between the chairs while we sang. I was used to hushed, structured and predictable gatherings. People nodded their greetings and peppermints were dolled out to stop you from coughing or nodding off; (although this did not work on everyone..).

The young preacher was amusing and had a passion for the gospel. The second surprise came from the message at that first Sunday meeting – “We are saved into community” (“And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.” – Heb 10:24-25).

It pointed out the error of my own comfortable philosophy. I had convinced myself that I did not need a church or a fellowship of believers to draw near to, to authenticate my walk with God.

A turning point for me, was when the young pastor fixed a tape line on the wooden floor of the school hall which was their meeting place. (He was rather fond of using props in his sermons.) This was to represent the dividing line between the old and the new. We were encouraged to come forward if we had “old lives” which we wished to leave behind, and wanted to step into a new live with Christ.

I felt a pull to go to the front, but at the same time a leaden weight in my legs which prevented me from doing so. My friend gently put her hand on mine and the weight lifted. I walked gingerly to the front, and with a few others from the small fellowship, stepped over the imaginary dividing line, vowing in my heart never to look back. This proved harder than I imagined at the time, but a seal had been placed over my heart and I felt new hope, and a sweetness in my spirit.

A few months later, at a social gathering of this Vineyard family, the same young pastor walked over to where I sat, my mouth full of chocolate cake and a mug of steaming coffee burning a ring on my knee. He knelt down in front of my chair. My face started burning like the hot spot on my knee. It was an awkward moment. Especially, since the pastor was a married man. And a very young married man indeed!

He was obviously feeling as awkward as I, but he had a message to give me, so regardless of his uncharacteristic moment of “shyness”, he took my hand (still sticky with icing) and announced: “Maria, you are a beautiful woman and you are very ready to be married...” I cannot quite recall my response. I remember feeling flattered, confused, a little exited, but also quite apprehensive. I’m pretty sure I was itching to ask: “But who?”, but thought it best not to...

Looking back, I can see that the real meaning of this encounter, apart from alluding to my readiness to trust another man into my life, was that I was ready to accept Jesus as my bridegroom; and enter into a bridal love and relationship with Him. But I was too focused on my single state, which was by then starting to feel very empty.

From that day on I would view just about every man who came into my company as a potential husband. In hindsight it was actually quite funny. We all know how a desperate woman (or man), seems to flash a large warning light to the opposite sex. My two closest friends at the time set out on a search for “the man”. After a disastrous attempt at partnering me with a Slavic doctor (a bit of a "dark horse"), who seemed to think the way to a woman’s heart was through the bottom of a wine bottle, my sister in law stepped in. A work colleague of hers was volunteered. In a rather broken English, he tried to impress on me the intricacies of marketing photo-copiers through analysis of the human spirit, over a plate of pasta and more wine... Just as disastrous. After that my own sister stepped in, and a Roman Catholic vestment maker entered the scene. He was the most favourable of the candidates up to date, and my interest was piqued (and the flashing warning sign activated I imagine). Everyone thought he was a gentle soul, a poet, a man in touch with his feminine side... But he was clearly not interested in me. I was invited to poetry evenings, (which the handsome maker of liturgical garments obviously also attended). I even managed to impress everyone with two of my own profound poems, (or so I thought at the time). The poetry was rather stirring, but my hopeful heart was left wanting.

When I finally realised that he was definitely not the man for me, I settled on being content with my life, unwedded, uncomplicated and nonthreatening as it was. Thus, another chapter opened. I realised that I had lost perspective and forgot to trust God with every detail of my life. That included waiting on Him to bring the right man and husband into my life.

But as is often the case when we become too content or comfortable, my serene little boat sailed right into the rapids and I was caught, sails down, quite unprepared...