grieving in chiaroscuro

I have recently been struck by how weird my life is (and you say, took you that long, did it?). Within twenty minutes of each other, I have read some more of Henri Nouwen's life-changing book The Return of the Prodigal Son, and this week's Us magazine (which has been polluting our mailbox for weeks since our favorite movie magazine went belly-up). Here are some excerpts:

Marilyn VS Courtney: Courtney Love, 43, should stick to her New Year's resolution of "no more surgery," according to Marilyn Manson, 38. "With more surgery, she could even play Yoko Ono," he dissed to the New York Post..."All I care about is that my self-esteem is limitless," [Love] has blogged.

Our human brokenness can be acted out in many ways, but there is no offense, crime, or war that does not have its seeds in our own hearts...

Laura Day, 48, practices practical intuition, which she explains as "intuition you can prove or disprove. I train people to make a wish and create it in your life while learning how to be intuitive."

It might sound strange to consider grief a way to compassion. But it is. Grief asks me to allow the sins of the world--my own included--to pierce my heart and make me shed tears, many tears, for them...This grieving is praying. There are so few mourners left in this world. But grief is the discipline of the heart that sees the sin of the world, and knows itself to be the sorrowful price of freedom without which love cannot bloom. I am beginning to see that much of praying is grieving. This grief is so deep not just because human sin is so great, but also--and more so--because the divine love is so boundless. To become like the Father whose only authority is compassion, I have to shed countless tears and so prepare my heart to receive anyone, whatever their journey has been, and forgive them from that heart.

"I pick where I want the highlights!" Ashlee Simpson (who spent eight hours at Ken Paves' Beverly Hills Salon) tells Us.

Naturally, I am feeling a bit schizo. It's not just today, but I think ever since we started getting the magazine (and getting=reading for me) I've felt a much more extreme disconnect than I usually experience. I'm used to feeling like an outsider, and have so many parts of my life that don't mesh with the stereotypes--suburban mom, artist, Christian, crochet maven, teacher--all of these have associations with them that have little or nothing to do with my own experiences and interests. But this outsider feeling can be quite evil.

Mostly I have an unhealthy pride in the weirdness, as if I could and should look down on those brutally normal, one-dimensional simpletons who believe The Da Vinci Code is historical fiction and Fast Times at Ridgemont High is a straight-up comedy. For whom once-weekly spa visits and regular plastic surgery are basic human rights, without which happiness is unattainable. Whose kids are enrolled in every fast-track structured activity, and the biggest dilemma is whether to get the organic tomatoes over the farmer's market ones. All this disdain, as if I had not been just as popular and shallow and spiritually bankrupt as any cheerleader in high school. More so, in fact, and I have the tiara to prove it.

Even that tiara is proof of the weirdness, though, the push and pull of very conflicting impulses that have followed me since childhood. On one hand is creativity through my art, an insatiable appetite for 19th century literature, a thirst for spiritual depth and connection to God, a heart broken for people in hopeless situations, a desire to be a good wife and mother through self-sacrifice and unconditional love. On the other is greed, a materialistic hunger to buy and hoard everything (especially yarn), a desire to be a toned bombshell diva (or at least a "hot mom") without having to exercise or eat less, and be recognized as exceptionally brilliant, professional, and authoritative. To be famous, live in New York, and literally look down on everyone from my luxurious loft.

I know now from experience how much emptiness that self-focus engenders. I've felt like crap about myself when I see Us musing about whether a paper-thin star whose tunic blouses in the middle is pregnant, shudder inwardly when I see that the bag I am hankering for could pay for the care and feeding of ten children through Compassion for a month. I spent several hours at a salon a few weeks ago, and left feeling horrible. Not only was it painfully obvious to me and the women there that the last time I had any of their services was, um, never, I felt as if I had simultaneously insulted the frivolousness of their profession and also desperately needed the products they suggested to be a better person. I spent the last couple of weeks trying to maintain unbitten nails, unchipped toenail polish, and not use plain soap to wash my face. For whom? For the paparazzi who will never darken my doorstep? For the manicurist who will surely never see my abused nails again? For elementary-school students and Sunday school attendees? For my poor pores? I couldn't tell you.

D had thought it was just because I don't like to be made a fuss over that I had been so uncomfortable there. Nice sentiment, but it really gives me too much credit. No, I unfortunately have no qualms about people serving me, but I do feel deeply uneasy when people see areas I am sensitive about, and confirm my suspicions that they are indeed horribly ugly. No one said the word "ugly" when I was there, but I read it in every pitying glance and product suggestion, just as clearly as the dental tech when she says, "You know, you really should floss every day..."

The remedy for these low feelings, I know, is simple: Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things (Philippians 4:8). And to burn every copy of Us magazine that comes through the mail slot.