Naturally, Politically Incorrect

I was the gal who showed up with scaffolding, ladders and paint brushes to change out the colors in fancy houses and businesses. There are many places that now have hand-crafted logos, done by my hands. What started as a mural and art business morphed into a regular-Joe-type painting trade when the downturn of 2008 changed everything we knew about "normal." Wealthy people quit opting for Renaissance-type dining rooms and started dulling down everything into neutral and updated, just in case they decided to sell, if the market ever came back. It turned into a four-or-five year grind before we saw anything ease back into hope, or at least that's what our family saw. When we look back at our Social Security reports that start coming when you hit your 50s and above, it was astonishing that we didn't starve to death. Especially during those tough days, I got kicks and giggles when I'd show up to a job (often with my young daughter, Elizabeth). I had numerous paint shirts that had scads of colors on them. The owner or contractor would look at me and ask what I was there for. I'd glance down at my shirt and say "I'm the painter." They would usually smile and tell me how unusual it was to have a woman painter. One supervisor, at a snooty university where I was hired to paint, seemed miffed that I was a woman (he said, "But you're a woman." I said "yes, and I'm the best painter you will find.") He refused my entrance to the job site until I put on an "appropriate" shirt. I asked him what was considered appropriate, since I was a painter and paint tends to get onto clothing. He said I needed a collared shirt that was clean. I left and went to a local Walmart and found an ugly, huge, collared shirt. My job was, of course, on point and there were no complaints, but I charged him for the time, the mileage, the shirt and the extra aggravation of making me start late. I looked around as I was working that day at the other contractors, who had outfits just as "dirty" as my original shirt. My only conclusion is that he was aggravated at me being a woman painter, even though that had never been a problem in my past. I am not a feminist, far from it. In fact, I think that all this goings-on about girl power and women empowerment might have done a whole lot of damage. God made us all different. We're simply not the same. I don't see but a tiny fraction of women picking up our garbage or standing on the top of skyscrapers. In my prime, I was physically stronger than any woman I knew, but an average-strength man could have still whooped me at arm wrestling. But then watch him try to birth an 11-pound baby. Not happening. God gave us gifts, some of them crossing gender roles, some not. But I say, viva la difference. 

Daddy never treated my sister and I as china dolls -- he taught us to work hard with him in the yard and garden, pushing past what we thought we could do. He also loved that we were girls and would tell us: "Be a tiger on the court but a lady off it." He liked for us to be femininely dressed on game days. I loved the idea that I could enjoy my dresses and then go all out when they threw up the game ball. 

As I age and see the beauty of the way we are made differently, it means more and more to me. I have been blessed with masculine men all around me, but the idea of masculinity being toxic has not been my experience. The men in my life are very masculine and would tear into anyone who tried to harm a woman; they also cry at births and funerals and they love their Mamas and wives, starting with my Daddy. I think of my Dad, my husband, our boys, my father-in-law and the extended men in our family. Heaven help anyone who tried to traverse that wall of heat to hurt one of us. I am lucky to have these examples around me, but I'm afraid our society has lost sight of those kinds of men and are not teaching their boys the things that matter. Wake up. We need them on that wall. I might be inviting heat when I speak these kinds of words in this culture. Some would have us believe that we are all simply the same. We are not. We are uniquely designed to fit together, physically, mentally, culturally.  

There was no dividing up of tasks...my baby brother came along much later, but learned the same work ethic. By the time he was born, my sister and I were playing ball in the front yard, digging the garden with Daddy and scrubbing toilets with Mama. We had plenty of time for play and contemplation, but everyone had to help. Many hands make light work. 

Maybe the reason I am cavalier about feminism is that I had a father who loved us so deeply, valued our femininity and at the same time taught us to work in the mud. Career wasn't job one. God, family and cooperation were. We learned lots of ways to earn and save money, but the job of raising good people with character was more important than the almighty dollar or the "appropriate" degree. When you can adapt, work, and have lots of skills, you can always find a way to survive. At the heart of this, my parents' simple and profound love of God was the meat of our existence. We looked to Him as our provider, as we labored and played through our days. Every concern or word of thanks was directed to prayer to God, day and night. He always answered, one way or another. He still does. 

In our extended family, which is now huge, this is still the Way. The diverse directions we have taken include fancy degrees, eclectic careers, homemakers, differing kinds of schooling, some extremely successful, some average, some struggling more and some less. The thread that runs through it all is the dependence on Christ, the heart that seeks and looks to Him for their answers. You will find Bibles in all these many homes, and the heart of them still runs true to the roots that grew this tree. The marriages are intact, the babies keep coming, the fields keep getting plowed and the seeds sown. We're all sinners, but saved by the grace of God and not our own goodness. Miracles still happen.