Picture a lobster. No, not in that
slimy tank at Red Lobster, rubber-banded and sulking as they wait to
be overcooked. Picture the boat and the sunburned fisherman and
jumble of slick, speckled, scissor-clawed beasts lifted high above the
water in a dripping net. Before they are boiled to turn the color of
my skin after a day at the pool, those lobster ladies are one
beautiful, fighting, swaggering piece of work.
But when it comes time to mate, they
are even more impressive. First, the girl approaches a male's lair
and sends in some pheromones (through, ahem, a liquid. Yup, she is
peeing him to love. But let's focus here). The guy goes crazy,
fanning his tail so the scent permeates his whole lair. He wants to
be permeated by her. He pursues her, big and strong and splendid, and
she decides – contemplates – mulls the choice. Because of the
gravity of what she will have to do. Because if she decides to mate,
she will need to shed her shell and be utterly defenseless. To leave
would be far easier, so sometimes that is what she does. Shell-on,
she takes off.
But. If she decides to take the plunge,
she tells this to him by resting her mighty claws on his head. I
could hurt you, but I won't, she says in her lobstery way. Don't hurt me. And
she molts her final defense, that beautiful silvery speckled shell.
He could eat her if he wanted – ruin the vulnerability of true HER,
but he doesn't. He cradles her, protects her tearable flesh. In his
crustacean way, he loves her. He completes her.
Now, I
am going on a limb here, but I am seeing some striking parallels. I,
too, am speckled, walk a little bandy-legged, and rely all too much
on my prickly shell and on what I
alone can do. And while
this relates almost wholesale into how I see marriage and true
love – real
molted-shell love that
involves standing so
stripped down that the other could destroy you if they wanted, but
they complete you instead – but that is not what made me think about
lobster love today. It was the story of Abraham and Isaac.
We are
on vacation, and Vacation Sundays are “Home Church Sundays” even
though we are not at home at all. Sitting on camp chairs, smelling of
wood smoke and sunscreen, me braiding Ellies's hair, Will retold the
story of God asking Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. To recap – Isaac
was born when Abraham and Sarah were one hundred and ninety,
respectively. It was fairly evident in their decrepitude that Isaac
was a gift directly from God. And when he had been celebrated,
coddled, rocked to sleep and kissed for several years, God asked
Abraham to sacrifice him.
At this point, Luke says, “This story is
about how much Abraham loves Isaac.” Mother-me thinks, yes,
yes, yes. I could never do it. Don't ask me to do it. Why would you
put him to such an awful test.
Ellie
shakes her head. “No, it isn't.” she says. “God is asking
Abraham how much he trusts Him.” GodFollower-Me, Woman-me,
Crustacean-me thinks, Wow.
Because God is
leading Abraham through a fairly simple exercise:
God: What are you
relying on? Where is your confidence?
A: My confidence is in my legacy –
have you seen my son? He's gorgeous. So muscled, that curly hair.
He's perfect.
God: Where did you
get this son?
A: Um. You.
God: Do you trust
me enough to give up what I've given you? Do you trust that
when you've been stripped of what gives you courage, I will be enough
for you? That I will complete you?
A: <deep breath> Yes.
God: Let's see.
God asked me to
give up something recently. If I tell you, it will sound silly, so
you can let your imagination run riot. Let me just say – my word,
it was starting to DEFINE me. It was starting to put shapes around me
that were different than the shape I usually am: pizza-baker, gardener,
teacher, band-aid applier.
Things started
going crooked, and God said: What are you relying on? Where is your
confidence?
Lobster Girl: This THING! I love how it
makes me feel! I love doing it!
God: Where did you get this thing?
Lobster Girl: Um.
God: Do you trust me enough to take off
the shell of talent and connections and ideas and how you define
yourself? Will you give yourself to me, stripped of how you define YOU? Will I be
enough for you?
Lobster Girl: What about Abraham? You
gave his dream back to him. Will you give my dream back to me?
God: That's was his story. Don't you
want to see how your own story will turn out?
There are a lot of words for this act
that look at it from different angles.
Surrender.
Sacrifice.
Submission.
Worship.
Right now I prefer molting.
Because
that is how I picture myself right now: shimmying out of my
sculptural, glossy, hard-as-nails shell and standing
vulnerable/waiting/open/loveable/open-handed/teachable before my
Story Writer. And I finally reply:
Yes.
I want to see how my story turns out. Show me.
