My friends all laugh when they peer into my closet, because I own enough scarves to make a parachute, enough dresses to host a small prom, and enough shoes to put TOMS out of business. If you take a look at my wardrobe sometime, it's difficult to tell where it all begins or where it ends. I suppose clothes have just always fascinated me. It isn't vanity, no, but rather my appreciation for the aesthetic appeal of a good outfit. Vintage or new, designer or thrift, bargain or splurge, the colors, the fibers, the design, the patterns; they just attract me. So blame it on my womanhood when I tell you this, but I can easily recall almost any memory by an outfit. In fact, I can tell you the exactly what outfit I was wearing when I wet my pants on letter "K" of the alphabet carpet in Kindergarten, or the one I wore when I graduated from the sixth grade. I remember the outfit I wore as a kid when my family visited Chicago's Navy Pier, the same day that my sister and I ran through the fountain. I remember what I wore on my first date, and what I wore the day I had my heart broken. I remember my outfit when my brother left for college, and eventually the one I wore when I myself left home college-bound. Looking back on my life, I'm able to recall what clothes I had on when I was informed of my mother's cancer, my cousin's birth, my good friend's death, and my grandmother's passing.
I can remember every outfit from my earrings to my shoes.
But those outfits are simply gateways to my memories. A visual. I see those outfits when I touch upon those events that shaped my life, but then the emotions that were once evoked in me resurface. My green corduroy jumper and white tights were nothing compared to the embarrassment that I wore after "leaking", as my kindergarten teacher so creatively called it. My black sweater and black-and-white flowered skirt couldn't cover up my sense of accomplishment after finishing elementary school. My denim shorts and yellow shirt were covered in relief from the cool Chicago fountain on that blazing July day. My confident navy blue shirt and white lace skirt failed to conceal my hopeful shyness on my first date. On my last date, my delicate light blue sundress only enhanced my fragility when I was hit forcefully with the realization that I cared for someone more than he would ever care for me. The day my brother moved out, my comfortable pajama pants were a reflection of the safety that I still had access to in a way he no longer did. And when I finally moved out, my eager Hope College tee-shirt spoke volumes about my excitement for higher education and new-found independence. I wore worry and a turquoise shirt when I found out about my mom's cancer. I wore a pink dress and a smile when I found out my cousin was born. I wore my tennis uniform and an immense amount of pain when I heard that Jon had taken his own life, and I wore a grand sense of loss beneath a floral bathing suit when I heard my grandmother had died. I wore those emotions with a presence greater than the clothes on my back.
So. I have an extensive wardrobe. Extremely. Extensive.
I've worn joy in the day brighter than I deserve to. I've worn despair at night when the brightness of joy seemed unreachable. I've worn love as boldly as I possibly know how, wearing shame and pain after that boldness fades away. I've worn the crimson hues of anger and the tranquil blues of peace. I've put on the wrinkled items of confusion and worry. I've worn strength quietly when confronted with daily trials, and I've worn it loudly when circumstance attempts to create my demise. I've worn beauty when life's ugliness begins to surface, and humility when dealt a good hand. You see, these emotions, these experiences, these pieces of my past, these "outfits", attractive or horrid; they are granted to me by a God with the greatest sense of design in history. For where there is pain, it is paired with rebirth. Sadness is lined with contentment. Indifference is stitched tightly with passion. Above all, everything hateful, fearful, tainted or broken in this world is woven with a love that surpasses our mortal comprehension. Like my closet, this wardrobe proves difficult to tell where it begins and where it ends. My only prayer, though, is that my wardrobe continues to grow, for He is a God who never fails to make everything fit perfectly.
