Chapter One
The Heart of a Woman
* * *
Sometimes it's hard to be a woman.
-Tammy Wynette
He saw that Fatima's eyes were filled with tears.
"You're crying?"
"I'm a woman of the desert," she said, averting her face.
"But above all, I'm a woman."
-Paulo Coelho
You belong among the wildflowers
You belong in a boat out at sea
You belong with your love on your arm
You belong somewhere you feel free.
-Tom Petty
Let's do it." Dusk was settling in. The air was cool, fragrant
with pine and sage, and the swiftly moving river beckoned. We were
camping in the Tetons, and it so happened that our canoe was on top
of the car. "Let's put in." John looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
In less than twenty minutes night would be upon us and the river
and the woods. All would be pitch black. We'd be on the river, alone,
with only a general idea of which way to go (down), where to take
out (head for the road), and a long walk back to the car. Who knew
what dangers lay out there? He looked again at me, looked at our
young sons, and then said, "Okay!" We sprang into action.
The evening was stunning. The river's graceful movements
caused the water's colors to shift from cobalt to silver to black. No
other person was in sight. We had Oxbow Bend to ourselves. In
record time we had the canoe in the river; life vests securely fastened,
paddles at the ready, boys installed, and off we went, a race
to drink as deeply of as much beauty as possible, together.
An old wooden bridge hung low across the river, its broken
remains looked as though they would collapse at the next strong
breeze. We had to duck to pass underneath. Carefully, we navigated
the winding channels of the Snake-John in back, me in front, our
three boys in between, full of wonder and delight. As the stars began
to come out, we were like the children present at the creation of
Narnia-the sky so clear, the stars so close. We held our breath as
one fell slowly, slowly across the sky and disappeared.
A beaver slapped the river, the sound like a rifle shot, frightening
two ducks into flight, but all we could see between the darkened
water and sky were the white ripples of their wake, like synchronized
water-skiers. Owls began their nightly calls in the woods
above, joined by sandhill cranes along the shore. The sounds were
familiar, yet otherworldly. We whispered to one another about each
new wonder, as the paddles dipped almost but not quite silently in
and out of the water.
Night fell. Time to take out. We planned to go ashore along a
cove closest to the road so we wouldn't have to walk too far to find
our car. We didn't dare try to take out where we had put in . that
would require paddling against the current with little ability to see
where we were going.
As we drifted toward the bank, a bull moose rose from the tall
grasses, exactly where we had planned to come ashore. He was as
dark as the night; we could see him only because he was silhouetted
against the sky, jagged mountains behind. He was huge. He was
gorgeous. He was in the way. Blocking the only exit we had. More
people are killed in national parks by moose than by any other animal.
Remarkable speed, seventeen hundred pounds of muscle and
antlers, and total unpredictability make them dangerous indeed. It
would take about two seconds for him to hit the water running and
capsize our canoe. We could not pass.
The mood changed. John and I were worried now. There was
only one alternative to this way out, now closed to us, and that was
paddling back upriver in what had become total darkness. Silently,
soberly, we turned the canoe and headed up, searching for the right
channel that would keep us out of the main current. We hadn't
planned on the adventure taking that turn, but suddenly, everything
was required. John must steer with skill; I must paddle with
strength. One mistake on our part and the strong current would
force the canoe broadside, fill it, and sweep our boys off downriver
into the night.
It was glorious.
We did it. He did. I did. We rose to the challenge working
together, and the fact that it required all of me, that I was in it with
my family and for my family, that I was surrounded by wild, shimmering
beauty and it was, well, kind of dangerous made the time .
transcendent. I was no longer Stasi. I was Sacagawea, Indian
Princess of the West, a valiant and strong woman.
A Woman's Journey
Then the time came when the risk it took
To remain tight in a bud was more painful
Than the risk it took to blossom.
-Anais Nin
I'm trying to remember when I first knew in my heart that I was no
longer a girl, but had become a woman. Was it when I graduated
from high school, or college? Did I know it when I married? When
I became a mother? I am forty-five years old as I write this, but there
remain places in my heart that still feel so very young. As I think
back on what would be considered rites of passage in my life, I
understand why my journey has felt so unguided, uncertain. The
day I started my period, my family embarrassed me at the dinner
table by breaking out in song, "This girl is a woman, now ."
Hmmmm. I didn't feel any different. All I felt was mortified that
they knew. I stared at my plate, suddenly fascinated by corn.
The day I got my first bra, a training bra, the kind with stretchy
material over the front, one of my sisters pulled me into the hallway
where, to my horror, my father stood at the ready to take my picture.
They said I would laugh about it later. (I haven't.) Like so many other
women I was left alone to navigate my way through adolescence,
through my changing and awakening body, a picture of my changing
and awakening heart. No counsel was given for the journey into
womanhood. I was encouraged, however, to eat less. My father pulled
me aside and told me, "No boy will love you if you're fat."
I joined the feminist movement in college, searching, as so
many women did in the '70s, for a sense of self. I actually became
director of the Women's Resource Center at a liberal state university
in California. But no matter how much I asserted my strength and
independence as a woman ("hear me roar"), my heart as a woman
remained empty. To be told when you are young and searching that
"you can be anything" is not helpful. It's too vast. It gives no direction.
To be told when you are older that "you can do anything a
man can do" isn't helpful, either. I didn't want to be a man. What
does it mean to be a woman?
And as for romance, I stumbled through that mysterious terrain
with only movies and music as a guide. Like so many women I
know, I struggled alone through the mess of several broken hearts.
My last year in college, I fell in love for real, and this young man
truly loved me back. John and I dated for two and a half years and
then became engaged. As we made wedding plans, my mother gave
me a rare bit of counsel, in this case, her marriage advice. It was
twofold. First, love flies out the window when there's no pork chop
on the table. And second, always keep your kitchen floor clean; it
makes the whole house look better. I caught her drift. Namely, that
my new position as "wife" centered in the kitchen, making the pork
chops and cleaning up after them.
I somehow believed that upon saying, "I do," I would be magically
transformed into Betty Crocker. I imagined myself baking
fresh bread, looking flushed and beautiful as I removed the steaming
loaves from the oven. No matter that I hadn't cooked but five
meals in my entire life, I set about preparing dinners, breakfasts
even, with determination and zeal. After two weeks of this, I lay on
the couch despondent, announcing that I didn't know what was for
dinner and that John was on his own. Besides, the kitchen floor was
dirty. I had failed.
My story is like most women's stories-we've received all sorts
of messages but very little help in what it means to become a
woman. As one young woman recently wrote us,
I remember when I was ten asking myself as well as older females
in my life how a woman of God could actually be confident,
scandalous and beautiful, yet not portray herself as a feminist
Nazi or an insecure I-need-attention emotional whore. How can
I become a strong woman without becoming harsh? How can I
be vulnerable without drowning myself in my sorrow?
There seems to be a growing number of books on the masculine
journey-rites of passage, initiations, and the like-many of them
helpful. But there has been precious little wisdom offered on the
path to becoming a woman. Oh, we know the expectations that have
been laid upon us by our families, our churches, and our cultures.
There are reams of materials on what you ought to do to be a good
woman. But that is not the same thing as knowing what the journey
toward becoming a woman involves, or even what the goal
really should be.
The church has not been a big help here. No, that's not quite
honest enough. The church has been part of the problem. Its message
to women has been primarily "you are here to serve. That's
why God created you: to serve. In the nursery, in the kitchen, on
the various committees, in your home, in your community."
Seriously now-picture the women we hold up as models of femininity
in the church. They are sweet, they are helpful, their hair is
coiffed; they are busy, they are disciplined, they are composed, and
they are tired.
Think about the women you meet at church. They're trying to
live up to some model of femininity. What do they "teach" you
about being a woman? What are they saying to us through their
lives? Like we said, you'd have to conclude that a godly woman is
. tired. And guilty. We're all living in the shadow of that infamous
icon, "The Proverbs 31 Woman," whose life is so busy I wonder,
when does she have time for friendships, for taking walks, or reading
good books? Her light never goes out at night? When does she
have sex? Somehow she has sanctified the shame most women live
under, biblical proof that yet again we don't measure up. Is that supposed
to be godly-that sense that you are a failure as a woman?
Unseen, Unsought, and Uncertain
I know I am not alone in this nagging sense of failing to measure up,
a feeling of not being good enough as a woman. Every woman I've
ever met feels it-something deeper than just the sense of failing at
what she does. An underlying, gut feeling of failing at who she is. I
am not enough, and, I am too much at the same time. Not pretty
enough, not thin enough, not kind enough, not gracious enough,
not disciplined enough. But too emotional, too needy, too sensitive,
too strong, too opinionated, too messy. The result is Shame, the universal
companion of women. It haunts us, nipping at our heels, feeding
on our deepest fear that we will end up abandoned and alone.
After all, if we were better women-whatever that means-life
wouldn't be so hard. Right? We wouldn't have so many struggles;
there would be less sorrow in our hearts. Why is it so hard to create
meaningful friendships and sustain them? Why do our days seem so
unimportant, filled not with romance and adventure but with
duties and demands? We feel unseen, even by those who are closest
to us. We feel unsought-that no one has the passion or the courage
to pursue us, to get past our messiness to find the woman deep
inside. And we feel uncertain-uncertain what it even means to be
a woman; uncertain what it truly means to be feminine; uncertain
if we are or ever will be.
Aware of our deep failings, we pour contempt on our own
hearts for wanting more. Oh, we long for intimacy and for adventure;
we long to be the Beauty of some great story. But the desires
set deep in our hearts seem like a luxury, granted only to those
women who get their acts together. The message to the rest of us-whether
from a driven culture or a driven church-is try harder.
The Heart of a Woman
And in all the exhortations we have missed the most important
thing of all. We have missed the heart of a woman.
And that is not a wise thing to do, for as the Scriptures tell us,
the heart is central. "Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the
wellspring of life" (Prov. 4:23). Above all else. Why? Because God
knows that our heart is core to who we are. It is the source of all our
creativity, our courage, and our convictions. It is the fountainhead of
our faith, our hope, and of course, our love. This "wellspring of life"
within us is the very essence of our existence, the center of our being.
Your heart as a woman is the most important thing about you.
Think about it: God created you as a woman. "God created
man in his own image . male and female he created them" (Gen.
1:27). Whatever it means to bear God's image, you do so as a
woman. Female. That's how and where you bear his image. Your
feminine heart has been created with the greatest of all possible
dignities-as a reflection of God's own heart. You are a woman to
your soul, to the very core of your being. And so the journey to discover
what God meant when he created woman in his image-when
he created you as his woman-that journey begins with
your heart. Another way of saying this is that the journey begins
with desire.
Look at the games that little girls play, and if you can, remember
what you dreamed of as a little girl. Look at the movies women love.
Listen to your own heart and the hearts of the women you know.
What is it that a woman wants? What does she dream of? Think
again of women like Tamar, Ruth, Rahab-not very "churchy"
women, but women held up for esteem in the Bible. We think you'll
find that every woman in her heart of hearts longs for three things: to
be romanced, to play an irreplaceable role in a great adventure, and
to unveil beauty. That's what makes a woman come alive.
To Be Romanced
I will find you.
No matter how long it takes, no matter how far-I will find you.
-Nathaniel to Cora in The Last of the Mohicans
One of my favorite games growing up was "kidnapped and rescued."
I know many little girls who played this-or wished they
had. To be the beauty, abducted by the bad guys, fought for and rescued
by a hero-some version of this had a place in all our dreams.
Like Sleeping Beauty, like Cinderella, like Maid Marian, or like
Cora in The Last of the Mohicans, I wanted to be the heroine and
have my hero come for me. Why am I embarrassed to tell you this?
I simply loved feeling wanted and fought for. This desire is set deep
in the heart of every little girl-and every woman. Yet most of us
are ashamed of it. We downplay it. We pretend that it is less than it
is. We are women of the twenty-first century after all-strong, independent,
and capable, thank you very much. Uh-huh . and
who is buying all those romance novels?
Think about the movies you once loved, and the movies you
love now. Is there a movie for little girls that doesn't have a handsome
prince coming to rescue his beloved? Sleeping Beauty, Snow
White, The Little Mermaid. A little girl longs for romance, to be
seen and desired, to be sought after and fought for. So the Beast
must win Beauty's heart in Beauty and the Beast. So in the gazebo
scene in The Sound of Music, the Captain finally declares his love to
Maria by moonlight and song and then, a kiss. And we sigh.
Isn't something stirred in you when Edward, finally, returns at
the end of Sense and Sensibility to proclaim his love for Elinor?
"Then . you're not . not married?" she asks, nearly holding her
breath. "No," he says. "My heart is . and always will be .
yours." Or how about when Friedrich returns for Jo at the end ofLittle Women? Or the sunset scene at the bow of the Titanic? And
we can't forget Braveheart, how William Wallace pursued Murron
with flowers and notes and invitations to ride. She is captured by
his love, riding off bareback with him in the rain. (Come now.
Wouldn't you want to ride through the Scottish Highlands with a
man like Mel Gibson?)
When John and I began to "date," I had just come out of a
three-year relationship that left me wounded, defensive, and gunshy.
John and I had been friends for many years, but we never
seemed to connect in the romance department. I would like him,
and he would want to remain "just friends." He would feel more for
me and I would not for him. You get the picture. Until one autumn
after he had become a Christian, and I was desperately seeking, our
spiritual journeys, and the desires of our hearts, finally met.
(Continues.)
