the sixth language of love

My appreciation for personality quizzes began fifteen years ago when a counselor friend had me take the Myers-Brigg test. She told me it was all in good fun, but, as a pal and co-worker of my husband, I'm sure she was concerned. We were in a bad way at the time, you see.

I stopped by her office to pick up the results which, to my surprise, she had sealed up in a very official manner. While sliding the manila envelope across her desk, she announced, "Well! Turns out, you're an INFP." She seemed terrified and quite pleased all at the same time, like a scientist who has discovered a deadly new germ. "INFP," she continued. "That's a very rare combo." I think she actually recoiled at this point. She definitely rolled her chair back an inch or two. I could have sworn she was simultaneously issuing a silent "code red" signal, pressing the hidden button under her desk.

Returning home I read the results, announcing to my empty studio, "Yup, that's me!" The assessment was right on target, which was comforting. I remember thinking, Well, I may be odd, but at least I can be qualified; ergo, I do fit into the human race, after all! Rare for sure, but not alone.

Lots has happened since then. Jesus saved my sorry self, for one thing, replacing fear and misery with joy and hope. Now my life has purpose. As a result, I receive tons of training for various ministries, all geared toward understanding people—communication skills, the basic tenets of counseling, etc. Between the training and new friends with similar interests, I am exposed to several other cool tests, including Dr. John Geier's DiSC (based on the work of psychologist William Moulton Marston), Laurie Beth Jones' excellent Path Elements Profile, and Dr. Gary Chapman's Five Love Languages. According to DiSC, at a glance, I am high 'I'. (When I take the test though, I'm all over the place, a perfect blend of all 4 qualifiers.) The lovely Laurie Beth Jones' PEP assessment classifies me as fire—surprising, but I'll gladly take it. Words of Affirmation is my love language. That makes sense, for a word-lover like me.

The various explanations of all my test results seem accurate. This is slightly mystifying, as I find many of the questions difficult to answer. I'm always thinking, Well, instinctively I'd do this, but over time I've learned to do that. If the question asks how I behave in a group, I want to know, Who is in the group? Because, depending on the answer to that crucial question, I'm either gonna be totally stressed out sitting on that couch wishing invisibility, or buzzing around happily chatting up a storm. I also need to know, Am I an invited guest, or the hostess? Is this a morning or evening affair? What is on the menu? Is there a dress code? And, by the way, where are we? If this is a beach barbecue, I'm gonna be the odd (wo)man out. People universally seem to adore beach barbecues, but not me. I hate them. If this is a beach barbecue situation, I'm definitely gonna be checking my watch.

Apparently the creators of the tests gear them to soar high above our various quirks and neuroses.

I recently retake the Myers-Brigg and Love Languages tests, just to see if I've changed at all in the years since I originally took them. I'm still an INFP, which is fine. Words of Affirmation wins out as my Love Language again, but only by a single point, with three others bunched up immediately behind. My husband Fred agrees to have his Love Language tested as well. His results are similar, with four of the five languages vying for the top spot. Physical Touch leads by a hair, though, a fact I tuck away in my mental Note-To-Self file. I'm telling you, this stuff is good to know! Very helpful.

If Dr. Chapman ever introduces a sixth Love Language—humor—we'll both claim it by a long shot. My husband is a self-proclaimed Funny Guy, you see, and as for me, my best friends have always been hilarious. I gravitate toward funny people, and Fred is no exception. I was immediately smitten not only by his big ol' handsome physical self, but by his wit, which ranges from "rapier" to "utterly sophomoric." I'm sort of the straight (wo)man in our house, as I have been in most of my friendships. I'm not particularly funny, but I really, really love to laugh. It's as if God designed me to bring out the funny in other people, for my own entertainment. What can I say. It's a gift. In all seriousness, though, humor is extremely important in our relationship. It takes the edge off. Attempts to make one another laugh are, most definitely, gestures of love.

After a long period of darkness, in recent years, laughter has returned to our marriage. Fred was the first to mention it, although I had already noticed. He makes me laugh so hard, sometimes, I can't stop. It's the classic snowball rolling down a hill, getting bigger as it rolls. And I thank God for it, every time.

He will yet fill your mouth with laughter and your lips with shouts of joy. ~ Job 8:21

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the headshot

A few days ago I get a note from an editor at Minnesota Monthly, a recent client. Apparently they are featuring me on their contributors' page and need a headshot. Until recently, as a rule, I always submit something hand-drawn for this kind of thing, a quick piece of art befitting my illustrative personae. Anything other than a photo. I hate photographs of myself; in my opinion, photos are really, really mean. Either they lie, or they lack tack. They are not friendly. Mirrors, on the other hand, are infinitely more gentle. When I face the glass I usually shrug and think, "Okay, not bad." But photos... oh, the agony. Not only do they point out any and all imperfections, I am convinced they go out of their way to magnify them. In my opinion, that's downright rude. Nobody likes a critic.

In recent years, especially since I started writing, my husband Fred gives me a hard time about my illustrated self portraits. "You're such a beauty, Catherine. You should let people see your real face. Let them get to know you." In submission, I cautiously begin using photos as avatars and gravatars on twitter, facebook, and blogs. In keeping with our usual relational shtick as artists with opposite taste, my husband despises each and every one of my carefully crafted photos—which I happen to think are as adorable as they can possibly be, considering the subject matter. If I didn't rate them as such, I would never use them in the first place.

On a recent trip to a local museum, Fred is inspired to fix the problem. He has me stand against a wall that's papered with a very hip print—way more hip than I'll ever be—and proceeds to capture image after image on his i-phone. Immediately after snapping them, as we sit at a table eating donuts in a cool coffee shop across the street, my sweet husband raves over his work, completely gaga. Meanwhile, I am genuinely disturbed. Several of the photos reveal to me for the first time that my left eye is a good bit higher than my right. While I'm wondering if I have always been so hideous (I am the elephant woman) and how I'll be able to continue walking around like this (perhaps a paper bag is the answer), he is thanking God, out loud, for blessing him with such a beautiful wife. Are we even looking at the same photos? The disconnect is remarkable. Either the Enemy is distorting my vision, or has God has provided love goggles for my adoring husband. I'll never know which is true, and it doesn't matter anyway, so I let it go and make a joke about something, trying to change the subject.

When the request from Minnesota Monthly comes in, I know I have to use one of Fred's photos. There's no way around it. I sneak into my studio and open up the least offensive shot. As I am busily clicking away in Photoshop wishing for a "moisturize" filter, or perhaps a "youthening wand," Fred sneaks up behind me, catching me red-handed. "Ah, retouching!" I blush and start to stammer. "I didn't know you were gonna take my picture that day, Honey. My hair was flat, and I wasn't wearing any makeup. I can't fix the hair, but look, see? I added eyeliner and lipstick." I show him my handiwork to distract him from the fact that, when he walked in, I was about to erase the crow's feet on my cheek. Yeah, you heard me. On my cheek, well below the spot where people usually have crow's feet. I mean, yes, I have those too, in their proper place, next to my eyes; those, I ignore. But who can blame a girl for wanting to erase crow's feet from her cheek? What a joke.

"Babe, you don't need makeup. You are beautiful. Look at you!" He is not just trying to be nice, nor is he blowing smoke to get something from me. He really means it.

I immediately thank God for wiring my handsome husband to be attracted to me, even after seventeen years together. It's true, I suppose, that love is blind.

Merry Christmas, Freddy dear. I love you more with every passing day. Thank you for loving me, and for going out of your way to build me up. What a godly man you are, to love your wife this way.

Bless your fresh-flowing fountain! Enjoy the wife you married as a young man! Lovely as an angel, beautiful as a rose—don't ever quit taking delight in her body. Never take her love for granted! ~ Proverbs 5:18-19 The Message

(Fred is miles out of my league, by the way. Va-va-voom. I never get tired of studying his handsome face. Despite his dreamy green eyes, classically chiseled brow and cheekbones, and amazingly perfect nose, he hates any and all photos of himself as well. Go figure.)

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on coveting, open doors, and rose-colored glasses

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You shall not covet your neighbor's house. You shall not covet your neighbor's wife, or his manservant or maidservant, his ox or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbor. ~ Exodus 20:17

Coveting.

The last of the Ten Commandments, it's apparently the one with which Paul personally struggled the most. At least, it's the one he felt the need to write about:

For I would not have known what coveting really was if the law had not said, "Do not covet." But sin, seizing the opportunity afforded by the commandment, produced in me every kind of covetous desire." ~ Romans 7:7-8

Coveting is tricky, because it's unseen, and easy to justify. We call it a righteous desire for better days when things don't go our way, or entitlement when they do. We even drag God into our unholy discontent, disguising covetous desires as the pursuit of God-given dreams, or fulfillment of God-ordained blessing. God does put dreams in our hearts and obviously he wants to bless his children, but when we start comparing the rate at which he fulfills our dreams with those folks over there, or the various levels at which he seems to be blessing us, we get into murky water.

We believers can even get to the point of wanting certain things so badly that we confuse our desires with God's leading. We can mis-label temptations that fall into our laps as "open doors."

The term "open door" is attributed to Paul, who wrote three times that God opened doors for his ministry. Of course, God's methods of leading his disciples have not changed; however, I have personally proved that it is entirely possible to misinterpret events in my life as signposts from God. Catherine's Dictionary of Christian-ese defines a misread "open door" as an event confirming one's plan; a signal of approval, taken to mean that one is headed in the right direction. Ex: Praying for a way to fund their latest desire, the financially-strapped couple interpret their junk mail—two credit card applications and a Title-Pawn ad—as an open door from God to go ahead and buy it. 

False "open doors" are dangerous to walk through, because they pit the object of our covetous desire directly against God's desire for each of us—which, incidentally, is holilness. The couple in the above scenario are looking for an easy way to fulfill their desire, but acquiring more debt will only make their problem worse. God's desire is for them to cut up their existing credit cards, not apply for new ones. He is looking for lasting behavioral change. His route looks a whole lot less glamorous, but the destination is heavenly.

Covetous desires hinge our level of personal fulfillment on temporal, material elements, rather than on the Divine. If only I had a job/spouse/house like hers, then I would be happy. Alas: the grass looks greener over there, but it isn't.

Lately I've been trying hard to recognize coveting when I see it, and call it what it is: sin. Repentance is the next step. Turning away from the sin of coveting results in a shift in focus. It's like trading my green-tinted specs for a pair with rosie lenses. My situation is the same, but I see it differently. Choosing to focus on the good aspects of everything in my life, rather than wishing my circumstances were different, has initiated two changes. First, as I am more thankful for everything God has given me, I feel closer to Him. That's certainly a welcome result. Second, the people in my life seem different. As I go out of my way to appreciate the finer facets of their personalities rather than being annoyed by (what I perceive to be) their flaws, hard edges soften. Better qualities seem to blossom, diminishing the ones I find less than ideal.

Wednesday, my husband is bothered by the way I restocked the cupboard after unloading the dishwasher. Normally at this point I wish I had married a more appreciative fellow, someone so thankful for my effort that he doesn't mind getting bonked on the head by falling tupperware. Criticism about the inner workings of the kitchen is unwelcome. It makes me defensive. Not this time. Wearing my rose-colored glasses, I respond with a warm smile. "I love you, Fred." He laughs. "Yeah, well, you love me, but...?" With all sincerity I continue to grin at him, inching closer. "No buts. I love you, period. I'm so glad I married you. Thank you for taking such good care of us, and for caring about our family." The evening goes pretty well, after that.

I am beginning to understand, I think, what Paul meant when he wrote in 1 Timothy 1:6, Godliness with contentment is great gain.


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fantasy christmas

If I could, I would change a few thing that happen in my life every year near the end of December.

In my Christmas fantasy, there are no expectations. Gifts are optional. I don't have to spend money I don't have on junk that no one needs. Each guest in my home is happy to receive a cup of instant cocoa, the fancy kind, and a warm Christmas chat at the kitchen table. I shamelessly offer store-bought gingerbread men as I light a gingerbread-sented candle, to the delight of everyone in attendance. Children applaud, even though they prefer chocolate chip.

There is lovely music playing in the background and joyful lights on the tree, which is topped by a star, not a sparkly snowflake or non-representational sculpture or plaid-clad Victorian angel. (Since when do angels wear green and red plaid?) In my opinion, this is plenty of heavenly ambiance, and everyone agrees. No one is disappointed by the lack of bling. Our crèche, nestled under the tree, is not overpowered by towers of wrapped boxes. Gifts, when given, are from the heart. They are understated and, as previously mentioned, entirely optional. No gift is considered inadequate. No one is allowed to ask, "Did you save the receipt?" And no one feels slighted if he or she is overlooked by someone in the group. This applies to everyone from rarely seen members of my extended family to my closest friends and relatives.

Attendance at this well mannered love fest is also optional. My Dad does not coerce my angry atheist brother to attend. My brother, should he opt to ride across the country with my parents to join us, would never dream of insisting that my financially-strapped father foot the bill for a hotel room for him, and subsequently chauffeur him fifteen miles back and forth across town every day, so that he doesn't have to sleep on our couch or rent a car. The hotel is welcome in my fantasy; after all, my folks are in the guest room, and the house is crowded. But at forty-three years of age, my gainfully employed brother's unwillingness to pay his own way, is not.

Pressure from out-of-town in-laws to drive six hours each way on jam packed, dangerous roads for a holiday visit is forbidden as well. In my Christmas fantasy, former victims of childhood abuse like my husband are not required to cross state lines to make polite conversation and pretend that everything is okay, while inwardly having to clobber demons they've been dodging for decades. Christmas should be a break from that mess, not a doorway into it.

On the surface, my fantasy looks pretty good. I can justify every bit of it, all the way 'round. There's one big problem though: it is selfish. The truth is, once a girl enlists in God's army, her focus at Christmas (just like every other day of the year) must turn outward. December is a spiritually charged month. Churches fill up as the year draws to a close, and calendars are crowded with social engagements. Many of us will spend time with rarely-seen family members who have little to no idea of the true meaning of Christmas. Opportunites to serve and shine for Christ abound. My prayer this year is that I'll do a better job than I have in the past. God, help me love these people—even the one who spilled the home-brewed beer he brought as a "gift"on the rug, and hid the spot with my favorite velvet pillow.

If, like me, you are a closeted holiday-hater, take heart: you are not alone. Despite what you may think, dysfunction is normal. Every family is weird, each in its own way. Take it from a prayer counselor who has been on the receiving end of multitudes of surprising stories from people who look as if everything in their lives is pulled together. It's not. Life rarely looks like a Hallmark made-for-TV-movie. For many of us, having to face our families is not easy. Set proper boundaries, get prayed up, and rely on God to protect you and to work through you in your situation. He won't let you down.

And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work. ~ 2 Corinthians 9:8

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street smart

I lived the first thirty-five years of my life apart from Jesus. In other words, once upon a time, I was a heathen. Oh yes. This puts me in a unique category. Statistically, only a blessed few come to Christ as adults; you can almost smell sulfurous vapors rising off the lot of us. Having dodged the Bullet of Bullets, wow, do we understand grace. We also understand people, sinners,"the lost and unsaved." We don’t judge. How can we? Look at us. We were a mess, too.

My status as a former heathen often has me feeling like a goat among churchier sheep. My “street” wisdom tends to raise a few eyebrows. For example, in a ladies bible study carpool, my fellow leaders get on the topic of sharing rides. I pipe in, “Years ago my friend Traci told me, ‘Never let another woman ride in the front seat next to your husband.’” They are all so sweet and kind and lovely and respectful and innocent, they have absolutely no idea what to do with my comment. The car is uncomfortably quiet until Mrs. Rosemary, a true Southern Lady and a proper Presbyterian, artfully changes the subject.

I try out Traci’s advice several times over the years on a variety of fellow carpoolers. It is never well received. My own husband laughs at me. Ladies are universally mystified. I watch them struggle against the implication that none of us can be trusted. What is she thinking? We’re on our way to church, for Pete’s sake. We’re all brothers and sisters; I completely get that. On the other hand, teachers of the law are supposed to live above suspicion, and Satan is on the prowl.

I have no idea where Traci was at spiritually. I was lost when we were friends, and she has since passed away. I do know that she shared her wisdom out of sisterly love, from experience. She was street smart. It’s a dark world out there; she knew this first-hand. Saved or unsaved, the world remains dark. Recent events in the lives of beloved Christian friends have proved, whether or not she was aware of biblical truth, Traci's words aligned with Scripture. Take the car as a metaphor for married life: a husband behind the wheel, his wife at his side. She should not forfeit her seat to another woman out of friendliness or to be polite, nor should she ride beside any husband other than her own. The car metaphor applies to every area of life. Adapt it for your circumstances at work, PTA meetings, worship band rehearsal, whatever. Take it from a former heathen who has seen the wisdom of these words proved both inside and outside the body of Christ. So what if it’s awkward. Better safe than sorry. Your marriage requires protection, and no one is in a better position to protect it than you. And as they say, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

Marriage should be honored by all and the marriage bed kept pure, for God will judge the adulterer and the sexually immoral. ~ Hebrews 13:4

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