Those Stinking Scissors

Have you ever lived long enough to realize that your mother was right about something you were absolutely convinced she was wrong about?I have. And, believe it or not, it involved a pair of scissors.

When I was growing up, my mother did a lot of sewing. She would often take in sewing to make a little extra money, and if there was one thing Mama was particular about, it was her sewing supplies. Especially her scissors. Mama had one pair of scissors that were extremely sharp, and those scissors were for one thing and one thing only: cutting fabric.

Now, as children, we didn't always understand the importance of such rules. Every once in a while, one of us would get our hands on Mama's precious scissors and use them to cut a piece of paper for a school project. Buddy, if Mama caught you with those scissors and a piece of paper, you were in big trouble. At the time, I couldn't understand what the big deal was. After all, they were just scissors. We had other scissors. Surely cutting a little piece of paper wasn't going to ruin the world. But Mama knew something I didn't. Paper can dull a good pair of fabric scissors. And when you're trying to cut beautiful fabric, you need scissors that are sharp enough to do the job properly. Fast forward several decades.

I was working on a sewing project recently and went looking for my favorite pair of fabric scissors. I couldn't find them anywhere. I searched high and low. I looked in places where scissors had absolutely no business being. I checked drawers, baskets, cabinets and sewing supplies. I was beginning to wonder if those scissors had simply decided to leave the house without telling me. Finally, my husband found them tucked inside the little zippered pocket of my sewing machine case. There they were. My precious scissors. I was so thankful to have them back in my hand. They were still sharp, still dependable, and still exactly what I needed to cut my fabric. 

And that's when it happened.

A little voice in my head said, "See? That's why I was always so particular about my scissors."It was Mama's voice. I had to laugh.

Isn't it funny how the things that annoyed us as children sometimes make perfect sense when we become adults? Back then, I thought Mama was being overly particular about a pair of stinking scissors. Today, I understand. She wasn't being difficult. She was protecting something valuable.

And isn't that just like God?

There are things He tells us not to do that we don't understand. There are boundaries He places around our lives that sometimes seem unnecessary. There are instructions in His Word that may feel restrictive when we're young in our faith. But God sees what we cannot see. He knows what can dull us. He knows what can damage us. He knows what can take the sharpness out of our testimony, our faith, our discernment and our purpose. Sometimes His "don't touch that" is really an expression of His love. Sometimes the boundary that frustrates us today is the very thing that protects what we will need tomorrow. And sometimes, years later, we look back and realize that God wasn't trying to keep something good from us. He was trying to preserve something precious within us.

James 1:5 reminds us, "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not."

I think about Mama's scissors and smile. Maybe some of the lessons we thought were silly weren't silly at all. Maybe they were little seeds of wisdom planted in us long before we were old enough to recognize them. And perhaps that's one of the beautiful ways God works. He lets us live long enough to understand some of the things we once didn't understand. He allows a memory from childhood to come walking back into our lives at just the right moment and whisper, "Now you see." I certainly do. And Mama, wherever you are, I finally understand about those stinking scissors. You were right. Of course you were. You usually were.

And maybe that's the lesson for today: When God places a boundary in our path, we don't always have to understand it before we obey it. We can trust the One who sees what we cannot. Because sometimes obedience today protects the blessing God intends for tomorrow.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the little lessons You have woven throughout my life. Thank You for the wisdom of those who came before me and for the memories You sometimes bring back at exactly the right moment.

Help me remember that Your boundaries are not meant to keep good things from me. They are meant to protect what You have placed within me. Give me the wisdom to trust You even when I don't understand. Help me recognize when You are saying, "Don't touch that," and give me the courage to listen.

Keep my faith sharp. Keep my heart tender. Keep my testimony useful. And when I look back on the things I once didn't understand, let me see Your loving hand in them.

Thank You for the lessons, the memories, the laughter, and even those stinking scissors.

In Jesus' name, Amen.

"When did you become a rebel?"

"When did you become a rebel," an old friend asked me during lunch a few months ago. I had to laugh and toss my head as I replied, "You know, I really don't remember." She and I had been friends for a very long time and though we rarely got to see one another throughout the year, we did manage to stay in touch through other means. 

After our meal, I went home and began to think about her question. I thought for days and days, never coming up with a definitive answer and then, last night, in the middle of the night, I had it! I knew exactly when I became a rebel. 

I vividly remember the scene in my mind - my cousin and I were in my parent's old home. We had been playing while the adults were visiting. I don't know what we were doing before the rebellious streak in me appeared, but as I dig through my memory bank, a clip from that day is so clear. She and I were on the stairs. Paper doll scissors in hand, I cut her bangs and she cut mine. We cut them way too short and started laughing at our handiwork. We were proud to have done something nice for each other but found it our deed wasn't so nice a few minutes later. 

The next thing I remember was my mother yelling out my first and middle name in a tone that emphasized her displeasure with me. "What in heaven's name have you done?" she asked. Shrugging my little shoulders, I retorted, "I don't know. We were just having fun." My cousin stood quietly by. I don't remember anyone speaking a word to her, but I got royally chewed out and if memory serves me correctly, I got a swift and hard spanking. That was the moment I decided I'd fight back. I didn't say a word to my mother, but I was determined she'd never treat me that way again. 

When I was growing up, my grandmother would often give me pages from the McCall's magazine. The pages held pictures of a paper doll, Betsy McCall. Grandmother thought I'd have fun cutting them out and playing with them, which I did even though the dolls didn't last long since they were flimsy magazine weight paper. I enjoyed cutting around the figures and making sure not to nip the little tabs that held the clothes on Betsy. It was cheap entertainment back in the early 60s. A little later on, manufacturers began to print paper dolls on heavier paper and even made kits that included dolls and clothes to cut out. Inside those little boxed kits were the tiniest pair of scissors, too. The kind I used to cut my cousin's hair! Those scissors weren't super sharp but they were sharp enough to do the job and that's all that mattered. 

Cutting my cousin's hair that day also sparked another desire in my heart, to become a cosmetologist. That day helped me realize how much fun it was to not only cut hair but feel the texture of it and style it. I knew one day, I'd get a job doing something I loved and I eventually did, but I'll get to that a little later. 

As I was growing up, I didn't get to have much say about how my hair looked or the way it was styled. My mother, to save money, cut my hair herself. She'd wet my hair, tape down my bangs with pink hair tape popular back then, and whack it off not realizing when the hair dried, it shrank. I look back now at photos of me when I was younger and shudder. My bangs were about 2 inches or more shorter than they should have been, which made me look ridiculous. 

And then, as I grow a little older, my mother started letting our next door neighbor practice her cosmetology skills on me. I can't tell you how many bad perms I had back them! they were hideous and I hated them. 

When I turned 12, my neighbor and girlfriend, Melinda, let me play with her hair all I wanted. So I learned to wash, curl, and blow dry it. She loved the way I did her hair and had me set her hair on those big plastic pink rollers with bobby pins often. Sitting her under the old timey blow dryer was fun, too. I loved watching the cap on that thing poof up with air. 

At 15, I let my rebellious streak out. I began dying my hair. I tried every color available and sometimes did more than one color in a day. It was wicked fun! It's a wonder my hair didn't fall out from all the processing it went through. 

At 16, I began working in a salon in Decatur called the Hair Pair. I loved going to work each day but the pay wasn't good, so I didn't stay long. I kept thinking I'd go to school and get my cosmetology degree, but never did. That didn't stop me from studying and learning to do hair though. 

I've done hair for so many family members and friends over the years and still do to this day. Just last weekend I cut my son in law's hair and my husband's and trimmed up their mustaches and beards. I just enjoy doing it so much. 

I'm kind of glad I got chewed out when I was 5 for cutting off my cousins bangs. If that hadn't happened, who knows where I'd be today! I think all of us have a little rebelliousness in us. No one likes to be told no, do they? I know I sure don't. If you tell me I can't do something, by golly, I'm going to prove to you that I can and I will. I'm proud to be a rebel and hope I'll be one til the day I die.