Suave

Suave. The very word probably conjures up images of Rhett Butler pulling out a chair to seat a woman wearing a long evening gown. Maybe it brings back the smile you couldn't help after the last good pickup line you heard. I used to be among those of you who feel a grin tug at the corners of your mouth when you watch a guy stretch his arm up overhead and bring it down to rest on unsuspecting shoulders. Now, I associate it with the world’s worst shower-mate.

It was a fleeting deliberation, really. I was standing in Target three days before I left, debating which brand of shampoo to stock up on for the trip. Our base administrator recommended bringing a heavy supply if we were going to be here awhile. TreSemme, Pantene Pro-V, Herbal Essences…the shelves were well stocked. Do I want to get a more expensive shampoo? This is Africa, not Runway, I thought. I knew the base here in Kili wasn’t going to be the Hilton. I was told to expect cement floors, wildlife in the bathrooms and cold showers. My gaze settled on a fruity scent of Suave. Suave. My usual caretaker for mission trips abroad. Cheap, thick, easy to find. Suave it is.

Three weeks into volunteering I began to cringe every time I picked up my bottles of Suave in the shower. By that time my hair had begun to adjust to the shampoo and I almost didn’t feel like myself anymore. Why did I have to pick Suave? I thought, remembering back to aisle full of shampoos, a veritable garden of hair-lover’s delight, and that fatal moment when my eyes noticed the Suave sitting on the second shelf up. Oh, I remember. I picked it because I didn’t want to bring anything so expensive or important that I would be upset if it got lost or dumped or stolen. In fact, that was my basis for everything I packed, everything I left behind. If it was something so valuable that I’d be peeved to lose it, then it stayed behind. As I continued to rinse the despised soap out of my hair, a passage from a book popped into my head.

“A few years a go a friend visiting a native village in the South Pacific spent some time watching the children play. Theses children, he told me later, seldom heard the words, “Don’t touch that! Leave it alone! Be careful!” Their homes were simple, consisting of earth floors, thatched roofs, and mats rolled down to serve as walls at night.

In contrast, our modern homes are stuffed with expensive and fragile furnishings and appliances that represent a minefield of potential rejection for inquisitive toddlers. How many mothers have exploded in anger at a child over a shattered vase or antique! Children constantly hear about the importance and value of things. Very few times, however, do they hear the simple words “I love you.”

This excerpt from “The Father Heart of God,” had brought my reading to an unexpected halt as I tried to take in what the author was saying about God and what he was saying about man. I paused for a few minutes before going on, thinking I understood it better than the initial skim. But it wasn’t until that moment in the shower, squeezing sudsy peach-mandarin bubbles out of my hair that I saw the Father Heart of God in a different way. Back in the store, it was much easier to give up a better brand of shampoo (oh, my beloved TreSemme) in order to act on a principle of not wanting to value a thing above a person. And that was what I wanted to avoid. If using expensive American shampoo made me any more high maintenance or substance-dependent than the native people I lived with, then it was something to absolutely leave behind. But in real life, after three weeks of washing my hair with a less-than-revitalizing shampoo—ugh, how I craved a different brand. Anything but Suave.

The passage continued to echo in my mind. How ironic, I thought, that our concept of value is so malleable, so transferable, and because of that, so value-less. I might not live in a shroud of comfort or collect priceless antique buttonhooks, but the author’s excerpt is only minimally talking about things and materialism. It’s really talking about value, and turning our minds to think deeply about what our actions show we value.

You know what I’ve valued all my life? Laughter. Making people laugh so hard they pee their pants, or knowing so many things they are spellbound with intrigue. I act this way in big crowds, am often attracted to people who fit this description, and even look for this in friends. I play this role in my family and with individual friends. I look for ways to incorporate this into my teaching and any lesson I give. If I had only just met you on a bus, my first goal would be to make you laugh. I am addicted to being live entertainment, and for the life of me, I let it replace my picture of what God values most because entertaining people, not valuing them, became my utmost goal. I’ve even noticed that this is the recurring theme in my blog thusfar—most of them center around making light of life and portraying Africa as an interesting, sparkling gem, when really, I have seen a lot that breaks my heart. And I wonder if somehow I have hid the truth from you, by being this person that values humor so much.

Don’t get me wrong, I still think that humor is a worthwhile effort and a good thing. It’s something I’m going to keep with me all my life. However, in those little areas of the soul where humor was threaded into the theology that makes up my knowledge of God, it took over the part of my mind that was made to define and understand value. I’m ready to take that back, now. I hope you are, too.