Day 333: The Coat

My favorite coat was green.

Not lime green or forest green, but a soft, muted green – the color of distant pines whose silhouettes are almost lost behind a blanket of falling snow.

The coat had stitching the colour of spun straw and reached halfway down to my knees. Its detachable hood was like a cave for my head. I could retreat deep inside its velvety softness, safe from the cold and wind, and observe the world from beneath its faux fur fringe.

The coat was warm and thick and durable and expensive and everything a favorite coat should be.

I bought it on sale at Marks about two winters ago – maybe three.

It's hard to remember now.

I don't usually pay that much for a single article of clothing, even on sale, but it had been a cold winter and I was a teacher who had outside duty more often than not. It was a good purchase.

Since I had never owned anything that nice before, I did my best to take care of the coat.

If you know me personally, you will know that I am not a naturally careful person.

But I did my best.

I always draped the coat over a chair instead of dropping it on the floor.

I bought it complementary-coloured gloves and kept its pockets junk-free.

I gave it time and space to dry out between uses.

And when Dave (the cat) jumped on the coat, I carefully pried him off and mourned the almost invisible puncture wounds his claws had left behind.

I loved that coat because while wearing it, I was never cold.

And since I am always cold … I wore it everywhere that winter.

Including to church.

You wouldn't think of church as a particularly dangerous place to bring a coat.

But that Sunday, it was.

I don't remember for sure, but I think the sermon was about sacrifice. Or about giving your best to God. Or about valuing spiritual growth over material comfort. Maybe all three.

Because at the end of the sermon, the pastor asked us to do something unusual.

He asked us to give something away.

Something that wasn't money.

Something we had with us.

Something that was our very best.

I looked at my $2 yard sale boots.

I looked at my $8 Canadian Tire gloves.

I looked at my once-stylish-but-now-worn sweatshirt.

I looked at my beautiful coat.

And I knew what I had to do.

My coat let a tired sigh as I laid it on the steps of the altar.

I wanted nothing more than to snatch it back up again.

But I left church that day without it.

I don't know where my coat went or where it is today.

I don't know if it was given to someone in need or if it was sold for $20 at a thrift store.

I don't know if it's in a landfill or collecting dust at the back of a closet or hugging someone's shoulders tight as it shields them from the winter cold.

I hope it's the latter.

Unlike some (but not all) of the people who gave their best that day, I couldn't afford to replace my coat.

I dressed in layers.

I dusted off a decade-old jacket.

Eventually, I bought a $50 coat from Fairweather (aptly named because it wasn't very warm and began to disintegrate almost immediately).

So I bought two fur-lined man-sweaters for $7.50 each at J-Mart.

I also cried.

But I am warm enough.

And someday, I will have a new favorite coat.

But I will never forget my old one.

If I had chosen to keep the coat, my body would be a little warmer this cold December.

But my soul would be a little colder.

On the day of that sermon, I was wrestling with my faith. Where does the rubber meet the road? If God asks me to do something, will I say yes?

Regardless of our pastor's request, I didn't feel pressured by him or by any of the other parishioners to give up my coat. No one would have judged me if I had left with all my belongings intact.

I don't think God was asking for everyone's coats that morning.

But he was asking for mine.

And so a piece of fabric became symbolic of a life choice that I try to make each and every day.

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Life is fraught with tension between the temporal and the eternal, the physical and the spiritual. While individual decisions can fall at either end of the continuum, a balanced life works itself out somewhere in the middle.

On the outside, our lives may appear mundane. 
We sometimes share our joys with friends. 
Sometimes we suffer alone. 
We drown in our busy routines.

But on the inside … we walk a tightrope blindfolded, our outstretched fingertips touching heaven on one side and earth on the other, our feet inching unsteadily forward.

One shaky step at a time.

Me, my mom, & my coat!

My parents and hubby and I on an overnight trip to Halifax.