My husband and I have a favorite meteorologist we watch almost every night. She is animated and professional, gesturing to the weather systems coming through and trying to be accurate in forecasting the problematic weather we observe here in the Pacific Northwest. But that’s not the real reason we anticipate her portion of the news. We await her clothing choice du jour (yes, we are shallow little people with no lives). Seriously, though, we are constantly amazed by her. Neither of us are Instagram Influencers. I’ve been known to wear two different shoes out in public. But we can’t figure out who lets this woman out of her dressing room. Her job requires that we see her full length; not from the waist up behind a desk like the other anchors, who for all we know are wearing flannel sleep pants. She must truly think we are so riveted to all those swirling graphics of fronts coming in from the Pacific that we don’t see the blinding neon splotches of color that look like someone just threw paint on her or the bright red dress that could double as a bathrobe. I should know. I have one (bathrobe, that is)

Then, one night, came THE JUMPSUIT. I had tried to ignore the return of this unfortunate retro fashion for months and just silently prayed for its swift departure; but no, the trend flourished until there it landed in all its bright blue glory smack dab on our fashionista. I admit, she wore it well; it wasn’t nearly as objectionable as some of her other choices. Why did I just go on and on about it to my husband, who sat there bewildered by my outburst? Long after her memory faded into LED oblivion, I dwelled on it. Why did seeing this lovely young woman wearing a jumpsuit bother me so much? We had all worn them in the 70s. I probably had a half dozen of them in my closet before they went out of style. Only thing I could remember us complaining about was that you had to take the whole dang thing off when you went to the bathroom. What we suffered for fashion…

It took awhile, but another memory began to materialize, one I hadn’t given a thought to in over 40 years.

When I moved from Northern California to Seattle in the 1970s, it truly was the Emerald City. When I graduated from the University of Washington, I didn’t even consider moving back. I was offered a room in a house in one of the nicest neighborhoods in the city. It was owned by a woman a few years older than me who was a fundraiser for several arts organizations. She came from old-money Seattle with old Seattle connections, hence the house she could afford without an actual job. And dozens of exotic artsy people; dancers, choreographers, designers, actors and directors. I was invited to premiers and concerts and met people I’d only seen on tv or in film. On my substitute teacher pay that was at best thirty-five bucks a day, I was captivated by their glamour. Their parties weren’t keggers with take out pizza. They were champagne and ice sculptures and back-room drugs I couldn’t afford in a year of teaching.

So, where do jumpsuits figure in to all of this? One of my favorite venues for after-performance parties was the Madison Valley home of a director for a national dance company—a spectacular, bohemian contemporary nestled in the fir-and-rhododendron-covered hills overlooking a gated golf course community and the expansive Washington Arboretum. He and his partner had remodeled a small bathroom perched on the side of the house into a transparent wonder. Its most prominent feature was a huge, hammered copper bathtub. It felt so decadent to be in a bathroom surrounded by glass and be totally confident that no one could see me; protected from prying eyes by the massive cedars and hemlocks outside. I often pictured myself lounging in that magnificent tub surrounded by bubbles and flickering candles, a champagne flute in my hand.

But on this night, I had already consumed many glasses of champagne and only needed to use this fantasy bathroom for the usual mundane reason. And what was I wearing? Yes, a jumpsuit. A slinky, black spaghetti-strap, Disco queen one. And it was slumped around my ankles when I suddenly heard the heavy wooden door to the bathroom creak open. Had I forgotten to lock it? I just sat there so shocked as a man approached me, smiling. Smiling??!! Why wasn’t he sputtering in embarrassment and backing out the door right now? But. He. Didn’t.

Remember, it was 1978, amazingly when I think of that. 44 years ago. What happened to me wasn’t really all that uncommon it wasn’t even the first time. No one took it seriously. I know this for a fact as when I approached the host later, shaken and almost in tears, he did nothing; the man in the bathroom was a prominent donor to his company. His partner was a local tv personality. Who was I? A 24-year-old substitute teacher. A nobody. Even I knew that and never said another word to anyone about it.

But I never wore that jumpsuit again.

I’m not writing this in anger or as some addition to the “MeToo” movement. I’m writing this because what I thought was a world of glamour and creativity and some kind of status, a Yellow Brick Road in this so called Emerald City turned out to become a place where I lost my heart, my mind, and for too many years, my soul.

I did it willingly. It’s one of the 44 chapters I never thought I’d write. But to get to Chapter 45, where Jesus stepped back into my life, up until today, I think many who know me now would find who I was unrecognizable. I’m that nice school teacher grandma who takes meals to new moms and bakes cookies for memorial services. But then you wouldn’t be able to see just how lost I was. And maybe recognize that they’ve been lost. Or are. I want them to know that for them, that it’s possible for that heavy door to open and not be confronted with fear or shame. It will be filled with the grace and peace only Jesus can provide.