I have two special chairs in my living room. They are quite fancy. Me? I’m not so fancy myself, but I love these chairs. Why? I wanted those chairs since I was a little girl. They once lived in my grandmother’s living room. They are a pair of his and hers Victorian style chairs. When I was a little, I would visit my grandmother’s house, and sit in the “her” chair. The seat was low to the ground, and my feet could reach the floor.

I thought it was a chair fit for a queen. So when I sat in it, I felt like a queen.
I felt special in that chair.

There are beautifully carved flowers in the dark mahogany wood, and they were covered in dark burgundy velvet. Fancy. I would sit, and draw pictures in the fabric with my fingers. When my grandmother grew older, and moved a few states away to live in my aunt and uncle’s home she took only a few things with her. She took the chairs. They may have been the nicest pieces of furniture she owned.

Over the years I made no bones about the fact that I wanted those chairs to come live at my house one day. My grandmother was special. Those chairs were special. I needed them. My grandmother passed away a few years ago, and recently my aunt decided she was ready to part with the chairs. My dad called to ask if I still wanted them. Was he serious? You bet I still wanted them. Now they sit in my living room, and I often sit in them. I feel good when I do. They are like old friends. They remind me of my grandmother, and of feeling like a queen.

My aunt sent along a couple of tags that came with the chairs when my grandmother bought them. Can you believe that? Who keeps these kinds of things? On the tags it says “An Authentic Victorian Heirloom Reproduction.” I found that funny. Authentic reproduction. To me that means “Real Fake”. As I sit in the queen’s chair I have to laugh. At least sometimes that’s me: a real fake. The person I try to present to the world is not always the person I feel like inside.

I try to look as though I have all the balls in the air when in reality I can barely juggle more than one thing at a time most days.

At least sometimes that’s me:

A real fake.

Other than the chairs, there’s really only one other thing that I would like to have that belonged to my grandmother. One day I would like to possess her Bible. I have never gotten into the habit of making notations in my Bible. Conversely, her Bible is covered in hand-written notes. There is hardly a blank margin to be found. The pastor who preached her funeral took her Bible to discover some insight into exactly who she was. My grandmother had suffered a stroke in her last years and he did not have the opportunity to know the real Wilma. After perusing her Bible, he began to know her all right.

One thing he didn’t find in her Bible was a tag saying “authentic reproduction”. My grandmother was not a “real fake”. She was just authentic. It’s a legacy I feel compelled to continue. I desire a deep and growing, authentic relationship with my God. The chairs in my living room will serve as a reminder to this call. And as I sit there in my queen chair, I can pray, ponder, and find communion with the only God who truly is The Real Deal.

Where do you find real
communion with God?