The Jacket

Every man has one item of clothing his wife has been begging him to throw out for years. Mine was a light-blue jean jacket with a fake white cotton collar.

Erin hated that jacket with a level of intensity usually reserved for telemarketers, political arguments, and people who put pineapple on pizza.

She was not subtle.

“That jacket is awful.”

“I know.”

“You look ridiculous.”

“Thank you.”

“Why do you still own it?”

“Because I like it.”

This conversation lasted for years.

Presidents came and went. Kids got older. Jobs changed. Hairlines retreated. The jacket remained, hanging near the door like a family member nobody particularly liked but had accepted was going to live forever.

And to be fair, it was hideous. The white collar looked like two dirty clouds stapled to my neck. The denim was the exact shade blue jeans turn when they have simply given up.

Still, I wore it everywhere.

It became less like clothing and more like an emotional-support jacket.

Erin tried persuasion. Sarcasm. I suspect several covert attempts to have it disappear during donation runs.

The jacket survived.

Because I loved it.

Or at least I thought I did.

Looking back, I think I loved what it represented.

It was familiar.

And familiar things are hard to give up.

We do that with identities too. We wear them so long we forget they are not actually us. The job. The title. The reputation. The version of ourselves everybody expects to see.

For years, I knew exactly who I was.

Then life started removing the labels.

One by one.

When enough of them disappear, you eventually end up staring at yourself and asking a much harder question.

Who am I without all this?

I had spent years introducing myself with things that could be taken away.

Job.

Success.

Reputation.

Failure.

None of them were me.

They were jackets.

Some fit for a long time.

Some stopped fitting years before we admitted it.

Eventually, I threw the jean jacket away.

No ceremony. No music. No Viking funeral.

I just looked at it one day and realized I did not want to wear it anymore.

It was only a jacket.

Except sometimes small things are not small.

Sometimes taking something off is how you finally notice what was underneath it.

These days, I am less interested in becoming a new person.

I am more interested in finding out who is still there when the costumes come off.

As for the jacket, I hope it found peace.

Preferably somewhere Erin cannot see me digging it back out.

 

“You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.”

Ephesians 4:22–24