I stare into her eyes, then down to her feet and back up to her eyes. I survey all that she is and in discontentment I push my shoulders back, put on my sexy face (as my younger brother calls it), and offer an unconvincing smile. I don’t like what I see in her, but that dissatisfying reflection keeps staring back at me — wide-eyed, smile fading.
I see a mask because I am ashamed of walking out the door without it. I see fading color in my thin, flat hair. I see a waist that is three sizes too big. I see fashion that is fading faster than my hair.
I see a girl who doesn’t love her family enough to help out around the house more often. I see a writer who isn’t a real writer, who rarely challenges readers enough to respond. I see a wanna-be follower of Christ who hasn’t picked up her Bible in.. weeks? months? too long.
I see this distorted picture.
I see myself in comparison to you, to the girl next door, and the girl all the guys swoon over. I see myself through the eyes of the world who put on the same mask, who burn their whole paycheck on the newest trends, and who don’t eat in order to be called beautiful. And I am nearly convinced that would be easier because maybe then I would feel beautiful.
But somewhere I’ve been told that won’t be enough. Somewhere I’ve been told that I am more.
I don’t see it yet, but I want to.
I want to see myself through the eyes that delight in me, through the lips that call me “beloved,” and the heart that would give his life for me.
I want to see her. Lord, give me the courage to see the woman you see — the woman who is your beautiful bride.
(Prompted by Lisa-Jo at The Gypsy Mama.)