I Compulsively Check Mirrors

And I try to hide it.  I’m not very good at hiding it.  Sometimes, if  I allow my folly to go unchecked, I’ll move my rear view mirror to check my hair or makeup, forget to put it (the mirror) back, and almost get in an accident. What’s more, I only ever look at my face.  I refuse to even look in the direction of a mirror that shows below my elbows.

I long to be beautiful. I desperately want to have beauty.  And though I try, and every once in a while I think there is some hope, there is a part of me that knows it isn’t possible. You can put me in the best fitting clothes, the most flattering light, with fresh hair and make up and I may look pretty.

exhibit a

I mean yeah, the baby helps but, you get the point.

But you can equally put me in some bad idea a dress, under fluorescents, if I haven’t washed my hair or put on any make up, and i will not. I will SO not.

ehxibit gross

Same time, baby exchanged for kosher wine, and voila, i’m gross.

Let’s try another.

purty good, purty good....

and yet…

both the bad and the ugly

And honestly, it doesn’t matter if you agree with my assessment of my looks, you know what I’m talking about. You know what a difference the wrong angle can make. You see, I may not always be ugly, but I do not possess the kind of beauty that can withstand a bad hair day, overhead lighting, or too-tight pants.  Or, at least not physically, I don’t.

So what does any of that have to do with Jesus?  Well If I’m left to my own devices, I can apply all the beauty tools available, I can check every mirror in the world, but none of it is going to last. The only hope I have of possessing beauty is that which I can reflect from the source of beauty, God.

And the best way to  accurately reflect something…is to be close to it. ; )

The captivating beauty of a person close to God, it can not be contaminated by greasy skin or an overactive flash. It is the heart of a person who knows they are completely known and completely loved. And it makes mirrors seem pretty piddly.

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