In sixth grade, I decided I was ugly.
So, I stopped looking in the mirror.
Try washing your hands without raising your head, then backing away from the sink while staring at the floor. That’s what I did every day.
Who dared legislate what was too much or not enough when it came to hair texture, skin tone and facial symmetry?
Movies – In a heartbeat.
The popular kids – Duh.
God – Never.
He knew each one of us before we were fully formed, a tiny bit of life no bigger than a grain of sand. He knew the number of every hair that would eventually poke out of the follicles on our knobby heads.
Yet, when he looks at us, he sees right past the flaws.
God sees the heart.
Vogue, step aside.
GQ, give it up.
God knows best.
What we are on the inside is everything.
Bit by bit, I dare to embrace this truth.
At church yesterday, I washed my hands in the women’s restroom and glanced in the mirror.
For the first time, the frizzy hair, puffy cheeks and smudged mascara didn’t bother me. A rush from interacting with young moms and kids in Sunday school still surged through my bones.
I felt needed.
For a moment, I felt absolutely beautiful.