I am not a beautiful woman, but aside from one day a month when the moon is bright and high and my system and ego run haywire—I just don’t care.
I feel pretty inside.
I like my eyes and my hair and my un-thin lips. My heart is full and I’m generally content. I’m surrounded by a fine man and a good boy, a loving extended family, and friends who know exactly how I take my coffee. And oh yes, the crazy dog.
I’m happy with who I am and where I’m at.
Yet despite that quiet confidence, the minute a camera gets pointed in my direction, I get nervous. Really nervous, as if that small tool with a lens and a shutter truly could steal my soul.
The last time I looked good in a snapshot was circa 1975, when I was too young to care if the photographer caught my “good” side. Now, whenever I hear the words Smile! or Get together!, I cringe. I get self-conscious and I start to flush. The color creeps up my neck and my face and I look like I’ve tipped the bottle back one too many times. I overcompensate by smiling too wide: a habit I learned decades ago to avoid braces catching on my lip.
I look ridiculous. And drunk.
And because that happens I hate the picture, and the cycle continues.
And yet—apart from those instances when I have to flip a photo over or resist the urge to un-tag myself on Facebook—I feel pretty, no matter what the film says.
My heart says “pretty.”
My soul says “pretty.”
My smile and my laugh and how good it feels to sit with friends and share our days says “pretty.”
I’m a child of God, and when He put me together He had a specific design in mind, which—above any earthly reminder—says “pretty”. It says it loud and clear and with an unconditional love.
And who am I to question that?
Linking up today to “We Encourage” at Call Me Blessed and “Playdates with God” at The Wellspring, and the lovely Amanda at Serenity Now for the Weekend Bloggy Reading Linkup!