It took less than a minute for the words to leave my mouth before her easy countenance shifted and she looked at me seriously, “Annie, you shouldn’t say that.”
To my own surprise, I felt no embarrassment with this trusted friend. Her swift and unrestrained correction was delivered with the sincere love and care I knew she had for me. So any sting of being rebuked quickly gave way to the correction it intended.
Recently, I went out for ice cream with my daughter and her children. As we were enjoying the tasty treat, my two-year-old grandson noticed my phone peeking out of the front pocket of my purse. He turned to his mom and asked, “Trac’ors Mammaw’s phone, p’ease?”
With nimble, practiced fingers she raced to capture the living parable before her eyes in the fleeting moments of sunset — a clutch of white desert lilies she happened upon while walking to the Algerian slum she called home. Lilias Trotter was no longer a starry-eyed missionary who was struggling to learn the Arabic language. Over these 20 years the desert had become home. She had grown accustomed to what had, at one time, appeared strange and foreign alongside her wealthy London upbringing.
Only 1% of women think they are beautiful, according to a survey by Dove.
That reality is a little strange, since beauty has never been easier to come by than it is today. The plastic surgery business is booming. Beauty products are boundless. We are surrounded by a plethora of social media advice that provides us with all the secrets and techniques we need in order to look, act, and feel like confident, beautiful women. We have all the tools we need. And many of us spend a large portion of our time trying to make ourselves attractive.
When I was growing up, my mom was considered by most standards to be a health nut. My friends’ lunch boxes contained white bread sandwiches, greasy potato chips, and Little Debbie cupcakes, while mine was filled with whole wheat bread, carrot sticks, and sugar-free granola bars. In our house, eating “sugar cereal” like Fruit Loops or Captain Crunch for breakfast was akin to cheating on our homework assignments. Kids who ate that kind of “garbage,” we were told, ended up in detention and remedial reading classes, not to mention frequent and painful trips to the dentist’s office to have their many cavities filled.
I want this to end.
I can’t do this anymore!
I don’t want to go through this.
How much longer, God?
Why this?
Have you ever uttered these desperate pleas in prayer? I most certainly have. And even as I type the words, my memory drifts back to significant moments in my life where my cries fell at the feet of Jesus, and He mercifully met me with love, grace, and peace that surpassed my limited sight and understanding.