I once read of a woman who worked as a personal stylist for the female elite of New York City. She was paid handsomely to select clothing that made others look their best – money was of no matter, as her clientele could afford it all.

This wardrobe stylist was exceptionally good at her work. She dressed in black—from shoulder to toe—classy with diamond studs and slender watch, soft blonde hair pulled back in a loose bun. She favored the simple and the timeless. Thus, with a twist of grace and authority, she slipped easily in and out of dressing rooms, pairing the perfect outfit with her clients of all shapes and sizes. 

Her business was met with success and born from trust. It did not matter the age nor height nor shape of her clients. These women believed in their stylist because she delivered, proving her unusual competence time and again.

They simply showed up and trusted her wisdom and judgment. Stick-thin women desiring a bit more feminine curve? Done. Rounder women longing to enhance their waistline? Check. She presented outfits that fit their unique frames, with colors that celebrated their eyes, and revived their skin tones.

The only hiccup in all of this occurred when fairy-tale living usurped reality.

I am not a size 12, a woman huffed, spotting the tags. I have always been an 8, ever since high school, she added, muttering with a dismissive wave of her hand. 

Never mind that high school was a quarter century in the rearview.

The stylist only nodded, remaining cool under pressure, dutifully rehanging the clothing that suited her client superbly. She whisked the items away and reappeared with the demanded size in hand.

Whereupon the zippers would not zip and the buttons tugged, severely. The entire ensemble looked altogether atrocious. Red-faced, the paying customer stormed off in a pout, out of sorts and infuriated by the truth.

A version of this scenario happened with an increasing number of women, which of course translated to fewer sales. 

The stylist chewed her lip, perceiving that something must change.

And then, one bright morning as she sipped her black coffee two sugars, an idea blossomed. She glanced at her watch and realized she had exactly twenty minutes before her first appointment. Abandoning her coffee, she strode to the rack of outfits that she had previously pieced together for her first customer. Taking a pair of scissors, she neatly clipped the size tags off of every article of clothing.

When the manicured client blew into the department store, a puff of perfume traipsing in her wake, the stylist welcomed her with a dewy bottle of Lemon Perrier, inquiring as to her size—a question she had never previously asked of anyone.

The patron predictably announced a size that would never, in her wildest of dreams, fit. The stylist merely nodded and returned minutes later with the 5 tagless ensembles.

Here you are. I think these will suit you, beautifully. She spoke with confidence and a gleam in her eye.

The clothing was just so–the colors divine, the styles smart and complementary. 

The consumer, a lantern now glowing, plucked one of her many credit cards from her Coach purse, smiling as she waltzed away with her new wardrobe, a spring in her step, feeling wonderfully attractive and oh-so-stylish.


What might happen if we trusted our Master Stylist, joyfully wearing the garments that God has chosen on our behalf, whatever those tags may read, rather than squeezing into something we were never meant to wear?

It takes genuine humility to accept our endless limitations, our sufferings, and our present conditions with gracious, implicit trust in the Lord. Yet how freeing it is to hold such genuine affection: bowing low before God, reveling in his Divine Authority, rather than bending a knee to this crooked world intent on pursuing a false narrative.


But now, O LORD, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand. (Isaiah 64:8)

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