I once read of a woman whose face grew wrinkled at an exceptionally early age—late twenties. She tried all manner of lotions and potions, to no avail. Her husband cupped his beloved’s face tenderly in his strong hands and assured her that she was lovely; the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world, and she needn’t try to fix anything.
She cast her eyes downward as he spoke, embarrassed and ashamed of her appearance. She could not help but gaze at the vanity magazines at the grocery store, envious of these airbrushed women — unblemished and wrinkle-free, stunning women —truly breathtaking.
She watched others on the subway as she traveled to work, wishing, wishing, wishing, wrapped her scarf high above her chin, and donned the largest sunglasses money could buy, concealing those relentless wrinkles that appeared as parentheses around her youthful lips and clear eyes.
Her heels clicked as she walked from the elevator down the hall, from the hall to her office, and swiftly ducked behind her cubicle at work. She begged off lunch invitations with coworkers, brown-bagging it instead, so self-conscious was she.
Her husband was a happy man who hummed as he returned from work come nightfall, loosening his tie with one hand and pulling her in with the other. It seemed incomprehensible to her that she never once had to earn his love; he believed his wedding vows mattered; it was as simple as that.
Their wedding photographs from eight years past showed a happy, smooth-skinned bride. How can he still love me? She imagined each night as she stepped from the shower, cinched a towel beneath her arms, and untangled her hair in front of the mirror, a mirror which could not lie.
The man patiently, so patiently, (and frequently) popped into the drugstore to buy the latest anti-wrinkle creams at his wife’s quiet but teary requests.
Nothing, no nothing, diminished her wrinkles.
//
One splendid autumn day, when the air was crisp, and the leaves were ablaze, the woman woke up tired. It was as if her body heaved a sigh and said, Enough. Comparison and discontent had exhausted her to the bone. She called in sick, and as the coffee pot hissed while the morning sun filtered gently through the kitchen blinds, she paid attention to the pale shadows dancing from her favorite maple tree across the ceiling. Her eyes filled as something stirred, awakening her spirit to the beauty of this day. How weary she was of wishing her face away, worn thin from measuring herself against other women. She had been granted one precious life and was startled to see that for quite some time she had been existing, rather than living.
She responded to this rush of truth. And that was the very day she began to live, unashamed of her wrinkles. She grinned when her husband came home, and instead of pleading for one more face lotion, she hugged him tight and inquired how his day had been.
From that day forward, she walked the curve of the earth with joy, seeking to know and serve others, rather than keeping close company with her sullen feelings. She traded her sunglasses and scarf for a bright smile—dimpled and pretty—(although she did not realize how pretty), finally believing the truth: she could trust her husband’s love.
It was a humbling fact. One that freed her to soar.
She was his chosen bride.
But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.
1 Peter 2:9
