On a Sunday afternoon, I’m laying down on the couch, my knees tucked in and my earrings flung onto the coffee table like I don’t lose one of a pair all the time. I have many a lonely earring. I’ve got my college quilt pulled up to my chin. It’s worn so threadbare that it is basically transparent, most of the seams and piecing frayed and ragged. The world is that hazy, dreamy mix of half-closed eyes, Sunday afternoon golf and sun streaming through the windows.
My eyes almost close when my youngest saunters up and takes ahold of my face.
Mama, did you know you’re so cute?
I want to always, always, always have that moment right there at the tip of my remembering brain. I want to remember his nubbin fingers and warm skin on my face. I want to remember how he grinned wide, snaggletoothed and impish. I want to keep close how my heart soared and his caramel eyes squinted with a smile.
I also want to be like him: freer to give praise and see beauty. I could list out all of the reasons for NOT beauty in my life. But not today. Instead, I long to see like my six-year-old does.
I’ve spent the summer studying it, learning how to reframe my definition of beauty. And I’ve decided to step out from under the heavy burden of a broken world’s gospel of same, unflawed, only good things on my terms beauty. Instead, I’m going to embrace the true Gospel’s beauty of surrender and open-handedness and humble acceptance that my life-spot and all of its accoutrements do not dictate God’s beautiful hand at work in it. What’s happening all around me, how I feel about myself, all of the particulars of my life do not get to say that my God is not good. But. My God’s goodness (bestness for me) gets to–does– color my world with beautiful, beautiful things.
I’m cupping my life in my hands and telling it this: you ARE full of beauty.