A Rant To The Gray Hair That Was

Wait a minute . . .
Eyes widen then narrow in.
What!?!
Fingers thumb frantically.
Aha!
There . . . you . . . are.
I should have been expecting you.
Six months since I sent you packing
Slipping into the sweet sleep of denial.
But there you are.
One day into my 33rd year.
You couldn't even let me celebrate.
Cheeks blush as words spoken in
The vanity of youth take form in the
Haze of memory:
"I'm going to gray gracefully."
Older friends smiling and nodding,
Knowing all too well
These misguided platitudes.
And there you are.
Mocking me.
Fingers dial:
"Mom, when did Grandma go gray?"
"Not unusually early."
I'm safe.
She continues:
"But your Grandma Heckman,
she was completely
gray
by
30."
And I see my fate.
Me, a magnet for bad DNA.
And I fume.
Why do men . . .
Why does my man
Only get more attractive with each gray hair.
It isn't fair.
He looks distinguished.
I'll look dumpy.
I've only recently accepted that my hair
Is brown instead of blonde.
And now gray?
Yet, there you are. . .
I will have you out.
Out!
And you are gone.
Victory!
I have won the battle.
(Sigh.)
I've a sinking feeling that
I'm
losing
the
war.

A Glimpse

Standing in front of the mirror is an unfortunate daily ritual in which I must partake. While I try to limit the amount of time spent gazing at my reflection, sometimes what I see in those few solitary seconds surprises me, takes me aback. As I survey the landscape of my face, neck, shoulders (I NEVER use a full-length mirror), it is easy to be distracted by the road signs of a weary traveler--brown hair with blonde tips from poorly maintained highlights, pudgy face atop swollen neck connected to sagging shoulders, smeared eyeliner never refreshed since last applying days ago, the hint of crinkles turning into crevices from too many a frown and a furrowed brow, and eyes revealing a soul spent striving. A sad reflection, indeed!

But before I set forth on the journey of another day, I look into a second mirror. The reflection in this mirror I see not with earthly eyes but heavenly eyes. It speaks to me of "crowns of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair" and calls me an "oak of righteousness for the display of His splendor." (Isaiah 61:3). Suddenly, the hair, extra pounds, messy make-up, and wrinkles simply signify a season of sacrifice and of sanctification. And the striving soul surrenders. Lord, may I now be a mirror ready to reflect your splendor!

AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS (Kathryn Scott)

At the foot of the cross
Where grace and suffering meet,
You have shown me Your love
Through the judgment You received.
And You've won my heart.
Yes, You've won my heart.
Now, I can . . .

Trade these ashes in for beauty
And wear forgiveness like a crown.
Coming to kiss the feet of Mercy,
I lay every burden down
At the foot of the cross.
At the foot of the cross

Where I am made complete,
You have given me life
Through the death You bore for me.
And You've won my heart.
Yes, You've won my heart.