Friday, April 1, 2011
These Lovely lines
I LOVE April 1st, but I hate lame April fool’s jokes. I will, however, probably tell my husband that I’m pregnant just for the heck of it. It’s my only tradition for this holiday (fyi, I am NOT).
You know what’s not a joke? I turned 29 two months ago. I look in the mirror and I see the same girl I’ve always seen, though at least I finally look like adult. My body doesn’t feel older. The only thing to signal that I am older is the passing of time. I have been married 7. 5 years to the love of my life and we have two daughters together. My baby sisters are gorgeous teenagers now, both of them taller than me. And my mom is gone.
There are other signs that I am aging. For now, they’re miniscule, but present if I look hard enough. And sometimes it really bothers me. But I heard a song a few weeks ago that changed my perspective like a slap in the face. It was a song that a young man had written to the Lord, and I cannot remember anything about it save for one line.
“You are writing out my story in the lines upon my face.” I thought about my face and the story written there.
In the summer I get freckles. I don’t really burn, and my tan is all due to the Native American blood that runs through my veins. Those freckles are a sign of my heritage and of summers spent in the Redding sun. Of days on the lake and afternoons by the pool teaching my sisters to swim. They remind me of barbecues in the sweltering heat with family members, some of which are gone now.
I have a few wrinkles around my eyes. Nick calls them my “smile lines” and says they’re cute. I’m not so sure about that, but if I have to have wrinkles I guess I would want it to be from smiling too much.
I have brown hair, but hidden beneath some “dark mahogany” hair color are the beginnings of a few white strands that I have un-affectionately named “2010.” I had heard that trauma and stress could have a dramatic affect on a person’s body, and it’s true. I’m not too happy about this development. But they remind me of my mother, and that the loss of her was so great to me that it turned some of my hair white.
My story will continue to appear. Written out on each inch of my skin, in my hair, around my eyes. I’ll still do what I can to fight the aging process, but some things just can’t be changed. And in a way, I think I can cherish these changes. I have been altered by my experiences, my memories, my everydays. Everydays that make up a collection of a life for which I am more grateful than words.
I pray I will be privileged to one day become one of the really blessed. Those with aging bodies and gray hair sitting on their porch swings with their spouses (Cause I’m gonna have a porch!). I want to see my legacy running around in the lives of my children and grandchildren. I’m not as afraid of aging as I once was because I see it for what it is now. It means I’m alive!!!
Ladies, instead of picking apart your looks and mourning your younger years, thank God for the life that courses through your body. For the oxygen in your lungs. For the memories filling your brains. For the love bursting from your heart. And if you don’t have memories and love, then make it happen.
My daughters’ favorite movie is Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. There’s a scene where Mahoney and Mr. Magorium sneak into a clock store and set all the clocks to go off at the same time. They hide behind a big grandfather clock and she says, “Now we wait.” Mr. Magorium responds with, “No. We breathe. We pulse. We regenerate. Our hearts beat. Our minds create. Our souls ingest. Thirty- seven seconds, well used, is a lifetime.”
Life is happening now. And the story is being written out in the lines upon our faces. Each new wrinkle is a testimony of all that God has brought us through, and all that He is taking us towards.
You may not be on a lake getting tan, but you are investing in the lives of the future generation. The future world changers are on your kitchen floor right now, spilling cheerios, pooping, drawing on the walls, yelling and climbing on the couches. The future president is running around in diapers somewhere. The future red cross workers are playing with cars and markers. The future pastors and teachers and mommies are begging their own mommies to let them jump in mud puddles. Or maybe they’re throwing their dinner at their mamas like my baby is doing right now.
Now take a deep breath. Draw that sweet air into your lungs, get off the computer, stop fussing over your looks and age, and go do something with your children, and if you have one, with your spouse. It’s April 1st, you are alive, and it’s time to celebrate.
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