To the woman in the mirror:
The truth is, you scare me. I roll out of bed in the
morning, knowing I will have to face you and I am afraid. I never know who I
will see looking back at me. I hope that you will be beautiful and strong, full
of hope and joyful anticipation for all that the day holds. I hope you will
look back at me with eyes that say, “Mercy is new every morning. Great is His faithfulness.
Believe and live.” But that’s not how it’s been. That’s not how it always is.
Sometimes you just stare blankly at me with tired eyes.
Sometimes those eyes are swollen from the tears which soaked your pillow
through the night. Sometimes they are wild with anxiety, with some inexplicable
fear. Sometimes you can’t bear to look back at me. The heaviness of the burden
you carry reaches all the way through you and even your eyes lower under the
weight of it. Your failures. Your sense of worthlessness. Your lack of
interest. Sometimes the confusion behind your eyes is more than I can bear.
Where does it all come from? Will you give me answers? I can see you begging
me, pleading with me like you plead with everyone around you, to notice, to
help, to fix, to heal, to protect, to put you back together again after you
humpty-dumptied right off the very wall you built to protect yourself. The
truth is, I detest you, your weakness and brokenness. And for a while that made
me detest myself.
You see, woman in the mirror, I thought you and I were the
same. I thought that we were one. I thought I could look to you and see my
identity. I thought that you defined me. I thought that I was the sum of every
feeling, every fear, every burden that you reflected back to me. I thought the
things I saw in you were my reality, and I could hope for nothing more. It took
so long for me to even consider that I was wrong.
But one day I reached up to touch you. One day I decided
that I wouldn’t be afraid of you anymore. One day I decided that I would not
let you define me or control me. One day I decided to be strong and courageous,
so I reached to touch you. You were cold and hard. I pulled back and touched my
own cheek – soft and warm. You and I are not the same after all.
You are nothing more than a reflection on glass. No wonder
you feel so fragile! But I? I am flesh and bone and blood and muscle and breath
and soul and mind and nerves and… ah yes, I had forgotten… A vessel of the Holy
Spirit. You are flat – all depression or anxiety or vanity or fear or failure
or brokenness. I am so much more. You are reflection. I am real. You are my
image. I am made in His. You do not define me. Oh yes, I do struggle with all
the things you show me. I am broken. There is absolutely no doubt about that.
You are a part of me, but you are not all of me, and you are certainly not
forever. Tomorrow you will look different, just as I will. All of these things
I see in you? They will pass. He will bring redemption and healing and mend the
broken parts of me. And I will tell you this: Sweet woman in the mirror, I will
learn to love you as He loves me. I will learn to be thankful for you, because
you drive me to His thrown of grace. I will learn to never fear you, but
instead to embrace you and speak life to you. There is more than this. There is
healing in His arms, and you remind me of that. So I will remind you, oh broken
reflection, tell you the thing I most long to hear: Take heart and fear not.
Mercy is new every morning. Great is His faithfulness. Believe and live.
