One Kind of Perfect {Part 1}

There's something amazing about God {pulled out from among the infinite ways He is GOOD and faithful and loving} that is hard and wonderful and mind-blowing.

How He refuses to let us continue in our sin.

Just thinking about that makes my head twist. First of all He created us. We messed that up good. Second of all, He died for us. We can't accept it without trying to earn it. Third of all {it makes you wonder how He can keep on bothering} He continues to bail us out. Because this, this ladies, is a God who CARES.

I confess that I am not good at catching on. When something goes wrong, God's goodness is the first thing out the window. Then He's subjected to a lot of worrying, fretting, complaining, ect. because I've got to fix this. Me. I'm gonna figure out what the dickens is wrong and make it work again.

Not so, as the Psalmist says, the wicked.

Because the very thing I'm trying to fix - trying to make go away - is what God is using to teach me the truth that will bring me one step closer to Him.

You'd think by now I would have figured this pattern out, but I haven't.

Take, for example, last month.

You know how it says in Proverbs 31 that "charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised"?

Do you want to know how badly I screwed that one up?

When I was younger, my mom always called me "average" - which I took to mean that I wasn't as thin as my sister and probably a little overweight - and I was. I didn't like it, but I was too lazy to change.

A little less than a year ago, I started running {consistently}, came across the idea of portion control, and made healthier food choices. That's all. It's amazing what just those three things can do. I lost 13 pounds and had to get new jeans and ditch some of my skirts. People noticed. It felt GOOD.

Now before you get the wrong idea about where I'm going with this: no, this isn't a story about anorexia. When it comes to that, this is me:

However, as that 'success' went to my head and gave me the wrong idea about my image, I turned twenty and my dad lifted the ban on makeup.

It was fun at first. I didn't really need it, but it made me look just that much better. It wasn't until I realized that I didn't feel pretty without it that the problem began.

You've already heard {well briefly} the saga of the eyelashes. Now I will tell you the saga of the skin.

 See, I usually have pretty clear skin. It's always been {I'll be honest} a point of pride and a comparison mark for me. I got the occasional breakout, but hey, what is coverup for? In February, however, it didn't stop. My face was a mess. Even my dad {my dad!} noticed. He asked me {with considerable bluntness} "what happened to your complexion?"

I was devastated.

My father had noticed those red blotches all over my face. Great Scott, was there a lower depth to be plumbed? I was losing my beauty! Coverup wasn't making a dent. I couldn't figure out what was causing it. I became the mirror's face, I looked in it so often. I would literally stand there for minutes on end and bemoan my skin - and my eyelashes {which were acting up again. If it doesn't rain, it pours} And of course I compared myself to other girls.

*sigh* I remember when my skin used to look like that...

Does she know how lucky she is to have such thick eyelashes?

Phew, at least my complexion isn't that bad.   

I wonder how much makeup she uses to get that look?

I suppose if you guys haven't all had the same thoughts at one point, you'd probably stop reading now.

But there's more.

The world has this standard called 'beauty' and it's all on the outside. It's funny how we fall so easily for the pictures on the magazine covers without remembering that not even the models and actresses on those covers look that way in real life.

Now I know that unless I am an airbrushed model on a magazine cover, I will never look like an airbrushed model on a magazine cover. That's just the way it is. I can't Photoshop my face while it's still attached to my body so there's certainly no hope for me in that quarter. And, normally, I'm ok with that.

But when that precedent slips and I don't catch myself and remember that only the world defines beauty as what's on the outside, I find myself caught in the trap that says "this is beauty and there is no other. How much will you sacrifice to attain it?"

Apparently, a lot.

It wasn't so much what I was doing to my face {I'm not really comfortable with more than a smidgen of makeup} but my mindset when I looked in the mirror. It sounds silly, but you can become obsessed with how you could look.

I looked in the mirror and that became my focus. How can I get back what I used to have? How can I make this a face that will make me want to look again? Will I ever be able to see myself and be satisfied?

That's what scared me the most. I was no longer satisfied by what I saw in the mirror. I had set a new standard for myself, based on unattainable things, and I couldn't reach it.

I couldn't be the beautiful that gave me worth on it's merits alone.

It was all out horrible and I hated it, but I felt trapped. I had picked up the world's measuring stick and allowed it to set my standards of worth. Breaking out of those standards - letting go of the ideal of "perfection" - was suddenly unthinkable. I wanted out, but I couldn't give up the idea that there was no going back and being content with the way things used to be.

I was stuck wanting - and never getting - that 'more'.

And that is the sad, pathetic struggle of this story. Part 2 will come {with all due hope} next week.

Till next time!