I've decided I'm too old for lots of things I used to put up with. Like cheap tampons.
Early on in my adult life, I learned the lesson that just because my parents could afford to provide me with clothes from Talbot's, it doesn't mean that at age 22, I could continue to do so.
That discovery was made during a very embarrassing trip to Talbot's to return about $600 worth of clothes I couldn't afford. Lesson learned: look at the price tags. Mama ain't here to do it for me any more.
I am currently enamored with the Christmas song, "Mary Did You Know?" Here is a link to the song if you're not familiar. It's worth a listen.
What has captured my thoughts is the line, "And when you kiss your little baby, you've kissed the face of God."
What could that have felt like? To kiss the actual, physical face of God? And to have it disguised as a child?
Did she know?
Could she comprehend? If not, when did the pieces fall into place? At that first miracle at the wedding in Cana? At what point did she really know what ... or whom ... she was dealing with?*
But what occurred to me the other day is that I kiss the face of God every day. Every time I kiss my children ... every time I kiss my husband ... every time I kiss the top of one of my children's friends heads ... I am also kissing God.
We are God's sons and daughters. Adopted, yes, but no less family. No less kin. No less image-bearers.
I wish I remembered that more when my kids are fighting. Or disobeying. Or procrastinating. Or pouting. Maybe that's my Christmas wish for myself this year. Don't see them as little bickering gremlins with a crappy attitude.
Look into their eyes, smile, and kiss the face of God.
{Today's 5 Minute Friday word prompt is "reflect."}
Last night, I spent quite a while looking back through photos of me over the last three years. Not because I entirely enjoy seeing myself in photos. I honestly despise a lot of them. My skin is blotchy, my weight see-saws between Hot Mama and "crap, another pair of pants I can't breathe in." And I have made a few (well....more than a few) really heinous fashion faux-pas over the years. I am frequently Ann Hathaway from The Devil Wears Prada before her Stanley Tucci makeover, sans the onion bagel.
But I was looking back through these pictures because I'm cutting my hair off today for the first time in about three years. Three years ago, my darling husband asked me to grow out my hair so he could see what it looked like long. Because then it was really short.
So I did. I kinda wanted to see it, too.
So it grew.
And it grew.
And it grew.
Until now it is longer than my hair has ever been in my life. But you know what I discovered?
