Made in His Image

Sometimes I sit in front of a mirror and stair at my image for what could be described as a long time. I tilt my head left, I tilt it right; I move it left to right, up and down. Then I look straight into the reflection of my eyes and curl my lips in satisfaction. Words protrude from my mouth, muttering; ‘you are beautiful.’

‘Vain, she is vain’, the world quickly remarks.

I am beautiful. Yes, I am absolutely beautiful. I can look at myself, in any form, at any time, in any place and say this about myself; as an unquestionable fact, as a sincere truth, as a faithful belief.

Whoever may read this in future, I must remind now that in every doubt, in every mistake, in every choice, every word, action, every move, I know that my purpose is greater than my understanding. My spirit has been to places I would have never walked, it has had conversations I would have never spoken, it has given birth where I could have never conceived, it has seen death where my eyes have never looked.

I am beautiful because I can appreciate that I will never know who my being has touched or how I have been an integral part of many momumental occurrences; not only do I appreciate, but I am grateful for a path I may never fully understand

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