|(Photo by Anna Hart)|
I counted to ten then I paused.
How many blemishes clutter my brow?
I counted to ten then I stopped.
What number of hairs have slipped from my bun?
I guessed one hundred then was done.
So many insecurities fill my heart,
I might as well count them by light-years.
How red my skin turns when I am embarrassed.
How my voice sounds when recorded.
Or any bit of me captured on cam'ra.
The list could go on for forever.
in-se-cu-ri-ties: (plural noun)
Things we despise about ourselves,
Yet wouldn't be ourselves without.
The things we cringe at in mirrors,
And our friends smile at in pictures.
We wonder what they see in us;
Why such nice people stick around
And watch us, the misfits, stumble.
Which one of us is truly blind?
Better yet, who can truly see?
Whose vision dare we rely on?
Our selves, who see us ev'ry day,
And always verbally wounds us?
The friends who see us at our best,
And are, frankly, quite biased?
Or our Maker who sees our all;
Our flops, failures, and bruises,
Yet loves us, somehow, through all that,
And died for us - recall that?
I dare you to look through His eyes,
Next time you look at yourself.
His embrace alone is secure,
Despite the fact that you aren't.