WRINKLES OF TIME

i spend a good bit of money every month on oil of olay, anti-aging, fragrance free face serum. every morning and evening i religiously smooth the costly cream into my skin hoping to stare into the face of a 20 year old when i pass a mirror. so far i see nothing different about me, except that my hand-bag is much lighter from the perpetual contribution i make to paying for the bmw and rolex of oil of olay's head executives. so why do i do it? i ask myself this question daily as i smear on hand lotion or add another layer of sugar and spice lipgloss or blot out the oil on my nose with a fuzzy puff and fine pressed powder. i see my mother's face and i can recall the exact moment i saw some of her wrinkles appear. there is one by her left eye that was caused by laughing at my sister and i as we romped and played when we both came home one weekend one November. there is one by her mouth that formed as she worried about my grandmother who had fallen and broken her hip. one on her forhead that shaped itself during hours pouring over wedding books and martha stewart magazines to help me create the classy wedding i wanted on a meager budget. several creases have appeared over students whom she watched turn from loving God to infatuation with the world. i would be sad if she tried to erase the story her face tells. every moment is mapped out in its hills and valleys. that is the way it is supposed to be. we are picture pages of how God has rewarded us, refined us, led us, rebuked us, loved us. i can't say i'll never pull out the oil of olay again- but i can say that i am meditating on the lovliness of experience and the beautymarks that are testaments to what God has done to change me inside and out.