Knowing love

It's Valentine's Day weekend! Oh, boy, a day to celebrate love. What could be nicer?

I'll tell you what could be nicer than celebrating love: actually feeling love. Knowing, down in the very core of your being, that you are loved. That's what could be nicer.

There's a catch to that. To feel loved, you need to feel lovable. You need to know that you--the real you, the person in your body who lives and breathes and moves and does life, you--are loveable. If you're like me, that's not so easy.

I'm a lucky woman. I've been married to my college sweetheart for over 30 years now. I have three wonderful children. But for most of my life, I've struggled with difficulty in feeling loved, in being secure in love.

I've written a few times about my struggle to accept myself just as I am. I was born with an extremely rare disease called Klippel-Trenaunay Syndrome. It's so rare, in fact, that my parents could never find out exactly what was wrong with me. Only after I was an adult and had two children of my own did I learn the name of my disorder. All I knew was that I was deformed.

I had the largest birthmark in the world, or so it seemed to me. My right foot, leg, hip, and trunk were covered in a massive port-wine stain. And to make it worse, that same part of my body was also enlarged and misshapen. My right thigh was 2 1/2 inches larger in circumference than my left thigh.

 a photo I took of my lower leg

Oh, how I hated going swimming. Not because I didn't like to swim, but because I had wear a swimsuit. When I wore long pants, no one could see my birthmark. But in shorts or a swimsuit, I felt like a freak.

People can be cruel, even if they don't mean to be. I particularly remember one summer day when I was about 30 years old. I was at the store, pushing my little ones in a cart, when a woman stopped me, pointed to my birthmark, and shrieked, "What is wrong with your leg?" You could have heard her voice two aisles over. Outwardly I kept my cool and politely answered her question. Inwardly I shrank into a tiny ball, humiliated.

Years went by, and I never realized just how much I had internalized my insecurity about my appearance. After all, I had a husband and three children; life was good. I was able to have my birthmark treated with laser therapy, which lessened its intensity a bit, and I felt fairly comfortable in my own skin.

And then I went through a difficult period in my life, a time when everything seemed to crash around me. Desperate, I sought help from a therapist. Patiently, kindly, she peeled back layer after layer of insecurity, finally landing on the fact that I just couldn't quite believe that anyone--not God, not my husband, not my family or friends--could really love me. Not really. Not when I was so imperfect. I knew that I loved them; I was certain of that. But that they loved me? No. I hoped they did, but I could never quite believe it.

I had to learn that, even though I thought of myself as deformed and ultimately unlovable, that wasn't the truth about me. The truth of the matter was that the only person who didn't love me was me. And in that state of not loving myself, I was unable to fully enjoy the love of others. I didn't trust anyone's love for me, because I simply didn't believe it could be true.

But it is true.

Here's what I've learned, what I am still learning: I am lovable. Not because I'm perfect, because I know I'm not. All it takes is a quick look in the mirror to remind me of my physical imperfection, and a quick look into my heart to remind me of my spiritual imperfection. Nevertheless, I can know that I am lovable because I am loved.

God loves me. He's loved me since I was in my mother's womb, already deformed but not yet exposed to the world. He's never held my shortcomings against me, never withheld his love because of my imperfection.

"We love because He first loved us," the Bible tells us (I John 4:19). Do you see? Not "we love because we're so full of goodness," or "we love because we're so overwhelmed with emotion," but "we love because He first loved us." While I doubted others' love for me, I was certain that I loved them. But I missed the fact that my ability to love came directly from God's love for me.

I always believed in God. I trusted Jesus for my salvation. But I didn't fully believe His words; I didn't quite trust what He said about loving me. I felt unlovable, and I transferred my insecurity into disbelief. Still, He persisted. He kept loving me, kept blessing me, kept wanting me to understand that He, the Lord of all Creation, the King of Kings, declares me--me! the deformed one!--lovable. He sees every bit of me, every piece that I try to hide--and He finds me loveable.

So I celebrate this Valentine's Day with joy because of this precious bit of knowledge: I really am loved. As I grow in this knowledge, I can let go of my insecurities, drop away my self-protection, stop berating myself. It's a hard lesson; it's taking me such a long time to learn. But disbelief never yet altered any facts, and the fact is that I am loved.

And I'm here to tell you that you are loved, too. You are. Do you know?

Joining:

Coffee for Your Heart

Ordinary, everyday miracle

I've written before about one of my life's struggles--dealing with a rare disease that imprinted me with the largest birthmark I've ever seen.  As I've dealt with my own issues, I've learned that lots of people share my struggles.  Although they may not be marked in the same way I am, difficulties with self-image and acceptance affect many of us.

Here's a photo of part of my birthmark.  This is my lower leg, the part that everyone can see if I'm wearing a skirt or shorts.



My birthmark is actually much larger than this; it extends all the way to my upper back and across my torso.

A few days ago, though, I got a jolt.  My birthmark is just one symptom of a rare disease called Klippel-Trenaunay Syndrome.  I'd been advised to see a specialist just to make sure all was well, and I was fortunate to get an appointment with the Vascular Abnormalities Clinic at Duke Medical Center.  Doesn't that sound like fun?

I can't tell you what a relief it was to see physicians who knew all about KTS.  Usually I have to explain my disease to health care professionals; it's so rare that very few people have ever heard of it. But these specialists have treated a number of patients with the disease, and they knew what to look for.  They ordered an ultrasound and an MRI of the veins in my leg.



Of course, I'd noticed that I'm starting to develop some problem veins, such as these spider veins:

What I didn't know was that this area of my birthmark was highly abnormal for someone my age.  Of particular interest was this part of my lower leg.  Looks pretty bad, doesn't it?

My doctors told me that this looks really good for someone with my condition.  They were amazed to learn that I successfully carried three babies to term and gave birth with no complications. They told me that they'd never seen a case of KTS in a person my age with so little damage in the lower extremity.  Apparently they expected that I'd have severe varicose veins and a good deal of skin damage from blood pooling in my lower leg.  While I've struggled with how bad my leg looks, they were puzzled as to why it looks so good, relatively speaking.

The MRI solved the mystery.  As it turns out, my leg is missing a vein.  My doctor called and said, "There's a lateral draining vein that should be present in your leg, and it simply isn't there."  There's no way to tell why I'm missing this vein, but a problem with this vein is what would be responsible for the damage that the doctors were expecting to see.  For reasons unknown, this vein simply never developed in my body.  It's just not there.

"We're not sure why it's not there, but you're one lucky lady," my doctor said to me.  "Whatever the reason, thank God it's not there."  

I think that's the first time I've ever had a medical specialist say "thank God" about my disease.

To be honest, I'm just floored by this news.  This birthmark, which has been so difficult for me to live with, is actually evidence of a little miracle.

And this has me wondering: how many "little" miracles happen in my life every day?  How much of what I take for granted is evidence of God's love and provision?  How many hidden healings are part of my life?  Or of yours?  We're so quick to question God when we see suffering and pain.  I pray that we would be just as quick to praise Him when we see mercy and help.

Dear God, give me eyes to see and ears to hear of Your goodness.

Have you ever seen an ordinary, everyday miracle?

Sharing this at
Thought-Provoking Thursday at 3-D Lessons for Life
Weekend Bloggy Reading at Serenity Now

A shared story

One of the loveliest traditions of our church is weekly communion, particularly because our practice is to have members serve communion to one another.  We all line up and proceed to the front of our worship space, where our fellow members offer the elements, murmuring "Christ's body broken for you" and "Christ's blood shed for you."  It's a beautiful time.

This week I was talking with our Associate Pastor about last Sunday's service.  He told me that he'd asked a lady to serve communion who at first demurred, "Oh, I don't think I could." Puzzled, he asked why.  Her answer: "Because I have a prosthetic hand."

Turns out that her prosthesis was not an impediment at all.  This beautiful lady held the cup steady as worshippers took communion.

But she was surprised that the pastor didn't know about her prosthetic hand before Sunday.  He told me that she'd said, "I just assume. . . "

And before he told me, I could finish her sentence.  I knew what she said.

She said, "I just assume it's the first thing people notice about me."

Of course.

I know that feeling all too well.  That's exactly the way I feel about my birthmark.

Oh, how I wish this were not so.  I'd certainly never noticed the lovely woman at church had a prosthetic hand.  The pastor had never noticed.  Almost nobody had noticed.  Yet she assumed we'd all seen it.  She was certain it's the first thing we saw.  But it's not.

She is not defined by her prosthesis.  I'm not defined by my birthmark.  And despite our self-consciousness, those attributes are not the first thing that people notice.  It's not that people don't notice us; it's just that they're too busy looking into our eyes, listening to our laughs, hearing our voices to see the imperfections that seem so glaring to us.

The truth is, some people know us well and never notice.

Now, I say "the truth is," but I'm still learning that it's the truth.  Last May I wrote a post about dealing with both the ugly and the pretty about myself.  Imagine my surprise when a woman I'd known years ago contacted me about that post.  I knew her well.  She was my junior counselor at camp, which meant that we worked together and played together and slept in the same room together.  We did everything side by side during that time at summer camp.   There's no telling how many times we changed into our swimsuits right there in that room.  Yet when she wrote to me, she told me that she just couldn't remember that I had a birthmark.

Honestly, I still have trouble believing that.  But I know she's a truth-telling woman, so I'm trying to believe it.

Turns out that a lot of us have trouble believing the truth about ourselves.  This week I saw the video called "Real Beauty Sketches" produced by Dove as part of its Real Beauty campaign.  I wept as I watched it.  If you haven't seen it, I urge you to watch it.



And please tell me: is this part of your story, too?

Dealing with the ugly and the pretty

Earlier this week I wrote about beauty, including my best skincare tip.  I shared a photo that my husband had made into an art print.  I love that photo, because it's mostly about the part of me that's pretty--my red hair.  

There's another part of me that's not at all pretty.  In fact, it's ugly.  I've written about this a little before, but mostly I try not to think about it too much.  A couple of weeks ago I was reminded of it rather starkly.  Every spring, when the weather turns warm and I start wearing dresses or shorts, it happens.  This time it happened at church.  A very kind man rushed up to me and asked, "Were you hurt?"  

He asked that question because of my birthmark.

I snapped this photo with my phone.  I was standing in a department store and caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror.  The photo shows just part of my birthmark, of course.  Believe me, you don't want to see all of it.  It covers most of the right side of my body.  Here's a better photo of part of it: 

There's no way to sugar-coat it.  My birthmark is ugly.  It can't be removed, even with sophisticated lasers (I've tried).  It can't be covered with make-up (I've tried).  It can be hidden, of course, if I never allow my legs to show.  I've tried that, too, but that's not really the way I want to live my life.  So the only real option is to deal with the ugly.

Over the years many people have said to me, "Oh, you should realize that your birthmark is beautiful, because this is just how God planned for you to be."  I don't believe this is true. My birthmark is part of a rare disease called Klippel-Trenaunay Syndrome, and disease was not part of God's plan for us when he created everything.  Disease entered the world after Adam and Eve chose to sin against God. What is true is that God is in charge of everything, and He did allow disease to enter the world.  But there's quite a big difference between God's causing something to happen and His allowing something to happen.  

God did allow me to have Klippel-Trenaunay Syndrome, and with it this birthmark. And one thing I know for sure about God is that if He allows something to happen, He wants to redeem it.  He can bring healing and beauty into the most difficult of circumstances.  

Many people toss around the sentiment, "God must be teaching you something."  Well, that's true in some ways, although perhaps not always in the way that people mean.  I've learned a lot from having this birthmark--some of it good, some of it bad.  It's taken a long time to sort the truth from the lies. But I'll tell you the most important thing that God has taught me because of my birthmark:

God loves me.  The whole package of me, God loves.

When I look at myself, I like the view that includes my pretty red hair.  I don't like the view that includes my ugly red birthmark.  It's hard to deal with something ugly. But the ugly birthmark is part of me.  It's an important part of my story, and my story is good.  My story is one of redemption.  My story tells that God is good and faithful and patient and loving.  With John I can say,

"This is the message we have heard from Him and declare to you,

that God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all (I John 1:5).

God loves all of me, the pretty and the ugly.  Just as He loves all of you. I now know this so surely that I wrote a book about my journey. Click here to read more about Mythical Me: Finding Freedom from Constant Comparison or complete this form to receive the first chapter and hit the "subscribe" button to receive the first chapter. (Don't worry—I'll never spam you!)

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Do you have a story that includes both the pretty and the ugly?  I'd love to hear it!

A portrait of grace

Once upon a time there lived a girl who suffered from a rare disorder which had caused her to be born with a birthmark covering most of the right side of her body. The girl was very self-conscious, for her birthmark was very unsightly. Other children laughed and pointed. Adults shook their heads sadly and whispered to one another about it. But aside from her birthmark, the girl was pretty normal, and she had the same hopes and dreams as other girls.

When the girl grew up, she met a boy. The boy was sweet and kind and didn't seem even to notice the girl's birthmark. The boy fell in love with the girl and asked her to marry him, which she gladly did. They had a sweet marriage and they had three boys of their own, none of whom inherited her rare disorder. The years drew on, and they were happy.

But the boy, a family man now, could tell that the girl, a grown woman now, was still bothered by her birthmark. He could tell that she didn't see herself the way he saw her. So he decided to do something about it. At great trouble and significant expense, he arranged for her to have a professional portrait made of herself. He knew the portrait would be lovely, and he wanted his wife to be able to see that lovely image and to know that this was the way he saw her.

That's a true story. I know that story because I am the girl. When my husband and I had been married 15 years, he arranged for me to have a portrait made. He wanted me to be able to see myself as he sees me--not as a woman marred by an unsightly birthmark, but as the one he loves.

My story is probably not the same as yours. You probably don't have a rare disorder that caused a birthmark covering much of your body. But I'm willing to bet that you feel marked in some way.

Perhaps you are underweight, or maybe you are overweight. Perhaps you have too much hair, or maybe your hair is falling out. Perchance you are extremely short, or it may be that you are remarkably tall. Maybe you are very shy and feel that you never know what to say, or perhaps you're very outspoken and often feel that you talk too much. Chances are good that you possess some characteristic that seems to be the most noticeable thing about you.

But I have good news for you. That flaw that feels so obvious, that characteristic which causes you such distress, that issue that feels completely insurmountable (I know how it feels, believe me!)--no matter what it is--it doesn't define you. You may find this hard to believe, but the way you see yourself is not necessarily the way others see you.

And above all, that's not the picture of you that God carries in his heart.

You're not perfect, are you? But you don't have to be. God sees you as His beloved child. He thinks of you in the same way that a proud papa thinks of his newborn--not as a red, wrinkly, funny-looking little creature, but as the most beautiful baby ever to be born. He looks at you through eyes of love and grace, and He is so proud of you.

Sometimes, when I'm not feeling very pretty, I look at my portrait. I remind myself that the portrait is a more faithful picture of how my husband sees me than the image I see in the mirror. Perhaps you need that kind of portrait of yourself. Here's a word picture for you to pull out and remember on those days:

"The king is enthralled by your beauty. Honor him, for he is your Lord" (Psalm 45:10).

It's hard to believe, isn't it? God knows that. But He wants you to believe. Listen to these words from Ephesians 3:

"I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power. . . to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God."

See? The prayer is that you have power--not power to do great things or accomplish wonderful works--but power to understand the love of Christ. A love that surpasses knowledge--including your knowledge of your flaws. A love that sees you through the lens of grace.

It's a beautiful picture.

**Joining Emily at Chatting at the Sky for a celebration of Grace**

The sweetest gift

Last week I posted pictures of my master bedroom. After reading that post, one of my readers asked about this photo:

"Is that you?" she asked. Yes, it's me. That portrait has hung in my house for 10 years now. It's just part of the scenery. I tend to take it for granted. But I shouldn't. That portrait tells a love story.

You see, I've always struggled with self-esteem, particularly regarding my appearance. When I was a child, I lived in a family of beautiful ducks, and I was an ugly duckling. But my self-esteem issues went much deeper than you'd expect for a girl who was an awkward adolescent. I've had some help figuring out the root of my struggles, and I've learned that they're mostly rooted in the fact that I have a birthmark that covers most of the right side of my body. It's a multi-faceted issue, and in the past few years I've made a lot of progress in dealing with it.

But 10 years ago I was right in the thick of it. Although my husband didn't understand all the issues involved in my struggle, he knew I was struggling. And he wanted to help.

"I just wish you could see yourself the way I see you," he would say. He thought I was pretty, but I couldn't see myself that way. I could only see myself as the girl with the birthmark.

Finally he came up with a plan. For our 15th wedding anniversary, he bought me a lovely gift. But more importantly, he asked me to give him a gift. "I want a portrait of you," he said. "I want you to find a real photographer and have a portrait made of yourself. Not of you and the boys, not of our house, not of anything but you. I want a full-length portrait of you."

Is that the sweetest thing you've ever heard? And he was serious.

I resisted for awhile, but he persisted. He pushed. He prodded. He helped. He enlisted the help of a friend. And in the end, I got to be Queen for a Day--a day of having my hair styled, putting on an evening gown, going to the photographer's studio and out on location, and having my portrait made. I learned that a good photographer takes lots of photos and that some of those end up being good--good enough that even I had to admit that they were pretty. Even though the woman in the portrait has a birthmark, that's not what shows. In all those photos, there's not one glimpse of my birthmark. And that's the way my husband sees me.

I always see my birthmark, and I assume that's what other people see, too. I assume the worst. In his loving way, my husband wanted me to know that my vision was skewed.

Did it work? Did I learn to look at myself the way my husband sees me? Well, not completely. I've continued to struggle with this issue, and I'm still wrestling with it. But it helped. And that gesture was one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me.

What a treat for me to be reminded--a gift gratefully unwrapped this Tuesday with Emily.

On being honest

It's that time of year again. Time to put away all the winter clothing and pull out the shorts, sundresses, and swimsuits.

And the self-consciousness.

I do pretty well in the wintertime. When I'm wearing long pants or jeans, I feel pretty good about myself. But as soon as I start wearing summer clothes, I start focusing on all that's wrong with me.

I've worn a pretty dress to church a couple of times lately, like this one on Mother's Day. My husband snapped some photos of me after church.

Cute, huh? I fixed my hair a little more glam than usual for Mother's Day:

I've received lots of compliments on my dresses. Several people have commented on how bright and springy I've looked. But you know what's been on my mind? My legs. Summer clothes always make me think about my legs. Or, specifically, about my birthmark.

And, sure enough, a new friend who'd never really seen my legs approached and laughingly said, "Have you been playing in the poison ivy?"

That was a completely innocent question. It was a light-hearted but concerned remark. No insult was intended, and I know it. So I gave my standard answer in an equally light-hearted voice, "No, it's just a birthmark."

Later that same day, though, another person asked about my birthmark. Although she's known me for awhile, she had never before noticed my birthmark. After remarking on it, she said, "It doesn't bother you, does it?" She was sincere. She's a good person, and she's my friend, but I didn't know how to answer her.

The honest answer is that my birthmark does bother me. It always has. That's the truth, and it's taken an awful lot of soul-searching for me to be able to admit it. But I've developed another problem.

You see, I don't want to be bothered by it. I want to be able to view it through God's eyes. I want to rest assured that God looks on the heart and isn't a bit troubled by my birthmark. I know this is the truth. I know it in my head, that is. I want to know it in my heart. I feel like I should know it in my heart. I feel ashamed that I don't already have complete confidence in this.

Lately, though, a funny thing has happened to me. I've started admitting to God when I have feelings that I'm ashamed of. I told Him that I feel like I'm lagging behind in being well-adjusted regarding this birthmark thing. I apologized to Him. I told Him that I knew that I shouldn't feel bad about my birthmark.

And when I did that, God spoke to me.

Does that sound crazy to you? I don't mean that God spoke out loud to me, although He could certainly do that if He so chose. I believe that He usually speaks to us through His written word. But this time God spoke directly to me. When I told Him that I knew that I shouldn't feel bad about my birthmark, guess what He said?

He said, "You didn't hear that from Me."

What? At first I didn't understand. But as I've puzzled and studied and meditated about it, I think I've finally realized what He meant.

It IS true that the Lord looks on the heart. It IS true that God loves me just as I am, that He's not at all bothered by the fact that my body is so imperfect. But I was thinking that God was disappointed in me because I still struggle with what I know to be a superficial issue. I was ashamed of myself because this issue is difficult for me.

I've finally realized that my feelings about it aren't at all offensive to God. I've been ashamed because I'm not spiritually mature enough that my birthmark doesn't bother me. I've wanted to be able to say, "My birthmark used to bother me, but I've learned that it really doesn't matter." God is teaching me that He would far rather that I just be honest with Him.

I love to read the sixth chapter of Matthew's gospel, where Jesus teaches that we shouldn't worry about things. And I love to read the eleventh chapter of the same book, where Jesus invites us to lay down our burdens and partake of His rest. As I've read these lately, I've realized something I never realized before:

Jesus is very sympathetic.

He doesn't demand that I have a handle on my feelings. He doesn't require that I already be more spiritually mature than I am. He knows that something as superficial as a birthmark has been a really hard thing to deal with. He doesn't chastise me by saying that it shouldn't bother me. He doesn't say, "No one ever notices it; it's no big deal." He knows all about my pain, and He doesn't pressure me to get over it. He just invites me to give it to Him, to let Him carry it.

And now I'm wondering: is there anyone else who struggles like this? Do you? Is there anything that bothers you, but at the same time makes you think that you shouldn't be bothered by it? Is there anything that you've felt like you couldn't really be honest with God about? I'd sure like to hear about it.

An unexpected gift

This past week I got something that really, really surprised me. Just blew me away.

A couple of weeks ago I shared the story of my birthmark and how I realized that I'd defined myself by this imperfection. And I got the kindest, most supportive comments about that post. Emily reminded me of Brennan Manning's wisdom that there is more power in sharing our weaknesses than our strengths. It's true: I felt so relieved and glad after I'd shared this truth about myself, as if a burden had been lifted from my shoulders.

But I got a comment this past week that just floored me. Melanie wrote: "This post brought tears to my eyes. You are beautiful--not in spite of the birthmark, but maybe even because of it."

What? Because of it??

Melanie got me to thinking: Perhaps there is something good about me that I possess solely because of my birthmark. And I think that's probably true, not just for me, but for all of us. There's something about our hardships that makes us kinder. Or more sympathetic. Or more understanding. Or something else--but something good.

I don't believe that God gave me this birthmark. This particular birthmark is the result of a medical condition (a very rare syndrome called Klippel-Trenaunay Syndrome), and I don't think that God gives us diseases. I believe that disease entered the world because of man's sin, not because of God's desires. We live in a fallen world, and disease is one of the sufferings we must endure.

But the fact is that God is the boss, and I am a child of His, so nothing that happens to me is unknown or unnoticed by Him. He did not design disease for me or for anyone else, but He does allow us to have these diseases. And if He allows it, He wants to redeem it. He wants there to be some good that comes of it. "We know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose" (Romans 8:28). Or, as The Message puts it: "That's why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good."

So, now that I think about it, I can be more beautiful because of something ugly. Thank you, Melanie, for the unexpected gift. And thank you, Emily, for prompting us to recognize the gifts in our everyday lives.

Read more at Tuesdays Unwrapped. Your soul will be blessed.

Defining Moment

Every Tuesday Emily at Chatting at the Sky hosts Tuesdays Unwrapped. I love the way Emily challenges herself and us to look at life honestly and to experience the reality of life. And today I want to share what is, for me, an important moment from last week at the beach: a moment in which I took a photo of myself.

First, though, here's a photo from our trip to the beach last year.


I love photographs, but I don't usually love photographs of me. This one is different. My husband took this at Kiawah Island, our favorite vacation spot. Kiawah was where we honeymooned 24 years ago, and it's where we've taken our boys for many years now.

But the real reason I love this photo is because it's very selective. It only shows the part of me that I like. And as I sat at Kiawah this past week, I realized just how much I have defined myself by the part of me that doesn't show in this photo.

You see, I have a birthmark. A really big birthmark. The biggest I've ever seen. It covers most of the right side of my body. It's actually a symptom of very rare disorder called Klippel-Trenaunay Syndrome.

And over the years I have lied about my birthmark. Many times, people have asked me, "Does it hurt?" Invariably, I say, "No; it doesn't hurt."

That's not true. It does hurt. It doesn't hurt much physically; it's a little uncomfortable sometimes. But emotionally it does hurt. It hurts to look funny; it hurts to have people stare at you; it hurts to have people exclaim, "Oh my gosh! What happened to you?"

But the fact is that I've let it define me. In spite of having a husband who loves me and who thinks I'm beautiful, I've thought of myself as someone who could look okay but could never be beautiful.
Even now I can hear Nester's voice: "It doesn't have to be perfect to be beautiful." I agree with her. I heartily concur with her. And yet I haven't been able to think of myself in those terms.

Maybe, I've thought, just maybe I can look okay as long as you don't look at my birthmark. If you take that part out, like in my favorite photo, I can look okay. But the overall picture? No way it could be beautiful.

And so I've let my imperfection define the way I think about myself. And as I sat on the porch of our cottage this past week, it occurred to me that it just doesn't make sense for me to define myself according to an imperfection, no matter how glaring.

So I took a photo of my legs. It's not a good photo, because I snapped it of myself. You know how photos taken at close range can look a bit distorted. But it does give you a sense of what my birthmark is like. The birthmark extends all the way up my leg and covers most of my right torso, as well. Like I said, it's the biggest birthmark I've ever seen.


But it is what it is. I would change it if I could. I've had it treated with lasers multiple times, with limited results. (By the way, the laser technology is wonderful and often very effective. It's just that it wasn't available until I was about 35 years old, by which time there was only so much effectiveness that could be expected. For a child or youth, though, it's a process that would be extremely effective.)

In short, this is a part of me that I cannot change. The only thing I can change is my attitude about it. And I am deciding to accept the fact that the person in my favorite photo is the same person as the one in the second photo. I can be imperfect and still be okay.

I don't have to hide my imperfections in order to be acceptable; I just need to accept myself.