I can definitely relate to this!
It was not the best morning I've ever had.
It started with me frantically shoving apart the clothes hanging in my closet, looking for something to wear to church. Nothing!
I yelled downstairs, "Mom, where's my red dress? You know, the new one!"
"In your closet, dear."
"No, it's not! I looked a million times! Is it at the dry cleaners?"
"Oh, yes. I forgot. Wear something else."
I flew back into my room and continued my search. Out of desperation, I tried on the dress with the lace trim Aunt Myrtle gave me for my birthday. I took a look in the mirror. I looked like a 4-year-old dressed by her mother. "Forget this,"
I said to myself. I got out of that awful dress and tossed it on the floor.
HONK! Dad was leaning on the car horn, getting impatient. I threw on a pair of khakis and a sweater and dashed downstairs. As I hurried out to the car, I took one last glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. Something's wrong. I have no eyelashes. I'd forgotten my make-up. I grabbed my mascara and a small mirror and headed for the car.
As I jumped into the car, my 12-year-old brother demanded, "What took you so long?"
"Don't ask!" I snapped.
Dad pulled onto the street and I started putting on my mascara. Suddenly, we hit a bump, which caused my mascara wand to go into my eye, which then began to water, sending streams of black gunk down my cheek. "Great," I said under my breath.
I tried to clean off the ugly smudges, first with my hand, then with a tissue, but that only made them worse.
My brother laughed, "Nice face!"
We pulled into the church parking lot. I got out of the car and rushed into the church with my hands covering my face.
I headed straight for the bathroom, praying I wouldn't walk into anyone.
It took me a few minutes to get the streaks of mascara off my face. But once my face was clean, I couldn't help but notice that I was having an exceptionally bad hair day. "That's perfect," I muttered sarcastically. My attempts to fix it only made matters worse, so I gave up and hurried out the door.
Naturally, I bumped right into—and I mean literally bumped into!--Adam Smith, the guy I'd had a major crush on since I was 10.
"I'm so sorry," said Adam.
"Uh … no, no. It's my fault!"
I answered. Great, Jamie, I thought. You're making such a good impression.
As we stood there, I couldn't help but think of "Beauty and the Beast," only this time the "Beauty" was the guy. I was sure Adam could see my hands trembling as I struggled for something clever to say. After what seemed an eternity, I told him I needed to find a seat and walked away.
Considering the morning I'd had, I was in no mood for company. So I grabbed a spot in the back row, away from my family. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Adam. Go away! I thought, but he sat down next to me anyway. OK, as long as I don't have to say anything, I think I'll be alright. So, of course, he said, "Did you have a good week?"
"Um, yeah," I answered. Thankfully, the service started and I didn't have to elaborate. By the time the pastor got to the sermon, my mind had begun to wander. I was thinking about my horrible morning and worrying about what Adam was thinking. For a moment, my mind tuned back in to the pastor. He was reading from Matthew 6.
"And why do you worry about clothes?" he read. "See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?"
It was like he was talking right to me. Getting a little defensive, I thought, Everyone I know stresses over clothes! What's wrong with that?
"But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well."
Yeah, right, Pastor. That's a lot easier said than done. You haven't had a morning like mine.
At the end of the service I hurriedly said goodbye to Adam and headed to the car. The ride home crept by as my family drilled me with questions. "No," I answered, "he's not my new boyfriend."
When we got home, I went to my room. Aunt Myrtle's dress lay in a heap, along with about half of my wardrobe. What a mess! Between trying to find the perfect outfit, getting the mascara off my face and running into Adam, it was amazing I'd lived to tell about it.
But as I started picking up my clothes, I remembered the words the pastor read: "Don't worry." And I couldn't help but wonder if I'd worried too much about what I wore, what my eyelashes looked like, or even what Adam might have thought of me. After all, my morning wasn't even close to perfect, but I got through it. And all my worrying didn't make things go any smoother. In fact, my panic to look the right way and say the right things actually made things worse.
Maybe next time things aren't going quite the way I want them to go, I'll remember those lilies of the field.
