What the wrinkles say

Categorized as Rhonda's Posts


So this mornin’, the sun was shinin’, and I was sittin’ out in my favorite spot in the whole wide world, out there on the famous BOS (Bright Orange Swing). ‘Cause that’s where Jesus and I, we chat. And I was thinkin’ over this season, what He’s been doin’, all that He’s teachin’, and all that I’ve been learnin’. And I was thinkin’, too, about wrinkles.

Wrinkles and flaws and the curse of aging. Yup. I said ‘the curse.’

Because in the beginning, you see, back before that apple and the bite and the pointing of fingers. In that one garden, you know, that was lovely as all get out? It wasn’t like this. No germs or mosquitoes or fightin’ or hurtin’ or anything ugly like that. And there were no wrinkles.

But then Eve bit the fruit, Adam tagged along, and it all hit the skids at that point.

Shoot fire.

Anyway, on this side of Eden, it’s death and decay and the rest of that stuff. So now, here in the year of our Lord Two Thousand Sixteen on The Girl’s __th birthday, reality must be faced. “Hey, Dorothy. We’re not in Kansas any more, and we’re not 18.”

Shoot–well, you know.

Anyway. Someone Close To Me has been teachin’ me what he’s learned about women. And I’m just gonna pass on what he’s been tellin’ me. ‘Cause girl, if you ain’t got a man like this, then you really need to hear his perspective. For it’s a good one, and I’m tellin’ you, I really do think it’s the truth.

He of Great Wisdom says that a woman’s wrinkles, her stretch marks, her softening skin, her sun spots, the streaks in her hair say this: that she’s lived. That she’s a survivor. That she’s made it.

And, according to him, that all equates to (hear me, now) true beauty.

This is the fellow that has told me times infinity that he doesn’t care how physically attractive a woman is; if she’s got the personality of a cement block or the intellect of a turnip, he ain’t interested. So a “well-worn” woman with the patina of age; a weathered girl with some miles on her treads. A woman of joy, full of love, heart that’s open–now that, he tells me, is gorgeous.

So this mornin’, I go out, have coffee, chat with The Friend, and run my miles. A friend and her boy and I and my boy, we’re gonna go grab manna that would make the Israelites bawl (read, Jo-Jo-s Pretzels), so I’m gearin’ up, and what I’m blastin’ on the Pill is…


Now hear me on this. So far, the Lord hasn’t kicked me out of the kingdom because I like a little rock-n-roll. He hasn’t. So on my Birth Day morning, the sun, it’s shinin’ and my heart is flyin’, and I’m rockin’ to Survivor. And all at once I know this, that for most of my life, I was a survivor. Struggling along in fear. In-secure-ity. Pain. Shame. Self- and other-contempt. But now, on this special birthday, I know that I know that I–yes, I know that I am more than just a Survivor. I am a Thriver.

A Thriver with some wrinkles. Some sun spots. Some springy, white hairs, and a few marks from giving birth.

And that man, my husband, says it’s all beautiful. And Jesus, I know, is noddin’.

Yes, I believe I know that, too.

Waving and smilin’, prayin’ for your own thrivin’,


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