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a Non-Profit 501 (C) (3) Organization Founded by Award-Winning Christian Author/Speaker Lisa Freeman "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal…" Ecclesiastes 3:1-3
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In God's Image
"Hey Brian," someone called from behind. Not again, I thought as I rolled my eyes. I turned around. It was Tyler, one of my brother’s friends. "Brian’s at home sick." "Oh, I’m sorry, Melissa," Tyler apologized with a smirk. "Could you have him call me?" I nodded and continued toward home. Why can’t everyone see that I’m not Brian? Yeah, I may wear baggy blue jeans and t-shirts, but that doesn’t make me a guy. Even the teachers at the Junior High think Brian and I are twins. If they had looked at their records, they would have known that the only reason we were both in the 8th grade is because I had been held back when I was younger. Entering the front door, I kicked off my tennis shoes and started toward my bedroom. As I walked through the kitchen, my mom was taking dinner out of the oven. She looked up. "Honey, are you okay?" I wanted to run and hide, but instead, I plopped into a chair and sighed. "Everyone thinks I’m Brian." My mom put her hand on my shoulder. "Well, you two are only a year a part, you’re about the same height, and you both have short, blonde hair." "I know, but I just want to be me. I wish I had a look all of my own." Caressing my cheek, my mom kissed my forehead. "Melissa, you are definitely you. And I love you just the way you are." I lugged my backpack to my bedroom and sat down in front of my mirror. Staring at my short hair, I wished it was long again. At least then, maybe people wouldn’t think I was Brian. My eyes were drawn to my sixth grade basketball picture sitting on my bookshelf. I definitely looked like a girl then. "God, please let my hair grow," I prayed aloud. A memory from that horrible summer day plagued my mind. After seeing the movie "Motorcrossed" and how cute the girl in the movie looked, I decided to give myself the same short hair-do. No problem, right? At least, that’s what I thought until I started whacking my bangs. One side was always shorter, and every time I tried to even it up, I took that much more hair off. The lady at the beauty parlor wasn’t thrilled when I walked through the door the next day. "I’ll try to do something with it," she said. I left with some type of spike do—but nothing like the girl in the movie. I glanced in the mirror again. It had been six months, and still my bangs were way above my eyes. I really do look like Brian. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Is my hair ever going to grow back? Realizing there was nothing I could do, I sat at my desk and started on my homework. "Dinner," Mom called. "I’ll be out in a minute," I hollered back. "I just have one more math problem to do." When I arrived at the table, everyone had already filled their plates with fried chicken, dumplings, and mashed potatoes. After my dad prayed over the food, he handed me the platter of chicken. "No thanks," I said. "C’mon," he coaxed. "This is your favorite." "I guess I’m just not very hungry." I glanced over at Brian almost snorting his food down. Disgusting! "Can I be excused?" "But, Melissa, you haven’t eaten a thing," my mom said. "And you have youth group tonight. At least eat some potatoes." I plopped a small spoonful of potatoes on my plate and picked at them. Brian was already digging in for seconds. "Since Melissa doesn’t want any chicken, can I have hers?" Before my mom and dad could say a thing, he had swiped the last piece of greasy chicken from the platter. I looked across the table. How could anyone mistake me for him? We were nothing alike. After I finished eating, I rinsed my plate. Of course Brian left his on the table. As I cleared the table and put the leftovers away, I glared at Brian watching television in the living room. Because of his heart problem, it seemed as though Mom and Dad always babied him, while I did all the work. Later that night at youth group, our youth leader said, "Tonight we’re going to talk about creation." Great, I thought. Another teaching on Adam and Eve. Why can’t we just play a game or something? I half listened as we went through the first several verses in the first chapter of Genesis. I had heard it so many times before, I figured, what was the point. But when I heard verse 26, it seemed as though a light bulb went on inside my head. The youth leader’s words vibrated in my mind, "Let us make man (woman) in our image…" He went on to explain that each and every being was made in God’s image, and that although we may resemble our mother, father, sister or brother, we are each unique and individual. Our youth lesson stayed on my mind the entire night. As I got ready for bed, I glanced in the mirror. Tonight my reflection seemed to glow—it seemed different. I took a closer look. The words "in God’s image" came back to me again. My blue eyes, freckles, and even my hair, was made in God’s image. I may look similar to my brother, Brian, but I wasn’t made in his image—I was made in God’s image. Instead of being upset about my appearance, I realized that I should be proud. Because God thought enough about me, to allow me to be created like Him. |
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