My Duncan Mirror

I feel fat. And puffy. And, no, those two things aren’t the same thing.

Sure, I can still see my feet, and that’s good, but there are little things that are startling and wear me down emotionally. The amount of effort it takes to roll over in bed is depressing. If I’m on the couch on my back, there’s no way I’m getting up unless someone is there to help me. Otherwise, I’ll just lie there like a beetle.

I can’t get any of my shoes on except flip-flips. And now even the flip flops leave indentations in my Pillsbury dough feet. My beautiful, sparkly engagement ring that was so thoughtfully and perfectly picked out for me a little more than a year ago cuts into my finger, and now sits in my jewelry box. On their own, these are small things. But added all together, they can start to wear me down.

Each one of them whispers to me, “you’re pudgy”, “you’re fat”, “your old body is gone and it’s never coming back”. Really, it’s a completely unexpected form of vanity that I’m trying to learn to deal with. But in the meantime…

There’s my husband. That wonderful, wonderful man who looks at me like I’m actually growing more beautiful every day, instead of pudgier and doughier. Who rubs my big, fat belly like there’s a precious treasure inside (there is). Who brushes my hair out of my face every night before we pray and looks deeply into my eyes and wants to know what he can pray about for our family.

I was reminded on Facebook this week by a very good friend that he is to be my mirror. This friend actually did our pre-marital counseling (along with her husband). We learned that I can’t always see myself in the truest light. I can’t always see my flaws, I can’t always see my best attributes, I can’t always see what might be standing between me and God. But Duncan can.

And sometimes I need to let him be my mirror. I need to look to him to see what I can’t see.

So what does he see?

Well, let me tell you, it would be easy for him to see a decidedly unfeminine blob of skin that twitches in the abdomen every once in a while. He’s spent the last several nights on the couch, because his wife is snoring like a lumberjack in the bedroom and he can’t sleep. You would think that after several nights of sleeping most of the time on a lumpy couch, with one pillow and no turning room and a little blanket, it would get pretty old. You would start to think, “hey, this is my house too, I deserve to sleep in the bed.” You might start to wonder how the little girl you married, who, admittedly, wasn’t a noiseless sleeper before, turned into a huge, bellowing, selfish sleep-bomb. It might start to make you a little grumpy in the morning.

But not D. He slips back into bed with me in the morning and pulls me close and smiles and says, “How did you rest, love?” There isn’t a hint of anger or guilt or anything negative. There’s just…love.

He could look at me, see my expanding belly, blame that on my snoring, and dislike it.

He could look at me, see my well-rested but puffy eyes, resent them and be mad.

But he doesn’t.

In him, my reflection looks joyful. Glowing. Life-sustaining. And to him, those things are feminine. Those things are blessed by the Lord. Those things are to be celebrated.

I’m thankful for the mirror he is to me… may I learn to look at that mirror more than the vanity-tainted mirror of my own. And I’m thankful to the Lord for giving me that mirror in Duncan.