Black marker. Dry erase. The mirror’s long, stuck on the wall between door and sink. Sit on the bed, the mirror can’t see you, but you can see it. You see those three words. Italicized print, it would be called. Thick letters traced over and again, emphasizing the message, driving it deep.
you look good.
Read the mirror, she says. You look towards the reflective silver, even though you know what’s already there. It can’t possibly be true, though. Can it? You don’t feel like you look good. You didn’t look good this morning, did you? Standing in front of that mirror, you toss your hair behind you with a careless flick of your hand. It bounces. Flops. Frizzes. That doesn’t look good.
You doubt the mirror. Doubt those words.
You don’t like what you see. Slip jeans off, slide on a skirt. Rummage under a pile on the bed, pull out a scarf. Kick off your sandals, dig in the closet for your flats. Pin hair back. Pull it down again. Curler. Straightener. Hair spray. Pony tail. You change.
The mirror doesn’t change.
It’s there when you march around the room, feeling confident. Jeans fit right, top looks nice, cardigan matches. Mirror saw that. Mirror saw when you squinted hard, too. Unhappy. Dissatisfied. Toothpaste, bed head, eyes brows raised, incredulous. Saw that. The pucker lips face you make when you walk out the door. The way you shrug your shoulders quick when you walk past. Tilt head right, tilt head left. Mirror sees it all.
you look good.
The message hasn’t changed.
You might disagree, but only one can be right. You or the mirror. I’m inclined to agree with the mirror. Have you heard it said that you are your hardest critic? It’s true. You’re the one who sees the way the shirt bunches. The way the eyeliner rubs. The way the shoes fit, the hair falls, the pants sag. You see that. I don’t. We don’t. Your eye is tuned to see and to condemn. To pick and fault. To critique yourself.
I don’t see those things. They don’t, either. We’re too busy noticing everything wrong with ourselves.
The mirror sees, though. Sees, watches, and doesn’t change. The pile of discarded clothes on your bed grows bigger. The time to go to class clicks nearer. Your frustration builds higher, but the mirror doesn’t change at all.
you look good.
You and I, we’re really the same in this. Don’t you think I know what self-conscious is? Don’t you think I throw clothes across the room, kick them under the desk? Don’t you think I change six times some days, whining to myself all the while? I’m no better, no different.
The mirror, though? The mirror knows the truth. you look good. Inside, your unique heart, passionate about what He’s made you to love, growing, fighting a little more every day to be more you; more you in Him. Outside, your hair, your smile, your eyes, your style. you look good.
You really do.