Life Lines

When a friend of mine turned 25, her mom bought her wrinkle cream.  No joke.  We laughed about it, especially since this friend still looked like she had just started high school.  But she used it anyway, and seven years later, she still looks like she's fifteen.  Meanwhile, a delicate web of lines has been weaving its way onto my face.

As I look at the women who have preceded me in my gene pool, I see beauty.  I see strength.  I see wisdom.  I see evidence of lives well-lived.  And I suspect that wrinkle creams will only bring me so far. 

And I'm okay with that.

In this culture of cosmetics and anti-aging potions and lotions and eternal quests for the fountain of youth, I am okay with wrinkles.  

In fact, I am more than okay.  I value them.

You see, each one of those beautiful little lines tells a story.  Together, they tell my story.  

My story of days spent on the ball field, the sun shining, eyes squinting, a breeze blowing, a dust of brownish-orange sand splattered across my socks, a faint smell of leather stuck on my fingers.

My story of nights spent rocking babies and finding pacifiers and taking temperatures and tucking in the blanket extra tight instead of sleeping.

Those wrinkles tell about when I've laughed and when I've cried.  They tell about the days I've worried and when I've celebrated.  Those wrinkles tell my story.