The glance in the mirror startles me.

I see not my face, my eyes, my hair, but the truth.

I see the monster twisted by selfishness inside.

No amount of scrubbing with a cleaner, even 409, will remove the monster inside.

 

I try.  I try.  I try.

 

I try to be better.  I try to hide the monster down deeper.  I try to look pretty.  But I’m a monster.  How pretty can I really make myself before someone points out what I really am?

I beat on the mirror.  Maybe if I break it’s damning reflection the monster will be gone.  Shards of glass cut me, but the broken glass only shows more monsters from more angles.  Scattered at my feet they laugh at me.  They taunt me.  They haunt me.

Blood drips on the broken mirror.  Drip. Drip. Drip.

But it is not mine.

A white robe of soft fleece wraps around my monsterness.

But it is not mine.

A hand held out in acceptance.

But it is not another monster.  It is a good, whole, pure, scarred hand.

I hesitate.  I am a monster after all.  I’d rather be damned than saved most days.

The hand takes mine.  It bleeds, covers and takes.  It accepts, changes and offers what I don’t have:

hope

hope in the scarred hand.

hope in the drops of blood.

hope in the white robe covering my monsterness.

The hand guides me to another room, a hall of mirrors.  He stands beside me and the reflection changes…

- Abby Jones

(There are days of clarity where our sin seems to haunt us.  Most days we are so used to our own sinfulness we only notice the “big” things.  But some days, some moments God pulls back the curtain and lets us see how everything we do is stained with selfishness, with hate, with murder deep down.  How even things which appear kind are not selfless.  Once in a while we see the monster we really are.  These are the moments I cling even more to Christ. )