Beauty Is In the Eyes of the Beholder

Beauty Is in the Eyes of the Beholder

Last week was my birthday, and with it came the realization

that as time passes, so do my youthful looks and energy. Walking through the halls of the school where I work, I was met with a puzzled question from one of the students: “Why is your hair white on top of your head?” I simply replied that I was getting old, leaving out the part about no longer coloring my hair because I had grown tired of doing so. After 50, it seems I am constantly battling to stay in shape and look less tired. 

This is a battle I share with many other women who describe their journeys to reverse the signs of aging through miraculous diets, exercise routines, special vitamin combinations, and countless other remedies—all in pursuit of a better version of themselves, a beauty recognized and approved by others. It is a cultural standard by which women are measured, yet it is as relative as can be. Plumped lips or thin lips, overly thin bodies or curvy ones, fake eyelashes or natural faces, heavily tanned or pale skin, long hair or short hair, blonde or brunette, makeup or no makeup—all in the name of a worldly standard of beauty that changes with the shifting tune of fashion.

The financial investment and time consumed in chasing these ideals can never truly satisfy the deep longing of the heart. Beauty, as defined by the world, is flawed because the world itself is fallen. What the world calls beauty is marred by sin.

True beauty, therefore, cannot simply be a focus on outward appearance. While we become distracted by our looks, we often neglect the relationship that brings lasting peace and satisfaction. God does not condemn exercise, self-care, or even adornment, but He seeks a kind of beauty that no procedure or product can achieve—a meek and quiet spirit.

This beauty does not fade with time. It is worn upon the soul. A gentle yet strong woman is slow to anger because she has surrendered herself to God. Her confidence in her Savior brings tranquility even when circumstances are uncertain and difficult. In contrast, a restless and proud heart, one that does not fully depend on God, is easily shaken.

Real beauty is found in reflecting the character of Jesus—a meek and quiet spirit. And that can only be achieved through a personal relationship with Him. God sees the heart, men the appearance. 

How beautiful is your soul?

"Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight."            I Peter 3:4

A Heartfelt Mother's Day

“Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” — Hebrews 4:16

This is my first Mother’s Day without my mom, and her absence carries a weight I feel in everything—in the quiet moments, in the memories that arrive uninvited, in the spaces she once filled so naturally and completely. Today, that loss feels especially sharp, its depth reaching places words can only begin to express.

What do we truly know of death except in contrast to life? It is through death that we begin to understand what life really is. Death is absence. There are no hands to hold, no arms to embrace—no warmth in nearness. No eyes to meet, no voice to speak, to sing, or to comfort. No ears to listen, no shoulders to lean on, no footsteps walking beside you. There is only a void where someone once was.

Death is a strange opponent—one that gives nothing, yet takes everything. It takes the love we once knew, the connections we shared, the bonds we formed, the struggles we overcame, the tears we dried, the laughter we enjoyed, the conversations—even the arguments. It takes it all. What remains are memories—fragile, fleeting reflections of who someone once was. And yet, they are what we hold onto.

There is no pain quite like death—and Jesus knows it. When he stood before the grief of Mary and Martha at the tomb of Lazarus, he was not indifferent. He was deeply moved, troubled in spirit. He entered into their sorrow. The shortest verse in Scripture says it plainly: “Jesus wept.” In that moment, he was not only expressing compassion—he was sharing in the reality of human grief, knowing that he too would face death at the cross.

In the loss of a loved one, we are not alone in our suffering. Jesus is not distant; he is present and deeply acquainted with our pain. Therefore, we can come to him with confidence, trusting that he understands and offers mercy and grace in our time of need (Hebrews 4:15–16). 

On this Mother’s Day, I remember my mom with a love that does not end with absence. Grief remains, but so does hope—for those who die in Christ will rise again.

In The Beginning

 “Thy word is true from the beginning, and every one of Thy righteous judgments endures forever.” — Psalms 119:160

There are some sports I really enjoy watching, and basketball is one of them. It’s a game that combines teamwork with individual skill. An NBA game is divided into four quarters of twelve minutes, but with timeouts and breaks, it usually lasts around an hour. As the clock winds down—especially in the final five seconds—we know the game is about to end, along with any remaining chance to win.

So, the beginning of a game is always exciting, full of anticipation and hope. I imagine it was something like that at the creation of the world. There must have been great wonder as God established time, formed the earth, created animals, and placed the first man and woman in the garden. What a beginning! God declared that everything He made was good.

When God said, “Let there be light,” there was light. When He commanded the earth to bring forth trees and vegetation, it happened. Everything God spoke in the beginning came into being because His word is true. What He declares is, and always will be, true.

Yet not long after this perfect start, that goodness was interrupted. Adam and Eve chose to seek the knowledge of good and evil for themselves—to be like God—rather than to trust and obey Him.

So when He told Adam and Eve that they would surely die if they ate from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, it could not be otherwise. Death came immediately—not physical, but spiritual. They were separated from God, who is Spirit. In choosing independence, they cut themselves off from the very source of life. What a tragedy.

Yet even in judgment, God spoke truth with hope. He declared that the serpent—Satan—would bruise the heel of Eve’s descendant, but that descendant would crush the serpent’s head—a fatal blow.

At Easter, as we remember the death and resurrection of Jesus, we are called to look back to the very beginning. What God said then remains true today. Apart from Him, there is only death—first spiritual, then physical. But Jesus is the way God has provided: to deliver us from sin and to satisfy His righteous judgment.

So what will you do with God’s Word? Will you believe it, or will you wait until the clock runs out? 

Look at the Birds

 “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” Mat. 6:26

Look at the Birds

A week ago, I read a headline that surprised me: bird watching can slow the aging process. Who knew that something so simple—just watching birds—could sharpen the mind and brighten the spirit? 

I live in an apartment whose window opens onto a giant green tree. Every morning, before my alarm rings and while the sun stretches its first golden rays, a chorus of birds wakes me. Sometimes I’m annoyed—disturbed from sleep, longing for silence. Yet even in that irritation, I see a quiet lesson: day after day, these tiny creatures are cared for by their Creator. If they are watched over with such care, surely we, His children, are not forgotten. 

“Look at the birds of the air…” Jesus invites us to notice the small, the delicate, the overlooked. “Are you not much more valuable than they?” And yet, so often, our hearts cling to worry—bills, deadlines, the month ahead.

Watching the birds shifts my gaze from fear to faith. Their freedom, their small songs, remind me that God is attentive, sovereign, and faithful. A simple shift in focus—lifting my eyes, redirecting my thoughts—calms a racing mind and steadies a weary heart. It is no longer about circumstances. It is about the One who holds all things.

Now, when I lie awake and hear the morning chorus, I do not groan. I pause. I listen. I praise. In their songs, I feel love reflected back to me. I am reminded: I am held, I am valued, I am loved. And as I watch and listen, I sharpen my perception, strengthen my memory, and quiet my worries.

Look at the birds. Watch. Learn. Remember. Trust.

bird watching-slows-ageing

The Door

 John 10:9

There are things only children can see—things adults forget or choose not to believe. Only a few grown-ups keep that childlike sight, choosing to believe despite how strange it may seem in adulthood.

I am one of those child-adults. I still remember when I first heard of it—when I first saw it. It was unforgettable.

“Wait, what did you hear? What did you see?”

I’ll tell you. But I must start at the beginning.

As a little girl, I went wherever my parents took me—grocery stores, supermarkets, the local library, and church. Church was the most interesting place of all. I understood why we went to buy food or borrow books, but church puzzled me. Every Sunday, people sang together and then suddenly became silent when a man began to speak. They nodded as if they understood everything. I didn’t. I just waited for Sunday School.

I loved Miss Vera’s classroom. She was kind and gentle, and being there felt safe.

One Sunday morning, on our way to church, something happened. My father—usually a careful driver—lost control of the car. We swerved toward a tree and missed it by what felt like an inch. “Help us, Lord!” my mother cried. The car stopped. Dad was pale; Mom was speechless.

The first thing Dad did was take Mom’s hand and mine and pray, “Lord, thank You for helping us when we needed You most. We praise You in the name of Your Son, Jesus. Amen.”

I knew he wasn’t speaking to us—but to someone else. I had heard about God, yet I wondered: Who was this Lord? Who was His Son? Why could no one see Him? What did He look like? What did He sound like?

That morning in Sunday School, Miss Vera showed us a poster shaped like a door. She read, “I am the door. If anyone enters through Me, he shall be saved… and find green pastures.”

She explained that Jesus, the Son of God, was the door—not one that leads to another room, but one that leads to a place no one has ever fully seen: a place of peace, where sorrow and hate cannot enter. But to go through that door, we must believe in Him and turn away from sin—lies, hatred, dishonesty, disobedience.

I was astonished. Jesus is a door? How could that be? Yet more than confusion, I felt longing. I wanted to see that place.

That night, I asked my mother why Jesus was called a door. She smiled and said He is also light and love. He came to lead us out of darkness, to save us, and to give us eternal life. We prayed together, and I fell asleep thinking about light shining in the dark—because darkness had always frightened me.

That night I dreamed.

I stood in a long hallway filled with doors. Behind each one were rooms full of toys and sweets. I wanted to stay, but I was searching for Jesus—the door. I couldn’t find Him. I began to cry.

Then I heard a voice: “Come, child. This is the way.”

I followed the voice until I reached a small wooden door—smaller than all the others. It seemed too small for me to enter. But I remembered: I must believe. I turned the knob.

Light burst forth—brighter than the sun. Beauty beyond words. And there He was.

He took my hand and said, “This is yours forever. I will always be with you. Do you believe?”

“I do,” I answered.

I woke with a peace and joy I had never known. I told my parents everything. They rejoiced and thanked Jesus for loving us enough to take our place on the cross.

Years passed. I grew older. Sometimes I was tempted to dismiss the dream as just a dream. But then I remembered: Jesus said we must become like children to enter His kingdom. A child does not analyze—she believes.

So I choose to believe.

I choose to trust the One who loves me so deeply that He gave His life for mine, who opened the door to heaven and calls me by name.

And you—have you heard His voice? Have you found the door?

If not, seek it. Listen carefully. You will hear your name.

Look for the door.

 "I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture". John 10:9