Every once in awhile, I think about that resurrection body. You know, the one that is the same as mine, only perfect. I've been conscious of the imperfections of my body for longer than most people, I suppose. I was born without an ear. For as long as I can remember, covering up the "ear-that-isn't" was a big deal. Then, I added a huge scar where they grafted skin from my leg to make a fake ear. It didn't work and we added more scars where the ear was supposed to be. Then I had cancer and I acquired a very large scar across my chest. And four years ago, a precious child was pulled from my belly and left behind another scar. Oh, that resurrection body! No scars. No adhesions with weird pains!
For most of my life, the ear-that-isn't has been covered by my hair. There were no braids or pigtails in my childhood. I've almost always had long hair, but never had an updo. Recently, however, I decided that this learned "hiding" is utterly ridiculous. I've also decided that I'm rather tired of having spit up in my hair. So, I indulged in some of those very cool comb clips that everyone else has used for years and I swept my curls up off my neck. Now, they remain clean and sweet smelling. And my ear-that-isn't shows for all the world to see. I am not traumatized by this fact. Really, I don't even think about it. Until yesterday.
Yesterday, I was sitting on the couch reading to Katie, who is four. And she asked, "When I grow up and I'm a mom, will my ear close up all the way, too?"
"No, sweet girl, you will still have two perfect, beautiful ears."
"Oh," she whined, clearly disappointed, "but I wanted to be just like you. Just EXACTLY like you."
And I want to be just like she sees me.