Hair

Hair.

Mine is wiry, yet unruly. Does what it wants when it wants. Sometimes cooperates perfectly, but more often than not, takes on a life of its own. Its most recent trick is losing most of the natural wave that used to please me, giving way to plain, uninteresting locks that just kind of sit there.

Now that I've reached the mature age of 48, this erstwhile friend has developed a nasty habit of turning gray. I do what I can, visiting the hairdresser frequently and insisting she disguise it with whatever shade she thinks is closest to my own. But she and I - and probably the rest of the world - all know it's a facade.

Between touch ups, I pull out my own weaponry. And I do mean pull out. My arsenal consists of a mirror, good lighting, and a couple of nimble fingers. I call it "the pluck method" and it works pretty well, except that as soon as I resect one of the little buggers, two or three others take up the slack. No kidding - I could literally stand there for an hour just combing through, uncovering new hiders.

The saddest part is, I can only see the front.

I find a lot of parallels between my hair and sin problems. That may sound like a bigger stretch than Kate Gosselin's prenatal belly, but stay with me. Paul bemoaned his on-again, off-again submission to God's will in Romans 7: "For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice." (v. 19). He couldn't master obedience (oops, I guess that's an oxymoron) any more than I can overcome bad hair days. Jesus blasted the Pharisees for concealing their unrighteous hearts with righteous-looking actions (Matthew 23:23-28). He came right out and called them hypocrites because they wanted to look the part, rather than live it. Their piety appeared real, but was just as superficial as the blonde highlights I reapply every six weeks.

The thing that makes it all OK, though, is that, while I may be fruitlessly yanking out grays, my Savior has successfully unearthed and weeded out the cause of all my troubles. He did so by taking my place on two sticks of wood on a dark day 2,000 years ago. No more must I go through endless, repetitive motions to achieve something that's unachievable. He got to the root of the problem and rooted it out, then proceeded to root me in Himself so I could grow strong and tall when bathed in almighty Son-light (Colossians 2:7) and drenched with Living Water (John 4).

What a gardener.

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Stylists, AKA, Hair Part 2