"He's Still 'Lion.'"

Last week we got to get out of San Antonio for a few days and head to Galveston, one of my very favorite places to visit. Tom and I honeymooned there, and it has always held a special place in my heart for that reason. We were there with our son and daughter-in-law and their two children, Flint and Wade, and our daughter Rachel and her son Ben.

We rented the sweetest little Air B&B cottage, just two blocks from the seawall. I think it's fair to say we all had a glorious time there trouncing in the surf, digging in the sand, and soaking in that good ol' Vitamin D.

One of my favorite memories other than hanging out beside the water was when we ate dinner back at the place and the boys got to play together. They had these sweet bonding moments as cousins, laughing and just generally cracking up over the silliest things. It was such a joy to see.

I don't remember how the conversation turned to this subject, but at one point Ben made reference to this little stuffed animal he's had since he was about two years old. Big Daddy (Tom) and I gave it to him one Christmas as the companion to a book based on Chris Tomlin's song, "Good, Good Father." The book came with a small stuffed lion based on the main character.

Ben loved that lion... and by loved I mean LOVED him. He named him, simply and appropriately enough, "Lion." That little critter has now seen five years of the sicerest affection, and it shows. When Ben referenced his "Lion," Laura, Ben's aunt, asked if that was the animal with no fur and nothing but a nub for a tail. I loved Ben's response, and it regestered with me so profoundly that it became the subject of today's post.

When asked about the stuffed animal in question, Ben just laughed sheepishly and said, "... yeah, but he's still "Lion."

"Lion" has been well-loved, and anything that is loved well loses none of its intrinsic value just because its mane is missing, its fur is patchy, its tail is docked, and its stuffing has been replaced time and time again.

That sentence spoke straight to my heart, because we were all there in Galveston celebrating not only four family birthdays, but also Tom's and my anniversary, our thirty-sixth. I too would say that, as a couple, we have loved well and have been well-loved. I look at myself in the mirror, and though thankfully I still recognize who I see there, the reflection isn't quite that of the blushing bride of so many years ago. The pictures perched on our shelves and hanging from our walls show the ever-changing, morphing transformations of time, but on the inside... where it really counts... we are both still "Lion."

There were a couple of things I would say that had a profound effect on me during my teens as far as recognizing and placing importance on inner beauty. One, strangely enough, came by way of a medical drama on television in the 70s. May have been "Marcus Welby, M.D.," or perhaps "Medical Center,"... doesn't really matter. The content of one episode in particular imprinted on me.

The basic plot revolved around a young woman who had lost her eyesight when she was a child. The doctors were fairly certain that a new surgical technique could give her back her vision. However, this woman's husband was adamant that he didn't want her to have the operation. The medical professionals couldn't understand his reluctance to such a wonderful opportunity for his wife, until he explained why.

The two of them had met, fallen in love, and gotten married all while this young woman was blind. The husband was a very plain man, a bit overweight, balding. His wife, on the other hand, was a very lovely woman. The husband was afraid that if his wife got her sight back, she wouldn't love him anymore. He reluctantly agreed that she should have the operation.

When the bandages were taken off, the wife was able to see again. The first person she called for was her husband, who was standing way in the back of the room. He didn't want to come forward because he was afraid of what she might say when she saw him. He finally approached, head down, tears streaming down his cheeks. Joy was mixed with fear. His wife asked him why he was crying. When he told her, she simply took his head in her hands, closed her eyes, and began touching his face, just as she had done for so many years of their lives together. She slowly felt his features, then, with the kindest words she said, "You are my husband, the man I fell in love with, the man I love today."

It mattered not the outside wrapping. Inside he was still... "Lion."

It gives me great happiness to know that Tom's love for me is not conditional on how well the exterior has been preserved, for though I try to take fairly good care of myself, it's hard to fight entropy. This body, this house of mine, was given as a gift... a gift by my Father to be used.

To live well. To love well. To serve well. It's not meant to be kept pristine. It's meant to be taken care of, certainly, for I truly believe that the body is the temple of the Holy Spirit...but it's not to be the master of my days. The only Master of my days is my Father, who desires for His gift to be used to the fullest. I'd hate to return home looking like I never took His present out of the package.

Nope. He looks at you and He looks at me with nothing but love in His eyes too. He sees the bumps and bruises, the scars we acquire from doing this thing called life. He sees rough hands from digging, hammering, washing. He sees the mom tummies never-to-be-flat-again from birthing babies. He sees the gray hairs and the wrinkles from years of praying, turning our stresses over to His capable hands. And He says,... "well done, good and faithful one."

God always sees past the periphery. Man looks on the outward appearance, the Bible says, but God looks at the heart. We could be a hundred years old, thin, worn, frazzled, spent, but in there, in the heart... where it really counts, to our beloved Daddy, we are all still... "Lion."