Am I therefore become your enemy, because I tell you the truth? —Galatians 4:16
The hot dog vendor near my office is a friend of mine. He dispenses kielbasa and unsolicited advice in equal measures. I was walking near his stand recently; ahead of me was a woman with an extremely short haircut.
“Hey,” the vendor said, “nice hairstyle.”
She shot him a withering look, then picked up her pace.
The vendor looked at me, arms out. “I was serious,” he pleaded.
For some reason, I felt compelled to make things right. I caught up with the woman. “Look,” I said, “he’s a good guy. He meant it as a compliment.”
She said nothing for a moment, and I figured I had just compounded the problem.
“It’s not a ‘style,’” she said. “It’s chemotherapy, and it’s not ‘nice.’”
Now it was my turn to say nothing. A thousand thoughts went through my head, and I’m embarrassed to say that the first one was, How did I get myself into this? But it wasn’t about me. I decided to speak the truth, because this woman had no doubt exhausted her patience with lies—little ones, big ones, the whole lie family.
“I think it looks nice too,” I said. “Seriously. I can’t explain why—it just does.”
More silence. We were used to silence by now.
“Thanks,” she said finally. “I don’t see how it’s possible, but thanks.” And we parted without another word.
I won’t—I can’t—pretend to know what that woman had gone through, is going through. She assumed that the loss of her once-longer locks was symptomatic of a more massive loss. But you can’t fool hot dog vendors. They know the real you. A thousand people a day parade past, but they know the truth about you: My goodness, you’re good-looking. My goodness, you’ve got style.
Lord, thank You that even our suffering can’t completely destroy the beauty You’ve given us.
