Mannequins fascinate me. They always seem to be so put together. Their jacket drapes dandily, their shoes are nicely polished. They're tucked in, stand-up-straight, neat and oh, so fashionable. But what's this? Their head is missing.
Lopped clean off.
And if one only glanced at them, didn't really take the time to look closely, sort of viewed in your peripheral as you went by, you wouldn't really notice how much they're missing. You wouldn't really see that their head is gone.
I treat others like mannequins sometimes. Spick and span, clean and polished, love Jesus, fight evil, stand up for good, nothing's wrong, they've got a smile on their face and I don't want to take the trouble or have the time to dig deeper and see if that smile is real.
But a lot of the times, it isn't.
A lot of the times, when people look the most put together -- that's when they're the least.
But I treat them like mannequins. And don't even bother to look. To see if they're weary of life. If their smile is simply plastered on, flaking gently off like paint chips on an old house. If their heart is heavy. If their head's simply missing, stolen away by doubt and fear and anger and hurt and love.
If only we took the time to notice the mannequins, to linger just a little longer near the store front, to look deep into a friend's eyes, to uncover their mannequin lies.
No comments:
Post a Comment