The Woes of Peter Pumpkin Eater's Wife

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     I married Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater. Unbeknownst to me, my husband stuck me in a pumpkin shell. Now all my summer clothes stretch around a rotund tummy (barely), and I'm not sure if I should walk or roll down the road.
     As I waddle, my proboscis heralds my approach with the bright red wounds the dermatologist made. As my nose protrudes, it becomes a UV magnet, is frequently sunburned and thus the need to remove precancerous damage. Oh to only have the tiny nose of a starlet--or at least put some of its size on my lips.
     And the only time anyone ever asks to borrow my shoes is when he or she wants to water-ski. I'm not a pretty picture.
     However...
     This morning in worship we sang a line that told of us casting our crowns before the Lord. I closed my eyes and saw myself before the throne of God. Next to me stood Queen Elizabeth. To the other side Angelina Jolie. In back of me worshiped President Obama. Each of us was loved by the great God Almighty, the Maker of the universe. He didn't care that I wasn't pretty, that my poor blog can't get fifty followers, that my life was humble and lowly and ordinary. I was no different to Him than these luminaries, and no less precious. I could cast my crown and it would be as accepted as Queen Elizabeth's crown jewels. I opened my eyes to my own beauty and the grace of God.
   It's divine to be loved so indiscriminately.