The loud racket cut through the air in the house. He slammed the door closed with such force that even the goldfish tank in his brother’s room on the opposite side of the hall shook.
He did it. Again. How could he?
Bedsprings groaned loudly as he flopped face-down into his grey comforter. He reached up, grabbed a white pillow, and began to pommel his fists into the soft fabric.
How dare he do it again?
He was supposed to be changing. He was supposed to be a better person. For his brother. His parents. His friends. His girlfriend.
Finishing his wrestling session, he sprung up and paced across the room, fists clenched at his side. The carpet muffled his stomping feet. A mirror innocently rested upon the dresser on the opposite side of the room. When he approached it, an oval face framed by short, brown hair reflected back. Baby blue eyes peered out at him, hanging above a slender nose and pencil-thin lips. A white T-shirt and blue jeans modestly covered a toned, muscled body.
But what wasn’t reflected in the mirror was the sickening, repulsive soul trapped inside the handsome body.
What do his loved ones see? Does his younger brother see the cool, athletic guy who he can proudly showcase to his middle school friends? Do his parents see that driven, accomplished young man who is well-rounded and tries to do his best in everything he does? Do his friends see that person who they can continuously count on for a fun time and a shoulder to cry on? Does his girlfriend see that loyal boyfriend who loves her with all his heart and will stop at nothing to achieve the best for her?
Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. Even if they do see those things, the things they don’t see would definitely end all good speculations and reputations. The mirror may only reflect his appearance, and their eyes may only reflect the love and admiration they have for his “obvious” character:
But both do not reflect the sins he has continually committed. Both do not reflect the past that lingers over him like a shadow, haunting him both in the glorious light of day and the ominous dark of night.
It’s been a few years since that first slip-up. He should’ve been over this by now.
But no. He’s not. That stupid mistake…that unforgiving, unrelenting past just won’t let up. No matter what the mirror shows, and no matter how much people praise him, he will always see that shadow of his mistakes lingering over him. He will always hear the whispers of “You’re not good enough for them,” “You won’t recover from this,” and “You don’t deserve them.”
Not wanting to stare in the mirror any longer, he looked down at the dresser. A dusty Bible laid there, otherwise in pristine condition.
Maybe, just maybe…
…there’s Someone out there who would be willing to overlook the mistakes, the shadow. Even though this Someone sees and knows all of him, maybe He would still be willing to look past everything and see what lays in the mirror and the eyes of everybody else.
Maybe, just maybe…
…he would finally be enough.