Angry eyebrows and old people

I noticed recently that my face tends to naturally slip into a scowl.

Not like Mr. Sparkly Vampire--he's just pouting

I've been catching myself lately with a furrowed brow and my lips turned down. I don't know why either--I don't really have a lot of stress in my life. I think it's just because I tend to focus deeply on the task at hand or be in the process of deeply pondering something. 

But the reason it bothers me is that as you age, your face sets into whatever expression you make the most. Your wrinkles mirror your life-long demeanor, not just the face you present to the public.

Who's got a big stick up her butt?

Who's been laughing at himself for years?

I'm aiming to be a happy, joyful old person, and I want my face to reflect that. Old ladies come into the book store where I work all the time, and they just look like they've been sucking on lemons their whole lives. They also have waaaay to much makeup on and seem to be trying to pretend that they're still in their 20's. I'm sorry, but a woman in her 60's shouldn't dress the same as a 22 year old. It just looks silly and desperate. 

Guess what? I embrace the fact that I'm going to get old someday. I've already decided I'm not going to color my hair when it goes gray. What's that Bible verse? "Gray hair is a crown of glory." Yeah, I like that. 

Anyways, I don't want to look like those sour old ladies. I want my wrinkles to reflect my life of walking with Jesus. And that life might not always be easy or fun, but as a Christian, I can be content no matter what my situation. I don't want eyebrow furrows and frowning lips--I want laugh lines...lots of them. I want my face to show that even in the tough times, I still chose to look for the silver lining instead of focusing on all the dark clouds. (And that is how I currently view my life.)

 I seek to age like my parents, who have lived through many trying, dark times in their lives...yet it's common to hear them bantering and laughing with each other. They could be angry, bitter, cynical, and have every right to be. But what kind of life is that? They've shown me that a life of complaining and bitterness and grudge-bearing leads to nothing, even though it's easier to go that route. To choose happiness and joy takes a little more work, but is ultimately more fulfilling. I think one of the reasons my parents have aged so well is that they choose to make much of the good things in life. 

30 years of marriage--they still LIKE each other.
This picture epitomizes who they are.

I want to reflect that shared worldview. I don't want to be sour but joy-filled. Positive not grumpy. Happy by choice not from naivete. I want to age gracefully, not desperately trying to hang onto some ideal of youth. Just like the seasons of the year, so people transition into different stages of their lives. We need winter just as much as summer, does that make sense? 

So wrinkles? Bring 'em on. I just really don't want angry old lady eyebrows. 

Green raspberries for breakfast

There are things we love not for what they are, but what they represent to us: Brie cheese will always remind me of college, because of the art department's gallery openings I regularly attended. The smells of a bonfire and pine trees recall my summers at Storybook. Carry on Wayward Son by Kansas was me and my roommate's theme song my last year at Northwestern. And raspberries evoke a very specific memory, one of the oldest that I can remember:

It's a steamy summer morning on the Iron Range of Minnesota. Enter a huge yard, filled with flowers and towering trees grown into the rickety metal fence almost the same age as my grandparents' century old Victorian house. Just outside the back door is a small garden, where two little girls are stuffing their faces with as many raspberries as they can reach. The blonde is my younger sister, Leah, and the curly red head, that's me all of four-years-old. We don't know much about gardening at this point; all we know is that what grows out here is edible. If the red ones are good, then the green ones must be okay too. We completely plucked those bushes bare from the ground to as high as our little grubby hands could reach. We hear the back door open and scamper away. My Grandpa walks out with his bowl of cereal in hand to add some fruit to his breakfast. He gets over to the raspberry bushes and looks around, trying to find any ripe berries that might remain. Leah and I were quite thorough. He looks over at us, our red stained faces, hands and clothes completely giving us away. He chuckles and shakes his head. "Those bushes were full just yesterday! I can't believe you cleaned them all off. I wouldn't be surprised if you got a stomach ache from eating so many, especially the green ones." He went back inside and I could hear him exclaiming to my parents and Grandma how quickly we had made short work of his berry crop.

The house is still there two decades later, though the berry bushes aren't, and my Grandpa won't be around much longer either. My grandparents sold it in 1992, and today it's my uncle's home--he bought it after two different owners almost ruined it. The interior of the house is completely different these days--my aunt and uncle renovated and remodeled the entire thing. I don't really remember much of what the inside used to look like; mostly I recall running around the yard and playing at the park down the street.  The back door garden is gone, but there's even more flowers around the yard as my aunt has quite the green thumb. The fence is still standing with the old trees grown up through it. The back door shutting sounds the same though. And I still remember where the raspberry bushes stood. I can hear the echoes of two little girls' giggling on a blue sky morning as they ate green (and all the red) raspberries for breakfast.