I'm wearing a silk shirt. I'm 40 years old and it's only the second silk shirt I've owned in my entire lifetime. The first, midnight blue and crushed into the softness of a week old hydrangea petal, was a gift from a friend nearly 25 years ago. She said I needed to feel how sophisticated I really am. This one, a yellow so pale you have to look twice to register its color, is from a consignment shop. It is somebody's castaway; a second chance sophisticate. It's the prettiest $10 I've ever owned.
It's taken me two and a half decades, lots of falls and sprains, and some real heartache to understand what my friend meant. She meant that this world will repeatedly throw me garbage and try to convince me that is all I am worth. It will tell me over and over, ad nauseum, that I am only as good as how I act, what I produce, who others think I am. But just a subtle reminder, thte softness against my skin, will be enough to remind me of my worth.
I'm not sure she even meant to say this, but she was the first to really tell me that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I am a co-heir with Christ Himself--royalty. Worthy of the luxury of silk. The silk I wear is His grace alone. My sophistication is in knowing who I am by knowing Whose I am.
My silk reminds me of the Creator of the silkworm, Who fashioned the entire universe and every living thing in it. It points me back to His grace and love and everlasting kindness. It reminds me of the greatest form of sophistication I can display--my identity in Him.
I gently remove my blouse and lay it aside for a gentle swishing in warm water. I don a sweatshirt with a Maryland Terps logo, homage to my earthly life, red and rough and poorly fashioned. It makes me long for silk, just like this world makes me long for Heaven.