Today is Easter Sunday, and all of the little children are running around in their new Easter outfits. As I dressed to visit a friend’s church, I couldn’t help but remember the days when I once was a little girl running around in my Easter outfit. As a small child, I thought I primarily cared about playing with my friends as long as I could, but as I sat amongst the congregation I couldn’t help but realize the little girls and what they were wearing.
All the children looked adorable, but the difference among the facial expressions and manner of the girls weren’t as adorable because it showed a shocking truth that I once experienced. I witnessed that the children with the new dresses, stockings, shoes, and hair accessories were vibrant and more willing to speak to unfamiliar faces; whereas, those who attire seemed to have been previously worn didn’t have as bright as a smile on their faces and were reluctant to speak to guest. This recognition shocked me because I remember coming to church on Easter morning and feeling as if I belonged with everyone else because I did have a new outfit. I also remember seeing those children less fortunate than I was and feeling sympathy.
It’s weird to think that as a child I associated eagerness to talk to strangers with feeling belonged. And I felt belonged because I felt pretty. And I felt pretty because my mother and everyone around me told me so. With this new found confidence, I could have ruled the world for a day.
Now, fast-forward nineteen years and I can recognize the same glimpse of assurance in little girls. Will the thought of having new attire and constant compliments ever stop? Or will it get worse?
All the children looked adorable, but the difference among the facial expressions and manner of the girls weren’t as adorable because it showed a shocking truth that I once experienced. I witnessed that the children with the new dresses, stockings, shoes, and hair accessories were vibrant and more willing to speak to unfamiliar faces; whereas, those who attire seemed to have been previously worn didn’t have as bright as a smile on their faces and were reluctant to speak to guest. This recognition shocked me because I remember coming to church on Easter morning and feeling as if I belonged with everyone else because I did have a new outfit. I also remember seeing those children less fortunate than I was and feeling sympathy.
It’s weird to think that as a child I associated eagerness to talk to strangers with feeling belonged. And I felt belonged because I felt pretty. And I felt pretty because my mother and everyone around me told me so. With this new found confidence, I could have ruled the world for a day.
Now, fast-forward nineteen years and I can recognize the same glimpse of assurance in little girls. Will the thought of having new attire and constant compliments ever stop? Or will it get worse?
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