“Mom, why does your pumpkin have tumors?”

Seriously. That was the question that came out of Logan’s mouth.

Did he not know I had passed up Waco pumpkins certain that I would find the BEST pumpkins when we traveled to Stephenville for Parents’ Weekend?

Did he not know that I scoured Stephenville like a mad woman in search of the PERFECT pumpkins?

Did he not know I made Brad do an instant “whoop around” in the middle of the road because I had spotted the EXACT pumpkins I needed (yes, needed!)?

Did he not know it took me 20+ minutes (yes, Brad and Cameron were timing me) to pick out the eight IDEAL pumpkins for decorating by our patio door?

Did he not know that one SPECIFIC pumpkin he so critically diagnosed as tumor-ridden had made the cut among literally hundreds of pumpkins at Little John’s Produce on Lingleville Road?

And most importantly, did he not know that I had spent the better part of two hours creating the BEAUTIFUL display that welcomes people to our house.

Of course HE DID NOT KNOW!

He’s a boy. Only boys will say things like this, and I use the term boys loosely. At my house, when I say boys, I’m talking about all three of the males that reside with me. Trust me when I say age is NOT the distinguishing factor that makes them boys.

Now before you start thinking I’m talking trash about my boys, let me unequivocally state that I positively worship the ground my boys walk on. I couldn’t love my boys more than I do, but they are boys. Enough said.

Tumors. On my PERFECT pumpkin! The EXACT, SPECIFIC, IDEAL, BEST pumpkin! Can you believe that?!

Of course, being the quick-witted one that I am, I immediately retorted back to Logan, “Just goes to show what you know. Those are NOT tumors. That pumpkin has character!”

After I fumed for exactly two seconds, I laughed. And then I got to thinking…

How many times have I stood in the bathroom and looked in the mirror, inwardly (or sometimes rather vocally if Brad will stand still long enough to listen) complaining about my tumors? I closely inspect every age spot, every wrinkle, every blemish, every gray hair, every fluffy spot (and not in my hair… fluffy just sounds so much better than flabby!), and I bemoan every last one of them. How many times have I let a bad hair day put a frown on my face? How many times have I looked with jealousy at some cute young girl? How many times have I looked with envy at someone my own age who isn’t showing it like I am?

How many times have I focused on my tumors rather than marveled at the character God has created in me?

Psalm 139:14 reminds me that I am fearfully and wonderfully made…exactly how I am…tumors and all. And while that part of the verse makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, I can’t skip over the rest of the verse, “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”

I’ve got it, and I’m going to remind myself of it every single time I look in the mirror.