Page 57 of The Dating Game

The ball soars up about a foot then falls down almost directly in front of me, landing with a thwack in the sand. A thwack that is followed by complete silence, until I burst into laughter. As I laugh I turn to my group of girls and give them a hapless shrug, like what are you going to do?

June, whose lips are pursed against a laugh, lets it free, joining in my laughter. Farrah, doubled over in her attempts not to laugh, straightens and lets her laughter free too. Within seconds we’re all laughing, evenWendy.

“Well,” she says when the laughter dies down, “that was quite the attempt. Perhaps it’s best if we end here,” she adds with a glance at her watch. After a quick closing prayer we’re released and the girls all start to head back toward the church, all except Carmen who lags behind, catching my attention.

“Hey, Brooke,” she calls and I turn back to her.

“What’s up?” I ask her. Carmen toes the sand, avoiding my gaze. “Carmen? Everything okay?” I prod gently, setting a hand on her arm.

“It’s nice that you’re not so good at volleyball,” she blurts out. I freeze, cocking my head in confusion.

“Um, okay,” I say slowly.

“That came out wrong,” she adds hastily. “I guess I just mean…you seem, like, totally perfect, you know? I mean you have such cute clothes and your hair always looks good and you’re, like, completely gorgeous…” she trails off, wringing her hands. “So I guess it’s just nice to know you that you’re not good at everything.”

I stare down at Carmen, my brain whirring. Would it be helpful to point out that she didn’t say anything that I am actually good at? Just that I’m ‘completely gorgeous’. Like that’s all that matters. All that I really am: a pretty face.

Her green eyes stare imploringly up at me, begging me to understand where she’s coming from. And the thing is, I do.

How many of us have fallen prey to the idea that being beautiful is the most important thing? That anything else is just extra.

But what can I say to her that won’t sound contrived or like a sound bite designed to appease her? I send up a silent prayer that God would give me the right words.

“You know, Carmen,” I venture forth with what I’m hoping comes out like a pearl of wisdom rather than a ball of cheese, “beauty isn’t everything.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Carmen rolls her eyes. “Easy for pretty people to say.”

“Maybe so.” I sigh. “But honestly, Carmen, I know it sounds trite to say so, but every woman is beautiful in her own right. Yet every woman also seems more than ready to focus on her faults rather than her best attributes—physical or otherwise. You think I’m so beautiful? Well, when I look in the mirror I see eyes that are the most boring shade of brown, out-of-control hair, and weird earlobes.”

“Weird earlobes?” Carmen scrunches her brow, examining the earlobes in question. “They’re different!” she exclaims. “That one is sort of squished.” She blushes. “Sorry, that sounded rude.”

I laugh. “No, it is squished! The other one is perfectly normal and round, but that one is like an earlobe butt.”

Carmen laughs too. “You know,” she tells me, “most adults would’ve just tried to console me by saying that even if I don't see it, they think I’m pretty.”

“Well, surely that would seem a little disingenuous coming up in this context. I’d rather tell you I think you have gorgeous green eyes at a time when you don’t leave wondering if I only said that to try and make you feel better,” I say pragmatically. “Furthermore, telling you that I think you’re pretty—although I do—would only reinforce the idea that your physical appearance is what matters most. I’d rather you leave this conversation realizing that being pretty isn’t what truly brings you joy. The only true source of joy is Jesus. And before you dare roll your eyes at that,” I add warningly, “stop and remember that Jesus is our one true constant. Circumstances in life change. Relationships change. Your appearance changes. But Jesus’ love for you will never change, and that is something to be joyful about.”

There’s a pause during which I think I may have said something truly meaningfulto her, but then—

“You think I’m pretty?”

Well. I suppress a sigh. Am I really surprised? She’s a 16-year-old girl. All that seems real to her is what she’s feeling in the present moment. Or at least that’s how I remember feeling at that age.

And sometimes still struggle with feeling now.

“Yes, I think you’re very pretty, Carmen,” I tell her, squeezing her on the arm. I could push the point with her, but instead I choose to believe that I’ve planted seeds. Seeds that God will someday partner with someone else to water. “And I think one day you’ll find a guy who, when he looks at you, sees the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“I don’t know about that,” she says with a disbelieving laugh.

“I do,” I say. “Because if there’s one thing that makes someone more attractive to another person, it’s love. I think that when you love someone they become even more beautiful in your sight. Like in Song of Solomon.”

“Song of Solomon?” Her blush intensifies. You mean the book about boobs?”

I chuckle. “It's actually about way more than boobs. It’s a beautiful poem about the love between a husband and wife. Not only that, but many biblical scholars also see it as a metaphorical love letter to the church. Meaning, Christ adores us with the intensity of a husband’s love for his new bride; or at least that’s one of the most analogous human relationships, parenthood being the other big one. But there’s really no comparison that can truly demonstrate the same agape love Christ has for us.”

Carmen blinks at me. “If you say so,” she says with a tiny shrug.

“I do, and if you don’t believe me, just look at the cross. Jesus didn’t die for you merely because he likes you.”

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