The day I thought I was pretty

It was Sunday morning, late in June. I was 12 years old, walking along a woodland path to neighbor Freemon's home to catch a ride to Sunday school.

A wood thrush was flying in the leafy ceiling above me, sounding its inimitable golden notes as if to guide me along the way. But I knew the path, every little twist and turn, every wildflower that bordered both sides.

My black patent leather shoes and my pink anklets, which were the same color as my dress, were damp too.

My dress, I thought, was one of Mama's masterpieces. It was shirred at the waistline, giving it a generous fullness. At the four-inch hemline, there were three scalloped rows of cream colored, gathered lace. The neckline was also trimmed.

I took hold of the skirt, pulled out and made a bow as if I were some stage actress. While bowing, I saw a reflection of my short hair that was, in my opinion, as black and shiny as my shoes.

I looked around to see if anything was observing me. There was a squirrel wholly absorbed with spiraling upward around a tree. A chipmunk rustled up some leftover leaves at the bottom of an old stump, totally unaware of my presence. A blue jay seemed to be scolding me for entering his domain.

I shrugged my shoulders and tried to remember something we had discussed in school only a week before. It was about a flower blooming in the desert where no one ever saw it and its fragrance was wasted on air. Well, I'd soon be there when there would be lots of people to see me.

On the way to Sunday school, Freemon and I talked about our coming lesson. Mine was from the book of Esther wherein it told that the young girls of that time went to school to learn how to apply makeup. Freemon laughed and said his lesson was something like that.

I anticipated admiring glances at Sunday school and I got them, reinforcing my thought that I was pretty. I glowed all the way back to Freemon's house.

Not until I was opening the car door did he say anything. Then he said, "You look pretty today."

"Yes, I know," I said. Three little words that were to haunt me the rest of my life.

My beautiful dress hung on the car door, ripping a great gash down the side of the skirt. At the sound of it my heart seemed to rip open too, letting out the gross conceit of my words to penetrate my ears and heart. I wanted to apologize immediately, but was too overcome with emotion. I couldn't get out a single word. I started running for home.

Freemon called after me, "See you next Sunday." Without looking back, I acknowledged his words.

"You all right?" he called out, again and again. I gave a backward wave to indicate that I was. But, I wasn't.

I touched the sentinel Mullen stalk and hurried along the beautifully bordered path.

I sat down on a nearby stump so as to let the remaining conceit drain out of me in the form of tears rolling down my cheeks and spilling onto my pretty dress.

It was a turning point of my life. It was the dress that was pretty, the wildflowers, the song of the thrush.

How could I turn those hateful words into something pretty so that they wouldn't continue to bother me?

Truth, honesty, humbleness -- things like the flowers blooming in the desert that may not be seen but are the very essence of beauty; these were the things I would look for and imbibe through every pore in order to erase what I thought were those turning point words.

I guess that, after all, there was a certain beauty in those words as well. Consider what they ultimately did for me.

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.