18. Chapter 18
Chapter 18
BECKY
A s I stepped into Weston’s living room, my eyes widened with wonder. A soft glow of warm amber light spilled from the light fixture that hung from the ceiling, casting a gentle hue on the tasteful furnishings that weren’t covered in sheeting. The cozy ambiance enveloped me, drawing me in and making me feel right at home. The scents of fresh wood and paint permeated the air. Weston’s passion for his home was palpable. As he led me from room to room, his eyes lit up with excitement as he described each project and detail he had planned for the space.
As we stood in his kitchen, sipping on glasses of water, I couldn’t help but feel that I had found a new connection with him. Gratitude washed over me for the opportunity he had given me to step inside his world; I just had to keep reminding myself it was only as his friend.
By late-afternoon, we decided it was best to head back to Gray’s place. As I walked past the mirror at the exit, my heart dropped.
“Why didn’t you tell me my hair was such a mess?” I asked him, mortified.
“Because it doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Why do you worry so much about what you look like?”
“I told you, I like to give the best impression at all times. People will like me better that way.”
“Well, I just spent all afternoon with you, while your hair was sticking up funny and I still like you just fine. Besides, you shouldn’t care so much about what people think. There is only one person’s opinion you should be concerned about.”
My dad. I waited for him to say my dad. But he just looked at me as if he expected me to talk. Too vulnerable to speak, I just said, “Huh?”.
“Well, not a person, rather a being—God. He is the only one you should worry about, and I can guarantee He doesn’t care if your hair sticks up in an odd direction.”
Weston’s words landed on my heart with such an impact that I placed my hand on my chest to ease the heaviness. He didn’t say something I hadn’t heard before, but I realized just then that I didn’t believe them. How could I still care so much about my dad’s opinion of me? It was weird, because it’s not like he could change his opinion of me now that he was dead. I’d have to think about all of this some more. Weston kept looking my way, and I realized I’d spaced out. I cleared my throat.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I said.
Weston’s comments swirled inside my head the whole car ride home. Did I not trust God enough? Why was I so worried about what people thought? I hadn’t realized my obsession with people’s opinions until Weston had mentioned it a few times. Plus, I’d never seen harm in wanting to impress people, but perhaps Weston was right. Maybe it meant that I didn’t truly trust God with my identity?