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Face Value

I think I had acne in the womb. I had it by sixth grade, anyway — long before any of my classmates. Its arrival marked the dawn of my awkward stage, which was in full bloom by seventh grade.

By eighth grade, I was avoiding mirrors and obsessively trying various over-the-counter acne products. By ninth grade I had burned out on my first prescription treatment and moved onto another; this was the year the words "skin" and "face" began to make me flinch and duck my head slightly. A couple years of pleading with my acne went by without success, and I graduated from high school with matte makeup itching under my cap and tassel.

I went to college, awkwardly maneuvered into and out of a couple dating relationships, and tried to get involved on campus despite feeling pretty self-conscious about my face. My sophomore year (on the occasion of my first steady guy-relationship) my mother insisted that I finally "do something about my face," and I started taking Accutane, the highest level of prescription acne products.

Accutane is a hard-core treatment, and the "slight risk of liver damage" and "certainty of birth defects" warning labels mean that a person can't be treated with Accutane except under close supervision by a doctor. Needless to say, if it was going to be this much trouble, I really wanted it to work. So I buckled down. I reorganized my morning schedule so I could eat a bigger breakfast before taking my pill, programmed my doctor's office number into my cell phone, and hoped for the best.

I remember writing in my prayer journal, asking God to make it work. I hadn't been a Christian as long as I'd had acne, and even after I became a Christian I rarely prayed about my face. I guess I thought it too superficial to pray about. This time was different; this was important to me, and I raised rather heartfelt prayers that I would finally be free from worrying about how I looked or wishing I'd worn makeup that day. But even as I prayed, I knew that deep in my heart I didn't really think God would help me. I didn't really think He cared.

One day I was getting out of my car when the neighbor's dog came up to me and barked to alert his owner that I existed. The lady puttered over to scold her dog and say something to reassure me, then she noticed my face. She started with, "I couldn't help but notice … " then proceeded to inform me of the Cherokee method of treating acne — a few drops of iodine taken in milk before bed. Her last words haunted me: "And then you'll be beautiful."

And then I'll be beautiful? Is it so implausible to think I'm beautiful right now?

None of this would have been so bad, except that I had a difficult time mentally separating my acne from deeper doubts and questions about my beauty. I spent junior high and high school kind of hoping that some miracle product would transform me and inaugurate a new era in my life. Every big dance, every class picture day was another opportunity to think that things would be different, that this time I would be beautiful. But my hopes were never quite fulfilled.

I "graduated" from the school of Accutane without flawless skin; but the treatments did gain me enough control to feel comfortable with my complexion. I stopped worrying so much and left the house in the morning with a reasonable amount of confidence in my low-maintenance beauty regime. Everything would be good now … right?

Not exactly. One thing I noticed was that having clearer skin didn't make me feel beautiful. I still only rarely thought I was pretty. And I hadn't realized how much my acne had been a scapegoat for not liking myself in general. There was also a bigger problem: even after my face cleared up, I still didn't think of God as involved in and aware of my situation — He still seemed so far away.

If I feel un-pretty, does that make it true? If God feels distant, does that mean deists are right, or that I am unlovable even to a loving God? I guess not. I guess the problem isn't with the reality of who I am or who God is; the problem is with my perception. For some reason, I'm still unable to make my feelings match my knowledge.

I can think correct thoughts. That's not terribly difficult. But no matter how hard I try to feel correct feelings, it usually doesn't happen — and that's a problem. If someone asks me, "Does God love you?" I will say yes. But, because my emotions are often askew, my life is often lived as though He doesn't. In terms of raw functionality, feeling and experience often seem to win out against belief.

The potency of emotion seems to make any attempt to suppress my experience a fruitless endeavor; many of my attempts have simply failed. Stifling the doubt and silencing the questions and fears rooted in my emotions have lead only to a shallow, scarcely tenable faith in the objective truths to which I pledge myself. A purely intellectual faith in God's involvement and goodness is of little use.

Perhaps, though, this is a good thing. The inadequacy of mere intellectual faith leaves me discontent with the way I am, and there is a sweetness in the fact that growth toward my Father necessitates the incorporation of my entire identity, the emotional as well as the intellectual.

I can't pretend that I feel blissfully aware of God's love. But I can place the anxieties, scars, and confusion that keep me from experiencing love in the hands of an infinitely wise Father and trust that He can refine my mind and heal my heart. I can face emotional difficulties bravely, knowing that God sees my emotional infirmities more clearly than I do, and is more capable than I of treating them. And I can rest knowing that God is not disappointed in me for feeling incorrectly, and rather offers salve for emotional debilities.

Tomorrow morning, I will open the blinds to shed stripes of light onto my mirror, pull my hair away from my face, and smear a little benzoyl peroxide gel into my still-imperfect skin. As I do, I will quietly hope in the truths that this fallen body might try to deny: God is aware, He does love me, and He has always thought I'm beautiful.