This morning I was staring at the back of a car in traffic. Normal business. Nothing out of the ordinary.
I noticed some family stickers on the back of the car in front of me—a chili pepper for the dad and three kids, and a sprig of flowers for the mom.
I scoffed for a moment, remembering other bumper stickers whose purpose was to tell these people that they didn’t care about their decal family, and others where dinosaurs or death stars obliterated similar occurrences of familial-sticker-pride.
All at once while having this thought I suddenly became acutely aware of what was dangling dangerously grumpily on the bottom of my forehead—some wrinkled, furrowing eyebrows.
All at once I relaxed and looked at the car again.
I saw a mother, excitedly applying a beautiful flower to represent her on the back of their car.
I saw a father smiling with pride at the three beautiful kids he and his wife have worked so hard to raise.
I noticed my eyebrows again, and they’d softened to a small “aw” on my face, excited to see people happy to live and be a family.
I don’t know these people, or their little chili pepper family, but I know that I got to know myself better this morning.
Whether they’re on fleek or a hot mess, our eyebrows can show us something if we pay attention—are they furrowed in frustration on a life that’s hardly living, or are they finding wonder in a world worth saving?