I was a young wife with three little kids and we’d just moved to town. My three-year-old son was sitting on my lap during a meeting of neighborhood church women in our living room. He asked, “Mommy, what’s that red stuff on that lady’s face?”
I ignored his question, which was the wrong thing to do. He repeated himself a little louder. I was sure everyone in the room heard him, but pretended not to.
I murmured in his ear, “Shh. That’s just make-up.”
Mrs. Sweet, the spry grandmother who lived across the street from us, dipped generously from the rouge pot when she applied make-up. She was an attractive lady with only a few strands of gray in her black hair although I knew she had to be in her sixties.
Mrs. Waller, who lived two houses down the street from us, was one of a group of three widows I saw at community events. I always noticed the petite, gray-haired woman who stood as straight as a soldier when the sergeant barked, “Attention.”
I never knew those two women well but, now that I’ve entered their age range, I think of them nearly every day. When I’m applying make-up, I still hear my little boy’s voice and go easy on the blush. When I stand up, I remind myself, shoulders back.
Every day, each of us may serve as someone’s example. Will it be what to do or what not to do?