I laugh wonder, shake my head. Run upstairs to ask my sleeping mother. Some curiosities kill cats. This one stirs a parent from their slumber. Where did it come from? She mumbles into the pillow. I make my apologies and leave.
Downstairs, I open the white Vera Wang box. It's lined with purple tissue paper. A small yellow card written in that familar scrawl. "Joan's attractive daughter. Kind regards". Nothing more. Me? The attractive daughter?
It can't be mere flattery. Flattery might take the picture, send it. But mount it? Frame it? Pay the extra postage? With nothing to gain? I swallow hard and refuse to believe it. Sincerity. Genuine appreciation for the photograph.
The photograph that, in my hands, would have been erased long ago from a sea of digital memories. Head turned so that my already-too-short neck virtually disappears. Awkward nose I've never made peace with captured from the worst possible angle. Eyes crinkled from staring into the sun.
It represents every picture of myself I've ever loathed. He calls it attractive. And there it is, proudly displayed on my parents' mantlepiece. They will never get rid of it. They like it.
Are these people blind? Don't they see what I see?
I still remember the day the photograph was taken. We were leaving, my mother and I. The last time I was there I had straightened my hair. This time I left it in its natural state, wild curls that refuse to conform. He was fascinated. European texture, yet so different from European hair. He asked if he could take a picture. Coming from anyone else, that would be a bizarre request. But it was him, so I smiled, shrugged. Sure.
So enchanting, like a crown. That familiar accent, those animated arms. It's just hair. Sheesh. I brush it off.
He takes the picture. It's a gloriously sunny day. And then he asks me to turn around. I wince. No, it's fine really. You've got the hair. No, no, he insists. I'm facing the sun. I can barely open my eyes. But he assures me this is the best position. Snap. This camera is not digital. There is film to develop. Photos can't, won't be thrown away unless they're damaged.
We receive the photo, amongst others, some days later. I cringe. What an awful photograph. Still, it can just be hidden somewhere. Sure he has a copy, but it's okay.
And then that Vera Wang box arrives.
We met him at Salzburg airport more than 2 years ago. We were headed to the same destination - my mother and I returning home after a holiday, him visiting friends.
We first noticed him in the check-in queue. Sprightly for his age but a little confused. Guarding a box saying FRAGILE nervously. Everyone either ignored him or rolled their eyes. My mother showed daughterly kindness. And that was it. He followed us everywhere, trying to make conversation. We tolerated him, but in our each-to-their-own London mode thought the whole thing strange, uncomfortable.
Finally we thought we'd lost him and sat down at the gate to wait. And then he found us. We stayed. And listened as he told us all about his family: his wife, children, grandchildren.
He carried a little album with him and proudly showed us its contents. Everything with him was a grand ceremony, an experience to be savoured. He didn't merely hand us the album. He held it, turning slowly. Each photo had history, a story to be shared. I longed to see the next photo but he refused to turn until the story was finished. It made me smile.
He exaggerated the pronunciation of his almost perfect English as though he was trying to impress us. That made me smile too. As did his animated, almost eccentric manner of expressing himself. This wasn't a strange man following us. This was someone's grandfather. Both of mine had died when I was 10.
We were left moved by the experience, wondering why so few people treasure their family, their homelife, the way he did.
He asked me if I liked music. Mozart. I did. He promised to send me a CD at Christmas. It was September and I fought to hide my cynicism. I didn't know a world where people other than my family remembered and fulfilled promises made months ago.
Still, he seemed harmless, so on the plane I wrote my address on one of my mother's medical post-it notes, the ones she gets free from hospital reps pitching their wares. When we arrived at our destination and reached the arrivals gate, I handed it to him. I watched as he casually slipped it into his pocket and seemingly forgot about it as he greeted his hosts.
I guess that's it then.
Three months later, a package arrived in the post. The promised CD, and a handmade Christmas card.
We have since visited him twice and gotten to know his family. Everyone who hears about it thinks it's weird. Looks for the sinister motive behind it all. Asks us why. I can't blame them, I've been there. I was the one who insisted we stay in separate accommadation (something that would have happened with or without my silly paranoia), who wondered if this was a good idea.
But I got over it. And have come to know the beauty of sincere friendship that spans countries and is mostly conducted via snail mail. Letters, cards, chocolates ... and now a framed photograph.
He always tells me I am attractive, that I look like a princess. But I shake it off, I don't want to hear about it. He tells me that the man who marries me will be blessed. He does this kindly, nothing inappropriate about it. But I revert to my teenage angst and brush it aside. Whatever.
I wonder how often we do the same to God.
He doesn't want us to think highly of ourselves. We must decrease so that He increases, and nothing has damaged women's hearts like the culture of self-esteem; the plague of 'me, me, me'.
But I believe there are two truths that we must accept. That we are loved with an everlasting love. And that we are fearfully and wonderfully made. The latter doesn't merely refer to our looks. But it encompasses all of us, physical appearance included.
He chose for us the outer shell we inhabit during our time here on earth. Whether that shell is tall, brunette and willowy or small, blonde and rounded, He decided that it was good. Society, thinking themselves more important than they are, may declare in their cruel ignorance that certain shells are more beautiful, more acceptable, more worthy of their time. They may choose one and mock the other.
But to get mixed up in all that nonsense is to reject the Creator's handiwork. To tell him that he did a bad job. Dare we do that? Do we not see the folly in it? Why would God tell us that we are fearfully and wonderfully made if He didn't mean it? The only approval worth anything is His. He doesn't do it with pomp and flair, encouraging us to preening and self-love. He just declares it matter-of-fact.
You are fearfully and wonderfully made. Accept it and get on with your life.
I think of a quote I came across years ago:
“A person with godly humility looks to the Master. He or she neither exalts nor denigrates self, because to do either is to make self the center of our universe. When we’re really serving Christ, our reputations and abilities simply cease to be so important. We must decrease that He may increase.”
This is what I strive to remember when I look at that photograph. I still cringe. But I am learning to get over it. To spend my time glorifying Him instead of self-obsessing and fixating on my appearance.
And all the while, I marvel that God chose an 83-year-old Austrian to actively teach me what I had foolishly dismissed in His words.
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