With the advent of August, the boisterous face of summer begins to wane: its colors, a little less hardy; its leafy greens, a tad yellowy around the edges; its budding, less bountiful—evidence of a severe energy drain, barely noticeable to the eye, but underway, nevertheless.

In the month of August, in one’s lifeline, the human face begins to wane: its skeletal structure droops like one of the Seven Dwarfs; its decreased elasticity and firmness morph into turkey necks; its hormonal imbalance precipitates wrinkling, creases, and drab complexions—all unwanted, but relentless.

At issue with both wanings is the end of life as we experience it. Some accept their diminished gardens; others, their reflections in bathroom mirrors. Still others, driven by the youth culture, seek out dermatologists and plastic surgeons, cosmetologists touting miracle results from their creams and make-up, and stylists touting their array of hair colors.

I know about some of these things—part of my history that prolonged the illusion of youthfulness. Happily, August is behind me. My life is different now. 

I await my new coloring from Creator God.