Amelia fixes her veil in the mirror,
and tilts her head from side to side.
Not satisfied, she removes it.
She brushes her brown hair.
If only God had made her the way
that she wished she could be.
The artist that she is,
she desires to paint herself pretty.
It's like she feels that her Maker
put out His first draft on her
and forgot to erase the mistakes,
to improve the rough draft.

Amelia adds rosy color to her cheeks,
and petal softness to her lips.
She dots her eyes with lovely additions
and powders her nose as if icing to the cake.
Yet Amelia's love does not care
if she looked perfect.
He always teases her
when she fusses and fusses,
and he often reveals to her
that she is more beautiful
than a garden of flowers.

Amelia relaxes her face.
Maybe this isn't what she would have ordered
if she could have possibly gotten
her choice of looks
right out from a store catalog.
She can tell by her own eyes
that they are alive.
She laughs at herself in her reflection.
She knows her beloved is the right choice.
From down the hallway to her room,
Amelia's mother calls out,
"Come along, Amelia.
Today is your wedding day."