vox bellus et formidolosus

Last week, Molly and I were teasing one another and arguing over who was prettier. I told her I was, but she promptly corrected me. She told me that all that was pretty about me was my muscles, my hair, my eyes, and my voice. I laughed loudly at the random choices of pretty items from my nine-year-old. But today, at least a week later, I asked her if she remembered what she said was pretty about me. Without hesitation, she rattled off all four just as she had before.
I started thinking about how beauty depends on perspective. I haven't exactly figured out the hair part yet, but I heard the prophetic voice in Molly's words concerning everything else. If you can interpret the hair, I'd appreciate your input.
To a nine-year-old little girl, Daddy's pretty muscles are a good thing. Even if he doesn't really have them, any trace evidence of strength is good. Daddy's arms provide protection, comfort and refuge. Dad's chest provides rest and peace more deeply than perhaps any other place. Maybe, in looking for your place in the pecking order, Dad's strength compared to other dads provides a partial measuring stick at a certain age. I know mine did.
But to a foe. Strength is something ugly, something to be despised. The same thing that gives rest and peace and protection to the little one, incites fear and avoidance in the enemy.
Daddy's pretty eyes see beauty, grace, promise and potential in his little one. They look through her eyes, into her soul, and tell her what they see. They introduce her to someone inside her that she hasn't met yet. They inspire her to become that person. But the same eyes that see the good in the good, look past the facade and charade and see the bottom line in the pretend and strayed. The pretty eyes are ugly when they see what is hidden.
Daddy's pretty voice speaks encouragement and reassurance. It sings silly songs for smiles and laughter, and lullabies for bedtime. It whispers prayers over sleeping children, and "I love you", to the broken-hearted. But to some, it speaks what the eyes see. Often what it says sounds discouraging, negative and terrifying. And the same voice that calls it like it is, sounds beautiful to some and terrible to others.
I feel terribly encouraged that the mouth of my daughter would be used to recognize the tools that I am to hone, repair, maintain, and protect. I don't know, maybe even the hair. Why would hair get mentioned if it weren't apt? Samson's hair was certainly important. I guess John the Baptizer probably had some pretty noticable locks.
I was made to think of other things that although one and the same, are pretty to some and to some, ugly - and for the same reason. I thought of the fragrance of Christ. One smell, perceived in opposite ways.
And at the same time as Molly speaks, there is another voice crying out in my yard. Who knows what he is saying with that terrifying voice. The voice of the apocalypse? The prophetic revelation? Sitting patiently. Wisdom anyway. I've expressed my desire to be the owl, to speak wisdom and truth. Not until now have I thought of how disturbing this often sounds. The barred owl in the back yard asks who. Yes, quite emphatically and challenging, but the question incites the contemplative and pensive listener to ponder. The screech owl speaks and terrifies.
Why has Otus come into my yard now? Is it to speak to me or tell me to speak?
Maybe both. Who is equal to such a task?