Have you ever pulled a blouse or shirt from your closet only to discover that it's hopelessly wrinkled? I have. (My long-suffering husband attributes this to my having too many clothes stuffed into my closet.)
You pull out the blouse, debate whether you can wear it or not as it is. Wrinkles in clothes (and on the face) are inevitable. We learn to live with them. We can iron them from our clothes. We can dab cream on our faces, but, darn it, those wrinkles come back.
Along with clothes and faces, life has a way of wrinkling up. The smooth fabric we'd planned for our lives gets creases. Some of those creases can be pressed away; some turn permanent. Life has handed our family some wrinkles lately. I moan. I whine. I complain. And then I start the job of trying to press them out. What can't be pressed out, I learn to live with. And with the Savior's help, I try to make peace with them.
This I know for sure: wrinkles are part of this mortal existence; how we deal with them defines who we are.
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