I know why you stare. I notice when you gawk. I get the message if you turn away. I even understand the latent psychological reasons that explain your self-protective need to quickly identify that which is unusual, to instantly spot things that may indicate peril, and to swiftly react to people who are not "just like me." I get why you sneak a peek to invade the privacy of one who is considered "different" from what you consider to be "normal." I am aware of how you are affected when confronting the peculiar or the odd.

I am acquainted with your discomfort and your angst. In fact, it is the same alarm bell that we hear: "Danger!" We respond to the same mental mayday: "Somebody get me out of here!" You want to run away from me, and I want to escape from you. Instead, we simultaneously collect ourselves and pretend that all is well. When taken by surprise, we both struggle to maintain our composure. We do our best to be politically correct.

Your apprehension when standing in the immediate vicinity of a deformed person is palpable. I'm used to reactions like yours. I've been through it before: your startled double take, your nervous recovery. Please don't feel bad. It's nothing personal. I tell myself that it's no big deal. It's only the visual impact of my scars that alters our social interaction, nothing more. It's only these scars that transform my identity, send out distress signals, create uneasiness, and stimulate mutual sentiments of suspicion between us.

That's why I dread to see you approach and why I'm relieved when our encounter ends. Venturing out in public—exposed to glances and whispers—can be an exhausting challenge to my body, mind, and soul. Just the thought of walking out through my front door can be a wearisome exercise that exposes me to risk. But I go about my business—taking a chance on you—not reflecting on past hurtful experience, but hopefully optimistic, convincing myself—pretending, as it were—that I am on equal footing with everyone I will meet.

A mismatched set—myself and my appearance—courageously confront the world together. In spite of apprehension and fear, the two of us project a confident façade. Prayerfully, my petitions rise to my Savior who was, for a brief while, without beauty or attractiveness; my Jesus who was despised and rejected, sorrowful and familiar with grief. Inside my head, a soundtrack plays: "In the face of overwhelming anxiety, I must exercise bold faith." It takes gut-wrenching self-control to place my trust in God's wisdom and loving concern.

That's how I prepare to meet you on the street and in the store. That's how I cope with queasy forebodings: I apply faith to my face in much the same way that a woman of normal appearance might apply makeup in order to perfect her already pleasing countenance.