After cleaning my closet last week, I invited a young woman from church to see if she'd like any of the clothes I was going to donate. She tried on the outfits in my closet then stepped out to model them.
The blue dress. The striped dress. The cobalt shirt. Everything fit. Everything looked great on her. Seeing the clothes from a distance -- on her, not on me -- brought them to life again.
As she turned in front of the mirror and checked her reflection from every angle, she exclaimed, "I love this!" My inner dialogue kicked into overdrive. Oh snap. Hold on a minute; I think I love that dress again, too.
It had languished on a hanger for a year without me wearing it, and suddenly I'm nostalgic? Seriously?
In the midst of my ill-timed inner turmoil, I did the one thing I knew to do. I said, "Wait, you've got to try it on with the right shoes. You'll love it even more," before grabbing my peep-toe heels for her to slip on temporarily. The completed outfit was a home run.
Later as she returned the shoes and neatly folded the pile of new-to-her clothes, I remembered something: I've regretted some choices I've made in life. Generosity never has been one of them.