Sowing Tears and Reaping Joy, Chapter 2

Ed and I were on-again-off-again through college1.  Then, after I married an Army officer at age 22, he stalked me like a jealous boyfriend.

He showed up in our bedroom when dying sunlight seeped through the blinds and illuminated our naked bodies. “Remember what you ate for dinner? You look like you have a food baby.” Ed was vicious.

He showed up in the bedroom every single weekend morning. “Get out of bed, lazy fool. You’re better off going for a run than cuddling with your husband.”

He showed up in the kitchen, leaning over my shoulder. “Why don’t you serve him a double portion, then you can just eat a tiny bit. Or better yet, just make yourself a salad.”

He showed up in the living room when we wanted to watch a movie. “How can you sit there and let calories slowly turn to fat? At least do some sit-ups while you watch TV.”

Ed spent so many years badgering me, that I’d forgotten what it feels like to be hungry, what a genuine craving is, how to cut a pie at Thanksgiving, scoop ice cream for birthday cake or share a Papa John’s pizza with my husband. I turned to Ed with every choice, “Am I good or bad if I eat this?”

My husband, Patrick, hardly knows it, but he is my knight in shining armor. He is my God-sent hero, consistently coming between Ed and me, severing that fatal attraction. Patrick first took me out in college. Despite my selfishness, confusion and divided loyalty, he never criticized or left me. Much like Jesus, he quietly, patiently loved me, capturing my heart piece by piece until there was nothing left for Ed.

The Army moved us to Fort Lewis, Washington, in 2008. From there, Patrick deployed to Afghanistan for a year. Ed visited occasionally. I tried to resist him, enlisting the aid of a therapist and a dietician. I limped along, above the dangerous line on the doctors’ weight charts, but far below what my body needed to stay warm in Washington.

Alone one afternoon, I ventured down to Percival Port. The Olympia Farmers’ Market on the edge of the Puget Sound is renowned. I parked blocks away behind a used furniture store then followed the calls of vendors and the flocks of hippies toting their recyclable bags. Rounding the final corner, I stopped, awed by the spectrum of colors and the vibrations of life emanating from the market.

A red, three-sided barn crouched over rows of rough wooden tables. Like a huge umbrella it defied the gray, wet skies of western Washington. Craftsmen and farmers’ booths spilled into the bulging parking lot. On one end was a seller of herbs. Lavender, basil and dill mingled on the breeze. I ducked beneath a low hanging fuchsia plant.

The apple man at the far end of the market’s breadth became my favorite by season’s end. He stacked apples and mushrooms three crates high in a large square around himself and his gray haired father. Once in a while, his young son helped on a Saturday afternoon.

“You’ve never tried a Honeycrisp apple? That’s a crime! Oh, and did you see this mushroom? It sells for $35 per lb. You can’t buy them anywhere else in Washington!”

Between the apple man and the herbs were cinnamon roasted nuts, Emu lotion, tables toppling beneath the weight of bountiful harvests. Beets, broccoli, cucumbers, squash and vegetables I’d never heard of. A crabber set up his booth when he was in port.

I watched the crowds around me milling, smiling and tasting. Hippies in their tie-dyed scarves and dreadlocks held an air of life-hunger mingled with indifference toward social expectations.

I peered inquisitively at the sellers, faces round and rosy with contentment, satisfaction and pride. Food, bounty and harvest were the source of this joy. There was gratification in dirty fingernails and well-fed waists, smudged cheeks and tired backs. Happiness found in the fruits of hard labor; in sharing flavors and nourishment. Sharing life. And this was good.

My fingers tingled with excitement. I felt invited into the community that began with seeds and soil and culminated in a colorful feast. My cell phone vibrated against my thigh.

“Hello?”

“Hey Abby, it’s Megan.”

Megan and her husband were the only two people I knew in the whole state of Washington. I have no idea why she called, I plowed over her words in my enthusiasm.

“Can you come over for dinner?” I could feel the market’s energy seeping into my pores, suddenly I would burst if I failed to release it. “I’m at the market and I am going to buy oysters and red wine. Please, please come join me?”

Life is a two-step, an organic thing. It must be received and it must be re-gifted. Held too long in tight-fists, it will die.

Life cannot be controlled, manipulated or malnourished. Life cannot be lived alone, but Ed’s greatest ally is solitude. Life will not tolerate Ed.

Ed, anorexia, began to withdraw when my husband bravely entered my life. As friends encircled me, I felt the pulse and freshness of life. The more I pressed what little life I had into the hands of others, and hungrily accepted the relationship they offered, I reaped joy a hundred fold.

Things were changing, a harvest was coming. But what of the famine years? What of the starved intimacy of marriage, the languishing closeness of sisterhood, the wilted camaraderie of mother and daughter and the shallow, neglected friendships?

God was about to show me that He can restore even ruined relationships. Redemption was only beginning.

“Most laws condemn the soul and pronounce sentence. The result of the law of my God is perfect. It condemns but forgives. It restores - more than abundantly - what it takes away.” Jim Elliot

First published at Haven Journal, March 28, 2013

Breaking Up With Anorexia, Social Changes, Chapter One

Few women want to wait tables on Valentine’s Day. Warm fuzzy feelings aren’t usually kindled by pouring red wine into other lovers’ glasses. It’s no fun watching a young man spoon feed his girlfriend a bite of his favorite bourbon glazed chicken, as she scooches closer to him on one side of the booth. Most women swoon to split a sundae with their beau, or pop one of his chocolate gifts between his puckered lips.

Whatever you do, please don’t ask me out. Please do not invite me.

In college I had a steady companion. He literally went with me everywhere. This guy was clingy and demanding and controlling. I tried to dump him dozens of times. My parents hated him, my friends thought he was nuts.

“He is way too controlling!”

“You can do better than him.”

His full name was anorexia nervosa, but I didn’t really want anyone to know about him, so I called him Ed.

Every single morning Ed told me he loved me. That’s hard for a girl to resist. First thing every day we went to the gym together or on a run. I felt thin, strong, capable and self-disciplined. Often, by the time we finished working out, Ed convinced me that it was too late to meet my friends for breakfast at the student union. So, I’d shake the dregs from my coffee pot and head to class.

Everyone has their own idiosyncrasies. Ed’s most obvious quirk was that he hated to eat socially, and he didn’t think I should dine with others either. “I just don’t like people to see you stuffing your face,” he would tell me. “It’s for your own benefit, I promise. If you go out with people you’re likely to eat junk food or drink too much. When you get home, we can have a salad together.”

Beth was my best girlfriend and a marvelous cook, or so I’m told. Many afternoons we met at her house and went to the nearby lake for a three mile walk. She knew a little about Ed, and knew that it made me uncomfortable to talk about him. Usually, we talked about school and Bible study and her boyfriend, Scott. Once in a while, she broached the subject of Ed, wondering if he was still around.

“Hey, I was just curious how you’re doing with Ed. I’m kind of worried about your weight, you’re looking really thin and tired. What did you have for lunch? Do you want to come over and share dinner with me and watch Friends?”

Then, she would invite me to try her newest kitchen success. Masterful lasagna, tiny cute cookies, or homemade hummus. “That’s OK, really. I just put a piece of cinnamon Trident in my mouth.”

A few years later I had my first Christmas as the lonely wife of a deployed soldier. Numerous families from church invited me to celebrate with them.

“Come have dinner with us on Christmas Eve.”

“We always have coffeecake and cider on Christmas morning, please come be with us.”

Eternally more entertaining, I politely declined in order to paint my bedroom. While friends and family surrounded spreads of ham, stuffing and pumpkin pie, I spent the day painting my room chocolate brown with a buttercream accent wall. It was a good workout, I’m sure. I capped the day with a holiday-worthy dinner of microwaved eggplant.

In September 2004, Hurricane Ivan screamed up the east coast. My husband was still deployed. I worked at GNC with two girls who had been friends for years and whose husbands were also overseas. Chrissy and April tried for months to draw me into their fellowship.

“We will probably lose power tomorrow,” April warned. Having grown up in Florida she knew what to expect from a hurricane. “You don’t want to be alone, it will be boring and cold and maybe dangerous. Why don’t you hangout with us? We are going to buy craft stuff and spend the night at Chrissy’s house. I plan to make cookies before the power goes out, too.”

“No thanks.” I’m pretty sure April expected me to say that. I had been refusing their invitations to lunch, slumber parties and other events - any event that might require me to eat scary foods in their presence.

Eating in public was the most debilitating fear of my entire eating disorder. Even if I could manage to choke down a peanut butter sandwich by myself, I simply couldn’t bear the thought of someone watching me eat a cookie, a drumstick or a twisted, gooey,
butter-drenched cinnamon roll.

April, Chrissy and I worked in a small mall, and our store was directly across the isle from Cinnabon. Every day I drank copious amounts of Cinnabon’s decaf, carmel pecan flavored coffee, enough to kill a small animal. With each gulp, I imagined that the flavor was every bit as indulgent as a sticky bun. I was simply smart enough to enjoy my treats without the calories.

Eating meant losing control. Starvation became my signature. Everyone knew that I only ate carrots, peaches and non-fat yogurt. In my imagination, they admired my resolve; my unequaled ability to resist the temptation of fattening foods.

Occasionally someone would say, “I wish I could be anorexic for a day. How on earth do you turn down cheese enchiladas?” With that they would dish up seconds, and walk off to join the rest of the normal, social group.

I wondered, “How on earth can you laugh like that? Where does your joy come from?” More precisely, “Where has my life gone?”

For a time, I tried to have the best of both worlds: Blissful indulgence and unmatched resolve. I told Ed that I was busy on Saturdays and that he would have to find something else to do. I spent the summer of 2005 casually dating a new diet.

This arrangement gave me some leverage over Ed. He didn’t want to lose me, but he could also see that I needed some space. I was desperately lonely. So, for a time, he agreed to let me have a “free day” every Saturday; a day when I could eat in the company of others and share their food choices.

One specific weekend my sister was visiting from Kansas. I was so excited to be able to go out to lunch with her! Kelsey had a craving for French fries. At McDonalds, she ordered a cheeseburger and fries. Oh the expanse of that menu! For so many years I had diverted my eyes. Ed always accused me of flirting with disaster, a blimp-sized waist line, if I so much as perused the options.

“Can I have a large order of fries and a large vanilla shake?” It was strange to hear those words in my own voice.

I thought Kelsey was going to pass out. How long had it been since we had fellowshipped over food? While we ate, I explained my new plan to her.

“Ed and I are still going out,” I promised. “He cooks all my meals six days a week. But on Saturdays, I have a free day and I can eat anything I want.”

What I didn’t tell her was that my new beau was abusive, too. On free days, I often consumed dozens of cookies, two or three flavors of pie, half of a sheet cake. Every Saturday night, I went to bed miserably sick, with a trash can six inches away. Every Sunday morning, Ed woke me with breakfast of black coffee.

“Wake up. You have a six mile run ahead of you.”

I couldn’t figure this out why was joy so evasive? Watching my sister finish all but three French fries, I knew I had not experienced even a measure of freedom. I was more hungry for her emotional indifference toward food than I was for any sweet concoction.

There is no sweet success in starving. I marveled at others’ knowledge of satiety, satisfaction. That was the difference. My sister’s joy came from experiencing pleasure so deeply that it quenched her momentary longing. She looked for joy, grateful for abundance, which left her free to set her own limits. A victim of Ed’s arbitrary limits, I lost all true self-control. I could consume everything or nothing, but I had no concept of fulfillment.

I wasted 15 years on Ed. Because of that loser, I don’t have memories of parties with friends, summer barbecues or ice cream dates. However, I finally found the strength in Christ to breakup with him. It was a breakthrough but it lead me to my next crisis - intimacy.

 First Published at Haven Journal, March 19, 2013

Love Thy Body

Love Thy Body

It’s not just what is inside that counts. We tell ourselves that. We tell our children, so they won’t look too hard in the mirror. We don’t want them to judge their peers by skin color, size or shape.

“It’s only the inside that counts.” What we mean is that character is important. A good work ethic is priceless. Gentleness is admirable. Patience is Christ-like. But it’s not only what's inside that counts.

We tell ourselves and our children that the outside doesn’t matter. But it isn’t true. Tell that to the woman with breast cancer whose body is being eaten away by physical invaders. Tell that to the Indian man with leprosy whose skin is deteriorating. Tell the little blind boy that his eyes don’t matter, the cripple that his feet don’t matter, the burn victim that her skin doesn’t matter.

Bodies bear the mark of God. When God reached out to redeem His creation, He came as Immanuel, God with us. He came in flesh.  He came to look like us, touch, walk, hurt, heal, be like us.

A warm bosom was the first scent of earth-life to fill baby Jesus’ lungs. Mary’s body pushed, contracted and yielded to nature bringing a wrinkly, red baby into the world. Then soft breath, whispered words, gentle lips, trembling hands welcomed, caressed and tended. Life to life.

Dirty, leather-shod feet carried Jesus over the hills of Galilee, Nazareth and Samaria. Ugly, worn, blistered, they brought the healer to the broken, the leader to the lost, the Savior to the cross. As he washed and dried the feet of his own disciples the night of his arrest, did the Creator marvel at the familiarity of each heel and arch?

It is the body of Christ, bearing permanent scars that physically stepped into my place, took my death and rescued my life, even my body. Bodies matter. Intimate moments are constructed by and contained in bodies.

My first niece just turned one-year-old. She lives hundreds of miles away from me. Oh how I miss her. I miss her licorice-black, Precious Moment’s eyes framed with tiny lashes. I miss the softness of the top of her head. I love her face most when it’s smeared with beets or chocolate at breakfast. I love every inch of her oh-so wonderful body.

My mother’s shoulders are the most perfect shoulders in the world. They are broad enough for four daughters to rest their heads at once. Her shoulders slope gently into arms soft and strong; arms which hug me when I sob and hug me when I laugh. Her hands braided my hair when I was little and hold the phone now for hours when I just need to hear her voice.

Oh and those eyes! My daddy’s eyes sparkle with tears at the most elusive, sentimental moment. Those eyes chided me and praised me. The comfort of those eyes lulled me back to sleep after nightmares.

I know the tendency to discount bodies. For half my life, I hated mine. I whittled it smaller and smaller with starvation and long workouts. I measured my arms and legs with my fingers, furious if they grew larger than an arbitrary limit. How dare they strengthen, or fatten or grow or change. How dare they defy my control!

Slowly, Jesus has been persuading me of bodily value. These legs, bigger than they’ve been in years, bend criss-cross-applesauce and my puppy sleeps between my knees. These legs kneel to wrap Christmas presents, get on my niece’s eye-level and pray. These legs, which have long outgrown my fingers, carry me shopping with a friend, to volunteer at the homeless shelter, to walk to my neighbor’s home.

Recently, I found a news story and photo from 1995. It was titled, The Rescuing Hug.

“The article detailed the first week of life of a set of twins who were born 7 weeks early. Apparently each were in their respective incubators, one of them was doing better than the other and on day 4 after their birth, the weaker twin's vital signs were fading rapidly. The nurse in charge of the NICU that day had tried everything she could to save the weaker twin but nothing was working, she then decided to bring both twins together as a last resort. She fought against the hospital rules but finally placed both babies in the same incubator. When they were together, the stronger one of the two threw an arm over her sister in an endearing embrace. The weaker baby’s heart stabilized and her temperature rose to normal right away.” (article excerpted from InspiredDaybyDay.com)

Hands, feet, breasts, stomachs, legs, harshly judged too large, too small, too fat, too thin, are the means with which we express our Maker. Bodies are the means for rescuing life, comforting hearts, raising a child, being a lover.

Telling our children that what is inside is all that counts will not spare them from eating disorders. Believing that the outside is insignificant won’t prevent racism or prejudice. Believing that bodies have intrinsic, Christ-like value will instill in us and in our children the respect God intended for His creation.

What is inside does matter. It’s just not all that matters.

First published at Haven Journal, Dec. 2012

Whatever It Takes

Whatever It Takes

How badly do you want to be thin? What would you trade? Would being thin make you ultimately happy – even if you don’t really believe that  - do you think that? Would life be easier, happier, more fun, (add an adjective) if you were thin?

A recent study revealed that many women would give up a year of of their lives to be thin.
Another study discovered that most women would give up sex to be thin.

In April, the New York Times, reported on a new, disgusting trend. Women, mostly brides, in a last ditch effort to be thinner (and therefore in their perception: more beautiful on their wedding day, make that special day happier, etc.) have resorted to feeding tubes.

At first, I was shocked. I remember being inpatient for my eating disorder. One of the sweetest little girls I have ever met, greeted me at the facility’s entrance. Alicia became a quick confidant and encourager for  me. But it was hard to look at her without crying. Alicia was 12, but she had stopped growing when she was about 5. Because of her refusal to eat and seeming determination to starve herself, Alicia wore a feeding tube. This disfiguring device looked just like it sounds. A long tube ran up her nose into her stomach. It was taped in various places down her little body until it attached to a pole, nearly twice her height, where hung a plastic bag of liquid nutrients. Everywhere little Alicia went – to counseling sessions, to watch TV, on pass into the the little town nearby, to bed, to worship – everywhere, her tube went along.

Now, imagine a grown woman, preparing for her wedding day, strapped up with a feeding tube. A little more visually appealing, these brides carry around a purse with their “food” bag instead of Alicia’s pole. Nonetheless, they have a rubber tube snaking up the side of their face, through their nose and into their stomach – to supply them with starvation’s subsistence – a mere 800 calories.How far have we fallen?

Here are some other facts for your consideration:

2/3 of dieters regain the weight they lost within about 4 years of any diet

About 44% of women admit to being on a diet at any given moment

And guess what! Despite all our paranoia, drastic measures, social mores, fitness obsessions, fad diets and self help books, political intervention and endorsement – despite all these things, recently an advocacy group reported that by 2030, more than half of the population in the majority of states will be considered obese. So, apparently, our strategy isn’t working.

Happily, there’s a small, underground minority that is working hard to reverse the trend. Have you heard of Intuitive Eating? Sounds interesting and logical, doesn’t it?

How about a new book, by Greg Archer, whose provocative title (albeit accurate) I’ll encourage you to check into yourself.

Another wonderful person whom I consider a champion of this movement toward reprioritizing our weight, our diet, our life goals, is Emily Wierenga.  It was a recent article on her blog, Chasing Silhouettes, that launched me onto my soapbox again.

Enjoy her words of wisdom:

No longer [should food be] an object to be feared. It is a necessity to be enjoyed and embraced.  It is another form of communication, another way of sharing in this thing called life, of relating with other humans through a means devoid of words. It is the breaking of bread, which Christ calls us to.

So, as you wisely set health goals, lace up your sneakers, breathe deep during a jog or slice your paring knife through the pale green skin on a tart, fresh apple, wonder : Why am I doing this?

And then do whatever it takes to honestly answer that question with:

So that I might, “present [my] bod[y] as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is [my] spiritual worship. [I will] not be conformed to this world,but be transformed by the renewal of [my]mind, that by testing [I] may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect. Romans 12:1-2

First published at: Moms Who TRI Blog, Sept. 18, 2012