What the Scale Told Me

What the Scale Told Me

As I battled my way through the Valley of the Shadow of Death that is anorexia, I got pretty used to believing that I don’t weigh enough. And somehow, even though I was stumbling through the steps of recovery so that statement would no longer be true, on some level, I clung to “skinny” as part of my identity.

The chains of an eating disorder have begun to finally fall away. And I am happy. Every single morning it feels brand new to behold my own body in the mirror. My little niece laughs when she rediscovers her belly button for the millionth time. That’s how I feel.

When I pull my favorite waffled blue t-shirt over my head, I wonder: This is me? Are those really my own strong legs? Are my own hands that gentle on my husband’s cheek? Can I really feel my puppy’s satin coat beneath my fingers? Are those really my own blue eyes?

Almost like a distanced observer, I have seen myself rediscover my own taste and style. I am not a fancy girl. There isn’t a single pair of heels in my closet. For me, dressed up is a lavender, fitted shirt that complements my eyes and dark blue jeans. Oh, and I swap the tennis shoes for a cute pair of flats. I have learned that I my natural hair color is soft brown, not strawberry blond. And I am happy. I am learning that I have enough within my own body to explore and relish all the goodness of my life.

Then, today the scale told me that I weigh enough. And it rattled me. Just a little bit. You see, for the last 19 years, the people who love me have told me that I am too thin. Their constant prodding to put on a few pounds became a part of my identity. Even though I have become healthier, some tiny part of me has rested in the thought that I am just slightly under weight.

Better too thin than too heavy right? The thought lay hidden just below my consciousness. That small deficit between my weight and the doctor’s chart gave me some padding and made me feel safe. Until today.

Today, the scale told me that I am enough.

I don’t weigh myself. I don’t own a scale. I never bought another one after one therapist had me enact a dramatic scale murder by throwing it out the window. But once or twice a year there is that obligatory doctor’s visit. The nurse takes my blood pressure, asks if I drink or smoke, taps my knees and elbows and then cavalierly tells me to step on the scale. Doesn’t she know what a dangerous piece of equipment that is? But she has already turned her back and is making notes.

I told myself that when this moment came, I would calmly ask her to weigh me backward like they did in the treatment center. But suddenly, the moment came and without a clear thought, I found myself standing on the little metal box. For a few seconds, I bravely bored a hole in the wall with my stare. The nurse took her time documenting my blood pressure, just a few seconds too long. And I looked. Oh.

The next time I saw that number, the number I weighed before I ever got sick, I expected my heart to fall through my chest and shatter on the floor at my feet. I expected to burst into hysteric tears, like those only my mother has seen. But my mind just registered, Oh.

The nurse placed my purse back in my hands, slightly irritated that I had suddenly retreated into the twilight zone and was unable to collect myself enough to pick up my things and follow her down the hall. Finally, she pushed open the heavy door to my doctor’s office and told me it would only be a few minutes.

What if that was a few minutes too long? What if in those few minutes, that three digit number registered in my healing mind and suddenly I couldn’t handle it? What if my recovery wasn’t strong enough to know my own weight? How did I let my eyes fall upon those numbers?

I waited for the agony to hit. The doctor finished her exam, checked her last box, nodded politely and left the room. Slightly dazed, I floated through the sun-dappled parking lot. I felt God wrap His arms around me in the unseasonable 60 degree February afternoon.

I weigh enough. I am enough. I am well enough to trust God’s design of my very own perfect body. I am strong enough to be a life-giver. I have grown enough to put the memories behind me. My healthy body and testimony of hope bear witness of the safety of recovery. And I am happy.

First published on SheLoves Magazine, March 23, 2013

Strength To Break the Mold

Strength to Break the Mold

Strength is definable. It is measured by goals met, challenges faced, races won. And we know who the winners are. It is always the last man standing, the one with the most gold stars. The strongest person is always the man on top.

But the steps to success have been trod for so long. The path to recognition is well marked and heavily traveled. What if it takes more strength, what if it is a greater test of fortitude to forge a new path? Perhaps it takes the greatest strength to break the mold.

STRONG ENOUGH TO BREAK THE MOLD: MOTHERHOOD

When my little sister and her husband moved to Dallas, Texas, she had no difficulty getting a job. Young, energetic and educated she quickly climbed to a supervisor role in the office. A window swallowed nearly one entire wall, spilling morning sunshine and vibrant sunsets across the floor. Peering down, she could see the sprawling city, a spectacular view.

Kelsey has always been good with money. Drawing two full-time salaries, they bought a new car, padded their savings account and enjoyed frequent dinners out with friends. But when she got pregnant with their first child, she hesitated.

How would they feed an extra mouth and pay for diapers if she quit her job? How could she just walk away from a good job and a dependable paycheck? But how could she place her precious daughter in the arms of a stranger? How could this tiny life flourish under the agreement of a contract instead within the non-negotiable love of her mother? So in a giant leap of faith, she quit her job.

Now, Kelsey’s eyes sparkle with pride when she tells me that she has seen Kylie every single day of her first year of life. For Kelsey, it would not have taken exceptional strength to step back into her high-heels and go back to work. With two incomes, she and her husband could confidently provide Kylie with everything she could ever desire.

Kelsey could have continued climbing the prescribed ladder to success. With each step, she would appear more powerful, a strong career woman to be admired. Likely, many people will question her decision to employ her college degree as a stay-at-home mom. They might even call her weak. But I think it took greater strength to break the mold.

STRONG ENOUGH TO BREAK THE MOLD: MARRIAGE

Several years ago, my marriage was on the rocks. Once, I had packed my bags, reserved a U-haul and given notice at work. I was leaving my husband, going home. Many things led us to this crisis. Many people advised me to leave. Even a Christian counselor told me, “Biblically, you have permission to leave. You don’t need to put up with this hurt anymore.”

My mother flew in to help me load my things and begin the tedious 24 hour drive from Washington to Kansas. But when the Holy Spirit checked my spirit, I hesitated. How could I leave my husband when I still believed there was hope? But how could I stay when everyone who loved me was saying I should go? Would I not appear weak? Would not a strong woman stand up for herself, announce that she had had enough and leave? But in a giant leap of faith, I met my mom at the airport and told that I had changed my mind. I was staying with my husband.

It hasn’t been easy. That very evening, it remained hard and unfair. I cried myself to sleep. But last December, three years later, my husband and I proudly celebrated a decade of marriage.

It took greater strength to shut my ears to the well intentioned advice of friends and family and to listen to the voice of my Heavenly Father. I dug deep into hope in order to remain in my difficult marriage. I discovered my own strength to break the mold.

STRONG ENOUGH TO BREAK THE MOLD: BODY

Fitness is a popular pursuit. These days it seems like everyone is training for a half marathon, hiring a personal trainer, focusing on their diet and cinching up their belt. A brief scan of any poplar magazine’s headlines proves that physical strength and beauty are a cultural priority.

I rose to the challenge and proved that I can be an exceptional athlete. Shorter and shorter times at local races and longer and longer training runs boosted my ego. I basked in the admiration of my physical discipline.

But suddenly, I found myself sliding into old eating habits, losing weight rapidly and out of control of my health. Dangerously close to being hospitalized for low weight, I hesitated.

How could I stop exercising madly and eat to gain weight in a world that idolizes thinness? How could I stop running when everyone applauded my self-discipline and praised my race times? How could I abandon anorexia, when many people ignorantly commented that they wished they could be anorexic for a day? To stop running, to eat more, wouldn’t I appear to be growing weaker and less driven?

But in a giant leap of faith, I surrendered myself to the advice of a dietician and rational thought of a Christian counselor. Today, I am healthy, strong and running freely.

It required of me much greater strength to stop long distance running, swallow fist-fulls of almonds and learn to rest, than it ever did to run a marathon. Learning to care for and love my body strained every fiber of my mind.

I closed fashion and health magazines. I left my running club. I backed out of several races which were already registered and paid for. But I found a greater strength to break the mold.

Tenacity, endurance, resolve, strength are forged in the flames of adversity. Going against cultural norms, the opinions of others and personal compulsions not only requires, but also develops great strength.

“…God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong…so that no man may boast before God…LET HIM WHO BOASTS, BOAST IN THE LORD.” 
-1 Corinthians 1:27-31

First published at Haven Journal, Jan, 30, 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

Where is the Peace on Earth?

Where is the Peace on Earth?

 I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And in despair I bowed my head
'There is no peace on earth,' I said,
'For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.'
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
'God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.'
Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
~ Wadsworth

I wonder if when Wadsworth penned those words, he expected to someday see peace on earth. Or was he speaking wistfully about some day hung in eternity, about as accessible as the stars? Certainly, no one even today, nearly 150 years later, would dare to say we have achieved peace on earth.

Here in America, we have come as close to peace as anyone. Most of us live safe, predictable lives. But even here we have domestic violence, natural disasters, political arguments, road rage, rivalry, and worse. Even at this season when we blissfully sing of peace, havoc reigns. Just last week: An inexplicable mass shooting at an elementary school - 27 people killed.

Why is this? What can we do? This morning on talk radio, commentators were asking, "What law do we need to prevent this kind of thing from happening?" The answer isn't in a Christmas carol. It isn't in Washington. The United Nations can't bring about world unity. However, Peace will come from authority. 

Think of it, what do you do when you feel anxious? If you're like me, you set out on a frantic course to determine the problem, find the solution and relax once more in your manufactured peace. The trouble is, in no time, you and I are in turmoil again.

Do you ever say something like, "Oh to be a kid again, no cares in the world." The reason kids have no cares is that they are happily submitted to the authority of their parents. Their peace comes from knowing that Mom and Dad will feed them, clothe them, tell them what to do and when to do it, answer their questions, calm their fears, kill the boogieman, dry their tears, tuck them in and teach them what they need to know. What would you give to have that kind of peace again?

This is what the LORD says--your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel: "I am the LORD your God, who teaches you what is best for you, who directs you in the way you should go. Is. 48:17

World peace, personal peace, eternal peace is found under authority. And therein is the main reason we miss it. The older we get the less we like the idea of taking orders from someone else. The older we get the more confident we become that we can take care of ourselves. But, what if there was someone worthy to exercise authority over us? And what if that someone was implicitly good and trustworthy?

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Is. 9:6

We have been given PEACE, peace incarnate. And yet, this peace is a prince; he has come to rule.

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.
Col. 3:15

Do not think that you can experience His peace unless He has full authority over your heart.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Phil 4:6-7

The peace of Christ is for those who like little children with a benevolent parent, bring their troubles to Him, instead of insisting on their own solution.

You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in you. Is. 26:3

The Prince of Peace gives peace to those who look to Him for truth and trust His answers.

First of all, then, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for all people, for kings and all who are in high positions, that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way.
1 Timothy 2:1-2

And this Peace of Christ is for today, it is peace on earth (Luke 2:14). For even the peace that we desire in our homes, between our political parties, between our nations, is only experienced under the authority of Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace.

Originally published on Predatory-Lies.com on Dec. 19, 2012