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

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