Archive for the The Journey Category

I recently ran into some friends who were having a conversation about their frustration with issues in their lives over which they have no control. I listened as they discussed the injustices they are witness to and how there doesn’t seem to be anything they can do to make the situation better. I suppose it would have been just like any another casual conversation except that one of them went so far as to say, “You know where they’re going to find me? In the garage with my earbuds in, a good book playing, and my car running. That’s just how I feel about life sometimes. I just can’t take it anymore.” And with that simple statement the conversation went from being a simple gripe session to something much more.

If this were an isolated incident, I suppose it would be easier to shrug it off. After all, everyone has something they can complain about. I have not one, but TWO gumball trees, and my back does not like them. Not. One. Bit. But the more I listen to people, the more aware I become of how deep the wounds in our lives run. Problems with bosses and co-workers. Deep hurts over an unwanted divorce. Children with special needs where the answers aren’t simple or concise. And pain. Deep, chronic, insomniatic pain that doesn’t subside long enough for us to even catch our breath. C.S. Lewis wrote an entire book about it, “The Problem of Pain” where he discusses the intellectual problem raised by suffering. But even C.S. Lewis, that great thinker who had so many thoughts to share on the matter, had this to offer in the preface:

“For the far higher task of teaching fortitude and patience I was never fool enough to suppose myself qualified, nor have I anything to offer my readers except my conviction that when pain is to be borne, a little courage helps more than much knowledge, a little human sympathy more than much courage, and the least tincture of the love of God more than all.”

I will never forget the moment when, at 15 years old, I decided I wanted to die. We were on vacation in Colorado Springs, CO with family friends. It was supposed to be a time of rest and refreshment but I felt only rejection and pain. I was lost among the cacophony of people. I felt unimportant, unloved, and insignificant. I crawled behind one of the beds of our friends and lay down. I closed my eyes. And then I prayed for God to let me die. And I meant every single word. “Please, God. Stop my heart. I can’t bear the pain any more. I just want it to stop.” And while some will say that an overly emotional teenager is perfectly normal and that I didn’t really have serious problems, well, you weren’t there and you didn’t feel what I felt. Otherwise you wouldn’t say such a thing. That moment is etched on my brain as one of the defining moments of my life. First, because God obviously did not answer my prayer. And second, because his refusal to meet my demands caused me to wonder if he even existed, and if he cared about me at all. I figured that maybe he wanted me to suffer. And everything I had been taught about his love and grace was a lie.

“As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust.” -Psalm 103:13-14

There have been many times in my life where I felt like abandoning my faith. I felt like a ship sailing through an ocean of pain with no port of call in sight. And with the waves whipping and the rain beating down, I turned away from the one who would save me. After all, the world has a lot to offer by way of distractions. But distractions are by definition, temporary. They don’t satisfy the deep longings of my soul. Food was a distraction for a long time. But it was a double edged sword because while it numbed the pain, it also made it worse. Even living a healthy lifestyle has had its pitfalls. Pride and vanity have at times jockeyed for the upper hand, but God–with his infinite patience–has always called me back with his great love and care for me. I really can’t give myself any credit for where I am because–in case you haven’t noticed–I’m kind of a goof.

So maybe you are reading this and you think I’m a religious weirdo. I’m sorry. And I hope my imperfect faith doesn’t make you uncomfortable. But maybe, just maybe you are wondering why in the world anyone would believe in God and, to go a step further, want to have a relationship with Him? Well, read on.

When I was little, I used to steal cookies from the cookie jar. I would get up in the middle of the night and carefully climb onto the kitchen counter and remove the lid. Then I would quietly remove handfuls of cookies and sneak them into my bed. I knew if my mother caught me there would be hell to pay, but I couldn’t resist the urge to take them. I wanted cookies more than a trip to Disney-world and that’s saying something. In truth, food was all I ever thought about. As I grew up, this need for fulfillment only grew stronger. The bottomless hole in my heart and stomach became ever more cavernous no matter how full my belly was. The more I ate, the more guilty and out of control I felt. I suppose that is why I hate food advertisements. For years I followed their beck and call and indulged myself with abandon. But I was never satisfied. And I am so ashamed to write all of that. So it is without a doubt significant that the only thing that has ever comforted or calmed me has been Jesus. And maybe it’s cheesy and Hallmark Hall of Famey, but it’s real for me. He is the only reason I was able to lose the weight. He gives me hope when I have none, and he fills the cobwebby places in my heart that cookies cannot touch with a love so wonderful and beautiful and pure that I know it has to be real. He soothes my troubled heart with peace I can’t really explain. And sometimes I feel like I’m so full I could just burst.

Following Jesus is a journey that is as much baffling as it is beautiful. And all someone need do is call out to him for help and he is there. Maybe not in the way we expect, but He is there.

This world is full of disappointment, sorrow and pain. It infects our lives like cancer and eats away at our hope. But when the ship is going down, and the waves are so big you are certain you will drown, remember there is a life raft you can reach out to.

I was 16 years old on the Valentine’s Day of my sophomore year of high school. I remember the cold and quiet ride on the big yellow bus as well as I remember the echo resounding in my lonely heart. I remember the longing I had to love and be loved. I had a big crush on a boy at school, and a lot of fantasies about how I wished the day would go, but the realist in me knew what the day would produce; oodles of girls walking around with bouquets of roses from their boyfriends while I watched, flowerless and romance-free. I knew from watching the movies I loved (Pretty Woman, Pretty in Pink, etc.) that being in love was the highest and best state of existence, and being single, was, well the absence of that. I remember clinging to my seat and praying, “God, would you just please help me to get through this day?” Back then Valentine’s Day was a day to be endured. Even as I mocked the practice of romance with my “Men are scum” attitude, I secretly wondered what it would be like to have someone look at me the way Duckie looked at Andie.

Our television died yesterday. I heard my youngest child scream, “Mom, the TV screen is fuzzy.” And then I heard my older child holler, “It’s smoking! The TV is smoking!” And I secretly rejoiced. Because truth be told, I hate that stupid machine. I feel like all it does is spew lies at me and my family, and I want nothing more than to be rid of it. But I knew the death of the boob tube meant we would be soon be shopping for a new electronic box to menace our sensibilities. The reason I say that is because for so many years I formed most of my opinions by what the people in the box said. The people in the box who wanted to sell me yummy food showed me pictures of happy people eating Panteras Pizza(What a hunk!) and then in the same breath told me beauty is akin to body shape(see my previous post). I had been a news lover until Ferguson(my hometown) took the headlines by storm, and I watched helplessly while almost every media outlet spun the story of my neighborhood into their version of the truth, which is to say un-truth. It was the first time I began to wonder if I had ever seen anything true in the news at all, or was everyone trying to sell me something? Even if all they are selling is an idea, I have learned that ideas have as many consequences as calories. I say all of this, not to make anyone feel badly for partaking in entertainment via the television, but rather to point out the irony of that old adage, “Seeing is believing.” Because if seeing is believing, being thin will make me happy much the same as eating Oreo’s via cold milk. And everyone living in the real world will–at the very least–attest to the fact that you definitely cannot have both at the same time.

So today we were standing in Wal-Mart looking at a row of boxes that were flashing bright colors and I felt sick. Literally. My stomach hurt and I was crabby. But my husband was of the mind that we need a new television lickety split and so there we were. I was trying to determine what kind of television would best suit our needs(the smallest and cheapest) while my husband was eyeing the larger/flashier models. All of this because he won’t let me get a used TV at The Salvation Army(not fair). And my children were trying to ram each other with the cart while complaining and whining. And when not complaining or whining, they were asking if I would buy them various movies and devices. It quickly became apparent that my husband and I were not going to come to agreement any more than the children were going to lay off the shenanigans. So we gave up and left. And all I could think was, “Is this how I’m spending Valentine’s Day? What a rip off!” I have yet to see a Lifetime movie that ends with the lovers squabbling at Wal-Mart over televisions as part of their happy ever after.

I think Valentine’s Day is stupid. I just want to throw that out there.

I think it’s stupid much the same way I think health magazines are stupid. They put a zero body fat chick on the cover to catch my attention(make me feel bad because I will never look like her) and then write a catchy headline like, “100 Best Diet Tricks Ever”. Don’t get me wrong, love is a wonderful thing. And we should always strive to love others as much as possible. But real love is different than being “in love” and I don’t think we need a designated day out of the year to celebrate being “in love” any more than we need skinny people to sell(guilt) products to fat people. Love is not a commodity to be bought or sold. Real love, the love that lays down ones life for another, is rare and precious. It is the reason I wrote the names of my children in my husband’s Valentine Card. And the love I have for my family is something I never anticipated or expected when I was 16 years old and thought my world was over because “nobody loved me.” I thought love was flowers and chocolate and gooey looks over spaghetti and meatballs. I didn’t realize love was working 6 days a week(50+ back breaking hours) to make sure my youngest child has a roof over his head and insulin in his Humalog pen. I didn’t know love was biting my tongue in the middle of Wal-Mart because my idea of entertainment and my husband’s idea of entertainment are two different species of animals. And I certainly didn’t know love could be as tender as the sloppy kiss of a 7 year old after saying, “I love you, Mommy. I wish I could make your tummy better.”

When I was 16 years old, I loved the snow. Snow meant snow days(no school!). Snow days meant a good book in bed and a belly full of chocolate. Snow meant a good movie and a crackling fire. Snow made me happy when little else did. So I remember riding that bus on that cold day on the 14th of February and wishing like the dickens that it would snow so I wouldn’t have to go to school and be tormented with images of romance and “love”. So when I stepped off the bus, forlorn and despairing, and saw the first few flakes falling from the sky, I had to stop and ponder what it meant. I remember looking up into the sky as cold, white pieces of precipitation fell onto my eyelashes. And I remember the tears that formed in the corners of my eyes as I looked to the heavens and considered that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t so unloved after all. Because if God had seen my sad and sorry heart and sent snow just for me, what Valentine heart full of Russell Stover’s chocolate could be better than that?

It snowed in St. Louis today. I was walking outside early this morning–trying to get some exercise before church–while praying that God would help me not to give up when I most wanted to. I was tired, discouraged, and 2 pounds heavier than the day before. And I was especially crabby that the Valentine Candy I purchased for my 14 year old somehow found its way into my belly the night before. I’m not proud. In fact, I’m terribly ashamed. So there I was, walking(skulking) up the most difficult hill on my route, when I felt the snow on my eyelashes. I looked up to the sky and felt His answer like a soft kiss on a bad boo boo. Like the strong and steady hug of a good friend after a terrible loss, or a genuine smile from someone you thought hated you. And I considered that God’s best gifts to me are always unexpectedly beautiful. Even(and especially) when they come on (stupid) Valentine’s Day. And my prayer for everyone reading this blog is that one day you too will experience that kind of love. It is real and it is true. And it is much more wonderful than the ending of that cheesy romance movie that makes your heart swoon, or that high-calorie sweetheart box of chocolate, or even those pretty flowers. Not that any of those things are bad. But God’s love is the only thing that cures all my sadness–and that to me–is the best gift of all.

What does it mean to be beautiful? What is true beauty? The culture I live in pummels me with all of these images and I have to sort out for myself what it all means and how I fit into the collage. If it’s a matter of personal preference, I prefer to be thin. But others prefer the opposite. Who decides who is right? In one era, a little bit of fat on a woman is beautiful. In another, the curve of the pelvic bone stretched against taut skin makes the cover of a magazine. And if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as the old adage goes, why is there so much pressure to conform to the “proper” perspective?

Yesterday I read a fascinating article on a celebrity of bygone years; Sophie Tucker. The headline on the BBC website caught my eye, “Everybody Loves a Fat Girl“. Sophie was a jazz singer and celebrity in the early 1900’s who was as famous for her curves as she was for her bawdy humor and outlandish behavior. She counted gangsters and presidents as friends. She was the epitome of fame—people loved her! But underneath all of that fluff was a woman who abandoned her husband and little boy in pursuit of that success. And while the article doesn’t highlight that decision so much as it glorifies her success, it is that decision that most defined her character for me. So I asked myself the question, was Sophie Tucker beautiful?

I also read an article about Gwen Hartley, the brave mother of two little girls born with microcephaly(a serious birth defect that causes babies to have extremely small heads and brains). Gwen writes a blog over at The Hartley Hooligans that details her journey. One quote in the article captured my attention. “They called it a ‘terrible’ birth defect,” Hartley said. “I don’t look at them as having terrible birth defects. I look at them as gorgeous. To me that is not a horrible, hideous birth defect. It’s no less beautiful to me.” Gwen Hartley had to let go of people’s perceptions and live her life of caring for two severely disabled children. That takes perseverance and grace in spades. I don’t know if I could do it. Again I asked myself the question, is Gwen Hartley beautiful? More importantly, how do I define beauty?

This morning I was on my elliptical machine chasing down the excess calories I consumed yesterday. I’ll be candid, so much of my journey to lose weight has focused on the beautification of my body. In order to obtain a more slender, and therefore more culturally acceptable body type, I have bent myself into pretzels trying to conquer my food lust. I have been praised for my efforts and success. And I’ll be honest, praise is exciting, but it is also addictive and terribly treacherous. Because if I begin to see my success as having been born of my own strength, I begin to make myself my own savior. And if I view myself as capable of saving myself, I believe a lie. The root of this lie is pride and it gives fruit to vanity, arrogance, and narcissism. And if you think I am better than those behaviors, think again.

When I look closely at my heart, and see the darkness at its core, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not capable of saving myself. All of my motives are twisted—my yearnings corrupt. How then do I proceed in a world when I can’t control myself, much less the dark and twisted lives of others? I am not safe from them. They are not safe from me. For we all go about with swords on our tongues, with bitterness on our breath, and hearts aflame with agonies for which no cure can be had by our own hand.

Taking all of this into consideration, why would I pursue physical beauty at all? It seems meaningless. And it is. Having the perfect body is utterly meaningless. How did I come to this conclusion? Read on.

When I think about why I began this journey in the first place—the journey to learn discipline—it was out of the brokenness I felt in my heart. And it’s interesting to me now how I viewed myself at 310 pounds as worthless(a lie) and pathetic(a lie) and hopeless(a lie). At that time I contrasted those feelings against what my faith was teaching me through God’s word—that I was more than a conqueror, that I was so precious and valuable that Jesus died for my sin(gluttony among other things), and that hope(in Him) would never disappoint me. And while my underlying desire was for physical beauty, I fully understood that I could never conquer my food lust without God’s help. And God, in the richness of his glory, bore my pursuit with great patience, and has been gently leading me on the path to know Him better. And I have come to the conclusion that his love really does conquer the worst in me. And as I seek Jesus out of sheer desperation under the realization of my own helplessness, I find the most beautiful truth ever known to mankind. Amazingly, it has nothing to do with physical beauty at all. In fact, it is really very simple. To accept and know the love of the one who created me.

There are times when my attempts at discipline end in misery. I abstain from my food lust for a certain period of time and then I fall—face to the ground, nose bleeding, neck twisted and bent, while I scrape the gravel from my chin. I am still learning to discern the issues in my heart that drive aberrant behaviors. So as I read about people like Sophie Tucker and Gwen Hartley, I have to ask myself; which life do I want to model? Do I seek glory and fame for myself at the expense of others, or do I lay down my life to seek and serve others? The answer seems obvious, but in truth, it is a very difficult path. Jesus modeled it perfectly. As for me? I’ve got a long way to go.