I'm on day 18 of a bootcamp, done through my weight loss group. Bootcamp. That's where things are rough, you work your tail off, and don't get much to eat. Day 18. I've lost five pounds in 18 days. That's crazy, since I have about 60 more to go. I began to feel really bad a few days ago, struggling with whether I should stay on this "island" or not. Back and forth, back and forth. I almost stopped. Then I got back my resolve. But then, this morning, after having had victorious thoughts and heart, I began to wrestle in my head about my stunted weight loss. I was angry at God, scared that I might not be able to lose weight....that somehow it is impossible for me to lose more weight and that I would be stuck at this size no matter what I did. Then I got really mad. All this effort, all this sacrifice, and so little result.
This was all happening on my way home from the pool, where I had dutifully swam my 45 minutes this morning. Oh yeah, and I have been swimming an hour, 4-5 times a week....on top of eating 2 healthy meals a day. So you see my attitude here? I began to cry out to God, "God, please tell me what to do! Give me a sign." I don't really believe in signs too much..... I've been burnt way too many times by the deceitfulness of my own heart and, like my pastor brother says, the taco I had last night. I believe that the truth lies in the Scriptures and we have to guard our minds against second sight and the whims of the wind. I have seen way too many people leave husbands, jump into financial ruin, or lose their minds over what they thought God was telling them. Saying all that, however, God gives us wisdom and He uses all manner of things to get our attention. Questions I ask myself: does this line up with Scripture? is this my flesh or the devil or God? etc. And this definitely did....
So here I am, winding my way down the road. I had plugged in my little ipod shuffle into my ears....listening to Nate Currin's "Pilgrim" album. It has been very inspirational to me during my battle with my weight demons. It is a musical journey telling the story of Pilgrim's Progress, taken from a life that has paralleled the tale. As I was asking God about what I'm supposed to do, I tuned my brain in to what was playing on my ipod. Here were the words:
"Hold on fast and don't give in... through this maze of profit. The bitter path is worth the end, and all the pain we suffer. Down in this river we call the Pleasant One. Though you're tired, carry on.
Now You're walking by my side. I'm not alone. And though a thousand miles away, You feel like home, home. But hold on fast and don't give in....through this maze of profit. The bitter path is worth the end, and all the pain we suffer. Down in this river we call the Pleasant One. Though you're tired, carry on." - Nate Currin, The Pilgrim
Kinda gave me goose pimples, it hit home so closely. Then the next song came on, and these were the words to it:
The path that we chose delivered us here.
Too proud to go back, shaken in fear.
The castle was strong, covered in red.
Shackled for days, starving for bread.
What have I done to earn this despair?
This dungeon's so dark, there's must in the air.
I silently sit, faced to a wall.
I'm broken, doubting it all.
The bones and the skulls of those here before
mocked us from corners, moss-covered floors.
We sat up all night, in the cell where we prayed.
The sun broke the cracks in the walls where we laid.
What have we done to earn this despair?
This dungeon's so dark, there's death everywhere.
We silently sit, faced to a wall.
We're broken, doubting it all.
Unless I can taste, unless I can see, unless I can feel Your scars..... I won't believe....
Unless I can taste, unless I can see, unless I can feel Your scars..... I won't believe....
Oh give me faith, to find the key.
Its name is Promise. It sets us free...." - Nate Currin, The Pilgrim (obviously highly recommended....buy it on amazon.com)
Those two songs spoke what my heart was wrestling with. Bitterness, pain, suffering, doubt. To an outsider it may seem that I'm making a big deal about a small thing. But it is not. We either wrestle with sin or we surrender to it. It's pretty apparent I've done a lot of surrendering.
As I pondered these words, it hit me how very weak I am. I've indulged myself for many years, many banquets, desserts, cakes, cookies and large portions.... deceiving myself that I was being moderate and suffering from a metabolic problem. At the first sign of a serious weight stall, I just about give up and surrender, acting like a spoiled toddler, stamping my feet and shaking my fist at God. Years have gone by where I did not seriously face this demon. I get my heart aligned for, what, three months, and expect instant results and no slow-downs. No, I demanded them.
All that I can say is, I thank God He doesn't give up on me....and that I don't get what I really deserve. His grace and His resolve live in my heart. I am grateful to Him that He's showing me the depths of those dungeons, breaking me, and setting me free.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
An Idyllic Childhood
I grew up in the heart of Georgia, in a subdivision of mass-produced tiny brick ranch houses. Apparently, either a Yankee or some Californian living in a dry place came up with the idea of building red brick ovens to put people in.
(Caveat: in case any Yankee or Californian is offended by my references to Yankees. First off, God loves all His children, even if they are born in the wrong half of the country. Second, technically, my children say that I am a Yankee. They are wrong, yes they are, but here's why: my Mama was born and raised in Illinois. She married a true blue Southern boy who came up there to get a job at the Caterpillar Tractor Company. See, it was a TRACTOR company. They had me. They lived there six more months and one day shook their heads and realized that God's country was indeed in the South. They had to get the heck outa there. So I guess you could say I'm a Yankee, since I'm half Yankee and lived there for a few months. But -- the Bible shows all the geneologies with the Father's bloodline....so since my Father is a Southerner, not to mention one of the bonafide Sons of the Confederacy, and I have lived here all but 6 months of my life, I submit that my Southern roots take the day.)
Back to the subject at hand: these houses were obviously not designed for the south. They were rectangular boxes with tiny windows. The ceilings were 8 foot high or shorter, so the heat had nowhere to go. There was no air conditioning, so they were more like large torture chambers that heated up early in the day and baked everyone inside them into sweaty, doughy, miserable masses.
When you look at old Southern homes, they were built right. The ceilings were 10-12 feet high, so the heat could gather way up there instead of at your body. The windows were sky-high and often opened all the way down to the floor, so you could open them and catch the breeze. There were porches everywhere, to bring shade to the house and also to have a place to visit and enjoy the outside without being in the sun. They knew to orient the angle of the home so that there would be cross-breezes when everything was opened up. When I was a child, we would occasionally visit old relatives out in the country who lived in those smart-Southern-built homes. The families were usually poor and there were pigs under the porch, but to me these houses were heavenly, even if they were humble and unadorned. And of course there were always screen doors, just waiting to be banged by us kids.
Whoever came up with the brilliant idea to put those masses of short, stout brick houses in Georgia surely is now in purgatory. Thankfully, along the way, air conditioning was invented. My parents eventually acquired a window unit for their bedroom, but you had to keep their doors closed because it wasn't powerful enough to keep anything else cool. My sister and I would take our bath right before bed and then talk and giggle far into the night, with the sheets kicked off. We only had the idea of curtains on the windows, so the breezes would be free to come in. I remember looking at the moon and praying to God, just talking to Him. He wooed me like a baby to Him.
Even though it may seem like summers were misery, to us kids they were not. They were heaven on earth. Even the heat did not really bother us. It was all we knew. And when you are young and slim, and there are lakes and fields and trees to explore, the earth was a sumptuous banquet of possibilities. We traversed our little world, stole horseback rides on the neighbor's horses (without the aid of saddle or bridle), fished for fish that didn't exist in the neighbor's lake, made trails all over the woods and fields around us. We rode our bikes all over the neighborhood, racing each other. When a summer rain would hit, we would peel off our clothes down to our underwear and play in the water-filled ditches. Our front yard was the neighborhood softball field. Home base was a crack in the driveway, first base was the first big bush on the right. Second base was a worn spot on the property line and third base was the water meter. We would play for hours and hours. With our house oriented directly on the right side, you would think there would be broken windows, but no, we just learned to hit away from right field (there was no right field). Our Daddy coached us at Powder Springs park for years and also coached his Post Office team, so we lived, ate and breathed softball. Mama would feed us supper then we'd head to Atlanta for his games, where us kids would play in the dirt and on the playgrounds. There was (and is) a park named English Park, off of Bankhead Highway in Atlanta. There was a spooky cemetery next door to the park and we would scare ourselves thinking about the ghosts that must be stalking us from there.
My childhood summers are a sweet, balmy memory to me. I think of creamy ice cream cones that we would stop and get on our way home from ball games. I remember the bittersweet bite of muscadines and blackberries that we gathered by the bucketfuls from the fields around us. The penny candy that we got from Reese's store around the corner. A frozen Snickers bar from Sun Valley Beach (Melanie and I rode our bikes to work there for many summers). Homemade vanilla ice cream, hand-cranked on the back porch. No wonder I have too much fat on my body....I'm trying to recreate those summers!
I would often think about "someday" and that when I had kids, I wanted them to have some of what I had as a child. It was important to me that they have fields and creeks and places to explore as they grew up. So when Ken and I married, it was our eventual goal to get out to the country. We bought and sold several fixer-uppers and eventually moved to five acres in the middle of miles of forest and land, moved a camper onto the land and took two years to build our dream home. We homeschooled our four children, so they had a lot of time to explore and enjoy nature, barefooted and dirty, without sunscreen or helmets. We had a TV, but not on Mom time. I rarely turned on the TV during the day. We did not have computer games or devices to distract them. Nobody had a cell phone until everybody was almost grown. We did this on purpose, not because we were poor or weird. Well, we probably are weird. I wanted them to think, imagine, play, use their brains and to not be entertainment-driven. Children need to have great capacity to entertain themselves and to come up with all sorts of things without outside stimulation. We are losing this in our society. So the beautiful, sweet summers of my childhood were passed to my children. They had an old-school upbringing. We had to be weird to make it happen, but now that they are all adults I think they all would say it was worth it.
(Caveat: in case any Yankee or Californian is offended by my references to Yankees. First off, God loves all His children, even if they are born in the wrong half of the country. Second, technically, my children say that I am a Yankee. They are wrong, yes they are, but here's why: my Mama was born and raised in Illinois. She married a true blue Southern boy who came up there to get a job at the Caterpillar Tractor Company. See, it was a TRACTOR company. They had me. They lived there six more months and one day shook their heads and realized that God's country was indeed in the South. They had to get the heck outa there. So I guess you could say I'm a Yankee, since I'm half Yankee and lived there for a few months. But -- the Bible shows all the geneologies with the Father's bloodline....so since my Father is a Southerner, not to mention one of the bonafide Sons of the Confederacy, and I have lived here all but 6 months of my life, I submit that my Southern roots take the day.)
Back to the subject at hand: these houses were obviously not designed for the south. They were rectangular boxes with tiny windows. The ceilings were 8 foot high or shorter, so the heat had nowhere to go. There was no air conditioning, so they were more like large torture chambers that heated up early in the day and baked everyone inside them into sweaty, doughy, miserable masses.
When you look at old Southern homes, they were built right. The ceilings were 10-12 feet high, so the heat could gather way up there instead of at your body. The windows were sky-high and often opened all the way down to the floor, so you could open them and catch the breeze. There were porches everywhere, to bring shade to the house and also to have a place to visit and enjoy the outside without being in the sun. They knew to orient the angle of the home so that there would be cross-breezes when everything was opened up. When I was a child, we would occasionally visit old relatives out in the country who lived in those smart-Southern-built homes. The families were usually poor and there were pigs under the porch, but to me these houses were heavenly, even if they were humble and unadorned. And of course there were always screen doors, just waiting to be banged by us kids.
Whoever came up with the brilliant idea to put those masses of short, stout brick houses in Georgia surely is now in purgatory. Thankfully, along the way, air conditioning was invented. My parents eventually acquired a window unit for their bedroom, but you had to keep their doors closed because it wasn't powerful enough to keep anything else cool. My sister and I would take our bath right before bed and then talk and giggle far into the night, with the sheets kicked off. We only had the idea of curtains on the windows, so the breezes would be free to come in. I remember looking at the moon and praying to God, just talking to Him. He wooed me like a baby to Him.
Even though it may seem like summers were misery, to us kids they were not. They were heaven on earth. Even the heat did not really bother us. It was all we knew. And when you are young and slim, and there are lakes and fields and trees to explore, the earth was a sumptuous banquet of possibilities. We traversed our little world, stole horseback rides on the neighbor's horses (without the aid of saddle or bridle), fished for fish that didn't exist in the neighbor's lake, made trails all over the woods and fields around us. We rode our bikes all over the neighborhood, racing each other. When a summer rain would hit, we would peel off our clothes down to our underwear and play in the water-filled ditches. Our front yard was the neighborhood softball field. Home base was a crack in the driveway, first base was the first big bush on the right. Second base was a worn spot on the property line and third base was the water meter. We would play for hours and hours. With our house oriented directly on the right side, you would think there would be broken windows, but no, we just learned to hit away from right field (there was no right field). Our Daddy coached us at Powder Springs park for years and also coached his Post Office team, so we lived, ate and breathed softball. Mama would feed us supper then we'd head to Atlanta for his games, where us kids would play in the dirt and on the playgrounds. There was (and is) a park named English Park, off of Bankhead Highway in Atlanta. There was a spooky cemetery next door to the park and we would scare ourselves thinking about the ghosts that must be stalking us from there.
My childhood summers are a sweet, balmy memory to me. I think of creamy ice cream cones that we would stop and get on our way home from ball games. I remember the bittersweet bite of muscadines and blackberries that we gathered by the bucketfuls from the fields around us. The penny candy that we got from Reese's store around the corner. A frozen Snickers bar from Sun Valley Beach (Melanie and I rode our bikes to work there for many summers). Homemade vanilla ice cream, hand-cranked on the back porch. No wonder I have too much fat on my body....I'm trying to recreate those summers!
I would often think about "someday" and that when I had kids, I wanted them to have some of what I had as a child. It was important to me that they have fields and creeks and places to explore as they grew up. So when Ken and I married, it was our eventual goal to get out to the country. We bought and sold several fixer-uppers and eventually moved to five acres in the middle of miles of forest and land, moved a camper onto the land and took two years to build our dream home. We homeschooled our four children, so they had a lot of time to explore and enjoy nature, barefooted and dirty, without sunscreen or helmets. We had a TV, but not on Mom time. I rarely turned on the TV during the day. We did not have computer games or devices to distract them. Nobody had a cell phone until everybody was almost grown. We did this on purpose, not because we were poor or weird. Well, we probably are weird. I wanted them to think, imagine, play, use their brains and to not be entertainment-driven. Children need to have great capacity to entertain themselves and to come up with all sorts of things without outside stimulation. We are losing this in our society. So the beautiful, sweet summers of my childhood were passed to my children. They had an old-school upbringing. We had to be weird to make it happen, but now that they are all adults I think they all would say it was worth it.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Wrasslin' with the flesh and the devil
So.....
Life goes like the seasons. Or the tide. Progress, regress, working, resting, happy, sad, good, bad, it swells then it dries up. But not nearly that regulated. You just can't predict what is going to happen. There is that principle of sowing and reaping, but then again there are tsunamis that throw everything off (or a double crop).
This morning I was doing my Bible study and it was talking in the Scriptures about a list of sins.... pretty serious sins.... and how that those who commit those sins will not inherit the kingdom of God. Kinda scary, if you think about it. Then the hope comes, telling that "and such were some of you" along with the promise that it is Christ who washes us, saves us, redeems us. It is not our own work, but His goodness and perfection that God looks upon. I became a believer at a young age and have walked with the Lord my whole life since. But I sin daily, if not hourly. My thoughts and inclinations lean to sin. My heart resists those thoughts and inclinations, because the Holy Spirit resides there and lives through me. How do I know it is He? Because I also still can see and feel my natural nature that resides in this body. I think I know the beast that would have been my lot had it not been for Christ. I am keenly aware that I am one of those chief sinners that He had to rescue early, to save me and others from what I was capable of.
I am wrestling with the devil and my flesh every day right now, choosing to eat the things that I should eat in order to put my body back into balance. Heck, it's been out of balance so long I don't even know what that means. Years ago, my doctor told me, "Rose, you need to quit trying to do this alone. You need as much help and support as you can get." I tried a couple of things, in particular a clinic that had me taking hormone shots every day and eating 500 calories a day. Sure, I lost weight. Who wouldn't? There was no instruction except a sheet with foods on it and a package of shots they sent me home with every week. People always say, "well, we all know what we need to do to lose weight." But I do not agree with that. It becomes such a muddle of brain vs. heart vs. body, so confusing and so disheartening that most of us give up. Why torture yourself, when the rest of the planet doesn't seem to be doing anything about it either? And it's so easy and quick to just live and eat whatever is there...
During this clinic phase, my left ovary blew up into the size of a cantaloupe (from ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome, caused from the hormones). I was having incredible pain and had to stop the program. Thank you Jesus. That whole plan was only a quick fix that taught me nothing. I had a brief window of relief from some of my fat symptoms, but then of course it began to creep back.
Fat symptoms? Yes, those are myriad, and people who are 20-30 pounds overweight don't really know about those. I'm talking about for those of us who are truly obese.... we have things going on that nobody wants to talk about. Like, if I run out of baby powder I am in really big trouble from all the chafing. Or -- when I bend over to paint baseboards and cut in low places on walls, my ribs hurt and I suffer for a week after a big job, just from the ribs (not to mention all the other places that are constantly sore). I don't have a lap for my grandbabies. They just slide forward when I'm trying to hold them. I often think I am having a heart attack, because in the evenings I get acid reflux. I have pain down my left arm, in my neck and in my chest, just like a heart attack. I have been thoroughly roto-rootered by the doctors and they assure me all that pain is caused from gastric issues. I have this gigantic tummy and apron, that started with my four gargantuan 11-pound babies and then was added to by cheesecake and loss of my core muscles. Do you think that is fun? No, it is the bane of my life. I am long and tall, so there are no shirts long enough or big enough to deal with that. I'm constantly neck-deep in paint, so I just have to not care about what I'm exposing people to. I work very hard, but getting up and moving is a giant chore. Once everything gets warmed up and in motion, somehow I can work like a Trojan, but then when I stop, or when I go to sleep, I sometimes think I'm not going to live much longer because everything sets up like cement. And there are so many more things that I can't tell here.... I am disclosing too much already.
I have no right to feel sorry for myself. I brought this on, all by myself. It didn't happen overnight or even in just a year or two. There have been plenty of decades of health warnings, meaningful interventions and tears, not to mention the many whispers from that still, small voice that lives inside my heart. It didn't just creep up on me. So, with all that, all those horrid symptoms that I live with every day, all that love from others, all those warnings, why would I continue to ignore them? Well, isn't that just a conundrum? And isn't that the 150,000,000 dollar question? Because if somebody could bottle or patent the answer to that, they'd be richer than Warren Buffet. Buffet. Now isn't that ironic?
The answer can't be bottled or patented. It is so complex, very few ever figure it out and work it out. Particularly in our grab-it-right-now society, it's just too much hard work to muster it out. Because it's individual, it's heart issues, it's physical issues. There is no one-size-fits-all answer. The weird thing is, we are so obsessed with what is on the outside, yet we are getting fatter and fatter. The models are getting thinner and thinner, the "ideal" is impossible to meet, most young girls feel completely inadequate and ugly, and the creekbed is getting more shallow by the day. The things that truly matter in life -- things like love, joy, peace -- are being left behind for a fragile shell that is not even based in reality.
Meanwhile, I am shackled by my body, by the excesses that I have enjoyed. I am 53 years old, for heaven's sake. I have no delusions of getting back that 20-year old body I used to have -- that would be silly. I have never let my fat body keep me from jumping in the ocean or wearing a bathing suit.... but there are many things that I simply can't do because I am shackled. There are many things I have missed because I was too tired to do them. I believe God gives us a certain amount of days. What we do with them matters. I could be hit over the head with a tree this afternoon, or I could live to be 93 and be fat the whole time....but with many physical sorrows if I don't whup the fat beast now. The Word says that we are either a slave to sin or a slave to righteousness. How true that is. How many times have I thought to myself, over a piece of cake or a whopping bowl of ice cream, "well, I am free to do this." Yup, free. You tell yourself that, and then you freely imbibe, but then you chain yourself to your fat hips. You chain yourself to the voice that says you are free. Then when you tell yourself "no" -- it's virtually like beating off a nest of hornets. It was in one of these moments last weekend that I realized how strong that beast is. I had eaten moderately all day, and was at a baby shower where there were a bowl of chocolate-covered almonds right by my seat, within finger's reach. I told myself I could have two of them, which rightly was moderate and allowable. So I ate the two, savored them meltingly in my mouth. Yum. So good. My hand reached for a third. I pulled back. I took my left hand and held my right hand down. My brain told me it was okay to eat more. Right there, in the middle of chatty and laughing ladies, I was quietly having a duel-to-the-death with myself. I wanted to eat those things until I was satiated with them. I wanted to eat the whole bowl. I told myself I would just have a blow-it day that day...and would start up again tomorrow. I told myself I was being legalistic. I told myself that this was all silly and I was being ridiculous about a few more bites. Who would care? I was going to fail at this anyway. Somehow, somewhere in there I breathed deeply and surrendered to the Holy Spirit. I won. He won. I was chained to Him, not my flesh. For that minute and that day.
Pray for me. I am down 20 pounds and have 100 more to go. Deeper than that, I have many more battles to fight and lots of chocolate to overcome.
Life goes like the seasons. Or the tide. Progress, regress, working, resting, happy, sad, good, bad, it swells then it dries up. But not nearly that regulated. You just can't predict what is going to happen. There is that principle of sowing and reaping, but then again there are tsunamis that throw everything off (or a double crop).
This morning I was doing my Bible study and it was talking in the Scriptures about a list of sins.... pretty serious sins.... and how that those who commit those sins will not inherit the kingdom of God. Kinda scary, if you think about it. Then the hope comes, telling that "and such were some of you" along with the promise that it is Christ who washes us, saves us, redeems us. It is not our own work, but His goodness and perfection that God looks upon. I became a believer at a young age and have walked with the Lord my whole life since. But I sin daily, if not hourly. My thoughts and inclinations lean to sin. My heart resists those thoughts and inclinations, because the Holy Spirit resides there and lives through me. How do I know it is He? Because I also still can see and feel my natural nature that resides in this body. I think I know the beast that would have been my lot had it not been for Christ. I am keenly aware that I am one of those chief sinners that He had to rescue early, to save me and others from what I was capable of.
I am wrestling with the devil and my flesh every day right now, choosing to eat the things that I should eat in order to put my body back into balance. Heck, it's been out of balance so long I don't even know what that means. Years ago, my doctor told me, "Rose, you need to quit trying to do this alone. You need as much help and support as you can get." I tried a couple of things, in particular a clinic that had me taking hormone shots every day and eating 500 calories a day. Sure, I lost weight. Who wouldn't? There was no instruction except a sheet with foods on it and a package of shots they sent me home with every week. People always say, "well, we all know what we need to do to lose weight." But I do not agree with that. It becomes such a muddle of brain vs. heart vs. body, so confusing and so disheartening that most of us give up. Why torture yourself, when the rest of the planet doesn't seem to be doing anything about it either? And it's so easy and quick to just live and eat whatever is there...
During this clinic phase, my left ovary blew up into the size of a cantaloupe (from ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome, caused from the hormones). I was having incredible pain and had to stop the program. Thank you Jesus. That whole plan was only a quick fix that taught me nothing. I had a brief window of relief from some of my fat symptoms, but then of course it began to creep back.
Fat symptoms? Yes, those are myriad, and people who are 20-30 pounds overweight don't really know about those. I'm talking about for those of us who are truly obese.... we have things going on that nobody wants to talk about. Like, if I run out of baby powder I am in really big trouble from all the chafing. Or -- when I bend over to paint baseboards and cut in low places on walls, my ribs hurt and I suffer for a week after a big job, just from the ribs (not to mention all the other places that are constantly sore). I don't have a lap for my grandbabies. They just slide forward when I'm trying to hold them. I often think I am having a heart attack, because in the evenings I get acid reflux. I have pain down my left arm, in my neck and in my chest, just like a heart attack. I have been thoroughly roto-rootered by the doctors and they assure me all that pain is caused from gastric issues. I have this gigantic tummy and apron, that started with my four gargantuan 11-pound babies and then was added to by cheesecake and loss of my core muscles. Do you think that is fun? No, it is the bane of my life. I am long and tall, so there are no shirts long enough or big enough to deal with that. I'm constantly neck-deep in paint, so I just have to not care about what I'm exposing people to. I work very hard, but getting up and moving is a giant chore. Once everything gets warmed up and in motion, somehow I can work like a Trojan, but then when I stop, or when I go to sleep, I sometimes think I'm not going to live much longer because everything sets up like cement. And there are so many more things that I can't tell here.... I am disclosing too much already.
I have no right to feel sorry for myself. I brought this on, all by myself. It didn't happen overnight or even in just a year or two. There have been plenty of decades of health warnings, meaningful interventions and tears, not to mention the many whispers from that still, small voice that lives inside my heart. It didn't just creep up on me. So, with all that, all those horrid symptoms that I live with every day, all that love from others, all those warnings, why would I continue to ignore them? Well, isn't that just a conundrum? And isn't that the 150,000,000 dollar question? Because if somebody could bottle or patent the answer to that, they'd be richer than Warren Buffet. Buffet. Now isn't that ironic?
The answer can't be bottled or patented. It is so complex, very few ever figure it out and work it out. Particularly in our grab-it-right-now society, it's just too much hard work to muster it out. Because it's individual, it's heart issues, it's physical issues. There is no one-size-fits-all answer. The weird thing is, we are so obsessed with what is on the outside, yet we are getting fatter and fatter. The models are getting thinner and thinner, the "ideal" is impossible to meet, most young girls feel completely inadequate and ugly, and the creekbed is getting more shallow by the day. The things that truly matter in life -- things like love, joy, peace -- are being left behind for a fragile shell that is not even based in reality.
Meanwhile, I am shackled by my body, by the excesses that I have enjoyed. I am 53 years old, for heaven's sake. I have no delusions of getting back that 20-year old body I used to have -- that would be silly. I have never let my fat body keep me from jumping in the ocean or wearing a bathing suit.... but there are many things that I simply can't do because I am shackled. There are many things I have missed because I was too tired to do them. I believe God gives us a certain amount of days. What we do with them matters. I could be hit over the head with a tree this afternoon, or I could live to be 93 and be fat the whole time....but with many physical sorrows if I don't whup the fat beast now. The Word says that we are either a slave to sin or a slave to righteousness. How true that is. How many times have I thought to myself, over a piece of cake or a whopping bowl of ice cream, "well, I am free to do this." Yup, free. You tell yourself that, and then you freely imbibe, but then you chain yourself to your fat hips. You chain yourself to the voice that says you are free. Then when you tell yourself "no" -- it's virtually like beating off a nest of hornets. It was in one of these moments last weekend that I realized how strong that beast is. I had eaten moderately all day, and was at a baby shower where there were a bowl of chocolate-covered almonds right by my seat, within finger's reach. I told myself I could have two of them, which rightly was moderate and allowable. So I ate the two, savored them meltingly in my mouth. Yum. So good. My hand reached for a third. I pulled back. I took my left hand and held my right hand down. My brain told me it was okay to eat more. Right there, in the middle of chatty and laughing ladies, I was quietly having a duel-to-the-death with myself. I wanted to eat those things until I was satiated with them. I wanted to eat the whole bowl. I told myself I would just have a blow-it day that day...and would start up again tomorrow. I told myself I was being legalistic. I told myself that this was all silly and I was being ridiculous about a few more bites. Who would care? I was going to fail at this anyway. Somehow, somewhere in there I breathed deeply and surrendered to the Holy Spirit. I won. He won. I was chained to Him, not my flesh. For that minute and that day.
Pray for me. I am down 20 pounds and have 100 more to go. Deeper than that, I have many more battles to fight and lots of chocolate to overcome.
Friday, June 28, 2013
I am not a tortoise.....
Just a thought this morning...
I was thinking about and praying about the marathon that I
am running here, wrestling with my flesh and food in
general.. Jesus please deliver me daily and enable
me to run the marathon. Then I thought about that old tale
about the tortoise and the hare. Jesus, let me be like the
tortoise. Then it occurred to me: Jesus didn't make me like
the tortoise. He just didn't! I am not a plodder. I am a
rabbit, a cute, fluffy, sassy bunny that likes to dash about,
exploring and being with other bunnies and other possi-
bilities. Soooooo -- I don't need to be a tortoise, although I
can learn much from him. I need to be a WISE rabbit. The
hare could have gone ahead and run the race and won
handily, but no, he messed around and got distracted. And
eventually lost the race. So here it goes: focus and engage;
don't lose sight of the goal. Run for the finish line. Don't
get distracted. Run fast and well, doing your best. Finish!
Whup that tortoise!
Then live my life....
Sola deo Gloria
I was thinking about and praying about the marathon that I
am running here, wrestling with my flesh and food in
general.. Jesus please deliver me daily and enable
me to run the marathon. Then I thought about that old tale
about the tortoise and the hare. Jesus, let me be like the
tortoise. Then it occurred to me: Jesus didn't make me like
the tortoise. He just didn't! I am not a plodder. I am a
rabbit, a cute, fluffy, sassy bunny that likes to dash about,
exploring and being with other bunnies and other possi-
bilities. Soooooo -- I don't need to be a tortoise, although I
can learn much from him. I need to be a WISE rabbit. The
hare could have gone ahead and run the race and won
handily, but no, he messed around and got distracted. And
eventually lost the race. So here it goes: focus and engage;
don't lose sight of the goal. Run for the finish line. Don't
get distracted. Run fast and well, doing your best. Finish!
Whup that tortoise!
Then live my life....
Sola deo Gloria
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Standing? No -- really just propped up.....
I have been overwhelmed by the culture wars going on in our dear country. It seems like daily there are opinions and hate-filled words flying back and forth. The Boy Scouts and the gay agenda, abortion vs. pro-life issues, atheism vs. Christianity, old-earth creationists vs. young-earth creationists, full-quiver vs. feminism..... all of these (and much more) issues press near to my heart as a Christian. I am a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a daughter, a sister, an artist, a church member, a neighbor, a small business owner, a spoiled-dog owner....etc. ad nauseum. But as I ponder so many things and try to keep my head from spinning off into the ozone and worrying myself into an early grave, there comes this still small voice....there in the background, there whispering quietly to me. No, I am not schizophrenic or delusional. At least not yet.
There are many voices that pull at me. Many opinions that slay or affirm me. Most of us are way too peer-oriented. We walk in levels of fear, afraid of what people think of us or afraid of confrontation. I certainly fight this myself. I am sensitive to the spectre of hurting someone's feelings, more so than what people think of me. I do not want someone to hate God because I have offended them and they associate me with Him. God forbid that I be a stumbling block. But in this day, there is precious little that can be said without offending someone. We have been indoctrinated with the mantra that "whatever is right for you, is right." How dare anybody say something that disagrees with my precious-held self? How dare you assault my self-esteem that was so carefully crafted through well-meaning teachers and social systems? Don't you know children are starving all over America and bullies are everywhere? Especially those Christian ones?
All these thoughts have kept me up at nights, praying and wondering at this brave stinking world that we are coming into. Dear God, how can we navigate now? Everything is changing, flipping on its head. The signs have been there for some time, but in the last year or two things are quickly escalating. What was once called good, is now called evil and evil good. And pity the fool that stands up and disagrees. I'm reminded of an album cover from years ago, a Keith Green album....
It shows a "fool" who is not willing to bow to the idolatrous king that is marching by. You can't see the face of the official on the horse right here, but he is spewing anger and hate. The chances of the stander getting by with this are nil. Funny how, even from the back, he exudes peace in the face of trial.
I certainly don't want trials, don't want tribulations, don't want to hurt. But my soul trembles more for my children and my children's children than for me. I'm on the other side of that hill. God has more for me to do, apparently, or I wouldn't still be here. I am a prayer warrior for my loved ones, my friends, my neighbors, my nation. No, not a fancy one who gets up at the crack of dawn and spends hours on my knees. Just a breather. Breathin' all day, breathing prayers out and in, constantly checking my pulse and throwing myself mentally at the foot of the cross. Just an old sinner, with the vestiges of all manner of wickedness crouching at my soul and mind, but a sinner that was mercifully redeemed by God. I am redeemed but still struggle in my flesh. I didn't work myself up to be a good girl. I now laugh at my earlier decades of thinking I was ever "good" on my own. I am old enough, tired enough and aching enough now to see a little clearer -- and understand the blissful joy of what salvation truly is and Who is holding me in the palm of His hand.
I look about at these barbs flying on all sides.
What is truth? There are so many people that consider themselves Christians that do not seem to have any real idea of what the Gospel is. They have embraced some sort of social gospel that is so far removed from the Gospel of Christ that it is barely recognizable. The scriptures are sorely neglected. The truth is pitched out in bits and pieces, carefully chosen for argument's sake, not in context and certainly not in full Biblical context. And it really all gets back to that. God's Word. Opinions fly. Tempers heat. And there's a whole lot of blabbing going on. Ken admonished me a couple of days ago, that I needed to quit worrying and cling to the Word of God, continuing to immerse myself in its truth. There is peace and safety in it. The only peace and safety in this world.
Yesterday as I worked, scraping old walls of their paint and years of layers, a precious song came on, speaking of the love of Christ and what He did for me. He is not just one simple attribute. His love encompasses mercy AND truth and so much more, mysteries that will not unfold in my mind until I am with Him. I trust Him and His Word. I cannot vacillate from that. I pray that I can look through His eyes of love and truth, both. Both! And I pray that when the chariots of political correctness and fear come trucking by, I'll have the courage to stand in peace.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
There are elves in them thar mountains
I did a wicked thing. I bought a rocking chair. Do I NEED a rocking chair? Well, no, not exactly. We have two of them on the front porch, actually three if you include Ken's wicker one. And one in the nursery area that someone gave me. But.... it happened when we went up to Liz' athletic banquet at her college, up in North Georgia. North Georgia is a magical, peaceful place. When you breathe the clean mountain air up there, you get just a tiny bit giddy. Could be from the altitude, but it's not really that much further up.... could be that we are not accustomed to clean air.... or it could be that everywhere you look, you see rolling hills and green trees, birds, little cabins and old homes. It entrances you. So you do impulsive things like: buy one of those pecan rolls like they used to sell at Stuckey's (and eat the whole cotton-pickin' thing); go into a cutesy boutique in town and buy a shirt that costs $35 when your usual M.O. is to frequent the thrift store and buy a $3 one with your spare change; go into a restaurant on the river and throw down $48 for what should be a $15 dinner; and then, the worst, go into a humble and innocent-looking hardware store in said little town and sit down in one of their Amish rockers. Don't do it. There's something strangely Elvish about it. Not talking about Elvis here, people.... Elves. Like in Lord of the Rings. Or like the Ring in Lord of the Rings. My precious. Mm Hmmm. You sit in that thing and it calls to you. You have never been so comfortable sitting in something made of hard wood. The fella in the store encouraged me to go downstairs and sit in all of their Amish chairs. There must have been thirty of them, all different from each other. No factory-made stuff here. He said, "There will be only one that will fit you perfectly." And he was right. It was this quirky-looking rocker made of twigs and sticks. It looked like it might break if you sat in it, but when you did sit in it, it didn't budge a nail. It was just right. Not too short, not too tall. My head fit perfectly at the top and my hinder parts fit like a glove into the seat. Rocking it was natural, not contrived or difficult. I might just die in this chair.
I asked Ken if I could have the rocker. It was on sale, marked down $60 off the original price (it still was not cheap). He simply said, "Save up for it." I said, "OK." He walked next door to another shop, perusing the University of Georgia clothing for babies. Yes, baby clothes. We have two grandbabies and one on the way. Interesting how things change along the way. He had no idea what was about to go down at the hardware store. I didn't either. The hardware dude asked if I wanted to buy the chair. I asked him if they did layaway. He said yes. That was my answer. I had $50 from a little side job I had done, so I plopped that down for a down payment. Liz was with me and that girl should be a CIA agent, she was so locked down. We went home and I remembered the rocker. Since Papa had said I had to save up, I dutifully did that. Magically, through the miracles of technology and debit cards, when we picked up Liz a few weeks later, that rocker was sitting in her dorm apartment. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year (not to mention Happy Birthday, Happy Mother's Day and Happy Hanukkah!)
I asked Ken if I could have the rocker. It was on sale, marked down $60 off the original price (it still was not cheap). He simply said, "Save up for it." I said, "OK." He walked next door to another shop, perusing the University of Georgia clothing for babies. Yes, baby clothes. We have two grandbabies and one on the way. Interesting how things change along the way. He had no idea what was about to go down at the hardware store. I didn't either. The hardware dude asked if I wanted to buy the chair. I asked him if they did layaway. He said yes. That was my answer. I had $50 from a little side job I had done, so I plopped that down for a down payment. Liz was with me and that girl should be a CIA agent, she was so locked down. We went home and I remembered the rocker. Since Papa had said I had to save up, I dutifully did that. Magically, through the miracles of technology and debit cards, when we picked up Liz a few weeks later, that rocker was sitting in her dorm apartment. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year (not to mention Happy Birthday, Happy Mother's Day and Happy Hanukkah!)
Thursday, April 25, 2013
If you trace it back, that's some old DNA right there....
There are way too many cliches about grandbabies. People say that they are the best thing since sliced bread. They are so wonderful, we should have had them first. They are sinless, precious creatures, never meaning to do anything wrong. They are fun -- you don't have to be responsible but they're still yours. They always look like OUR side of the family. Their poop does not stink.
I'm afraid I have to tell you....it's all true.
The weirdest thing about grandbabies is that you look at them and realize that they really are part of you. And your husband. And your daughter-in-love's Mama and Daddy. And the great grandparents (all gozillion of them). It's this DNA strand, going back to Noah and the ark...and then back to Adam and Eve. But in this moment, this life, this baby is our flesh and blood. A miracle, derived from the results of many decisions, passions and the providence of God. If even one of those things were changed, this particular baby would not have been here. Even if the time of day or month changed, this baby would not have been here. One bullet in a centuries-long-ago war could have changed the fact of this baby's existence. God's mysteries puzzle and amaze me. He put this soul here, by the vortex of His hand.
We see a single life and wonder what it is worth. We measure money, fame, influence, abilities, stature.... but we have no clue what the measure of any life is really worth. It is a tapestry, with confusing and twisted threads all bunched up on the one side.....but an amazing picture on the other.
I look into the sweet bunny eyes of my two granddaughters. They have not yet spoken words. They cry a lot, eat a lot, poop a lot..... but in those eyes there are souls, not just babies. They are intricately and delicately made, mysteriously spun from two original strands of DNA, one from Daddy and one from Mama....passed down from the beginning of humanity.
It is a sacred trust. May that be a challenge and a promise to cherish and uphold the fragile gift of life.
I'm afraid I have to tell you....it's all true.
The weirdest thing about grandbabies is that you look at them and realize that they really are part of you. And your husband. And your daughter-in-love's Mama and Daddy. And the great grandparents (all gozillion of them). It's this DNA strand, going back to Noah and the ark...and then back to Adam and Eve. But in this moment, this life, this baby is our flesh and blood. A miracle, derived from the results of many decisions, passions and the providence of God. If even one of those things were changed, this particular baby would not have been here. Even if the time of day or month changed, this baby would not have been here. One bullet in a centuries-long-ago war could have changed the fact of this baby's existence. God's mysteries puzzle and amaze me. He put this soul here, by the vortex of His hand.
We see a single life and wonder what it is worth. We measure money, fame, influence, abilities, stature.... but we have no clue what the measure of any life is really worth. It is a tapestry, with confusing and twisted threads all bunched up on the one side.....but an amazing picture on the other.
I look into the sweet bunny eyes of my two granddaughters. They have not yet spoken words. They cry a lot, eat a lot, poop a lot..... but in those eyes there are souls, not just babies. They are intricately and delicately made, mysteriously spun from two original strands of DNA, one from Daddy and one from Mama....passed down from the beginning of humanity.
It is a sacred trust. May that be a challenge and a promise to cherish and uphold the fragile gift of life.
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