Why It's Really Not About Losing Ten Pounds

I lose to find. On forehead wide
The jewels tenfold light afford:
So, gathered round Thy glory, Lord,
All beauty else is glorified.

- George MacDonald

They were the last pair in a pile of about 20 and I pulled them on. 

The last pair in a pile of about 20 in a stuffy Saver's dressing stall -- and I was starting to sweat and starting to lament that only 2 had fit so far and starting to wonder who in the world decided that the limit of clothes that you could bring in should only be six and why in the world was this dressing room so small---

They slid on, like a glove. 

Finally, something that fits, I consoled myself. 

And then I looked down and noticed that I was wearing a pair of pants with a heart-sequin-design on the pocket (and that one of the sequins was missing) and that the button was a kind of fake diamond. 

Gulp. 

I guess I'll just take the first two, I thought with fatalistic dismay. 

And if I was the type that cries in fitting rooms, I would have cried -- but I'm not, so I just scooped up my meager findings and tried to think of what winter would be like if I could only fit in my leftover capris from summer. 

Because three months later, I'm still struggling to get this last bit of pregnancy weight under control... and sometimes it seems like a losing battle. 

And it's been frustrating to me -- I am someone who craves order and discipline and if something in my life feels like it's not under control, I am prone to fret about it and try to correct it as quickly as possible. 

Fret about it -- because I can't fit into my pre-pregnancy pants--

And we live in a society where body image has become all-important -- and these pesky ten pounds have made me take a step back to consider -- what is really important? 

And I look into my babies' faces -- all beautiful, made in the image of God -- and then I look down at the stretch marks adorning my belly and I accept them as a thing of beauty, a thing of sacrifice, the surrender of using my own body to give life to another. 

And I look at myself in the mirror, the few extra pounds hanging on, and my body doesn't look the same, doesn't feel the same as before I carried babies -- it's been stretched and worn and changed. 

I struggle with nursing -- I feel weak every day and I get the "shakes" and don't have the energy sometimes that I need -- maybe my body needs the extra calories right now, and I don't really need to worry about it so much... maybe. 

Because it's not really about weight -- It's a heart issue. 

And it's an issue of what real beauty is all about. 

Is real beauty about being a size 4 and about having toned arms and about trying to flatten my stomach and diminish my hip size as quickly as I can after giving birth? 

Is real beauty about having perfectly highlighted hair and perfectly manicured nails and perfect clothing and brilliantly white teeth?

And none of these things are "wrong" in and of themselves, but sometimes we can make them into idols when they become a necessity to us -- when we don't think that we can live without them, like we can't go on living without them. 

If we can't maintain them, then we feel like we have failed in some way, like we are not good enough. 

And I see women in their 50's and 60's trying to look like teenagers--

Wearing "skinny" jeans and starving themselves and working out at gyms, trying, desperately trying to hold on to the youth that is slipping through their fingers--

As my Mama says, "Whatever happened to growing old gracefully?"

And there is nothing wrong with dressing beautifully, or staying trim, or wearing perfume, or exercising. 

Discipline is a good thing, and our Heavenly Father desires that we live orderly, disciplined lives. 

But take it from someone who knows; even discipline can become an idol, when it's not hidden within the umbrella of love for our precious Heavenly Father, when we just do it for ourselves. 

I saw a woman the other day. Coming out of Target, and she was lovely. 

And she was not a size 4. 

Her appearance was not sloppy -- it spoke order and neatness and beauty; her hair was attractively pulled back in a ponytail; she wore a calf-length skirt with sandals. 

And her clothing wasn't chosen in order to draw attention to her body and she looked like she might have had a couple of kids or so -- and she certainly wasn't a size 4. 

Sometimes we can have a false idea of beauty. 

The world tells us that we need to be a certain size, that we need to flaunt our bodies in a certain way, that we need to do our hair in a specific style in order to be attractive, in order to attract. 

But how does Jesus speak to us about beauty?

Do not let your adornment be merely outward—arranging the hair, wearing gold, or putting on fine apparel— rather let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the incorruptible beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is very precious in the sight of God. 

I Peter 3:3-4

 So I take my stretch marks and my callouses and my changed body and I lay them there at His feet, at His nail-pierced feet--

Jesus' body was broken, too -- unimaginably broken.

And His beauty shines through His scars--

My scars can also speak beauty, can also pour forth beauty--

Just as His wounds have poured forth beauty onto me.

I take my stretch marks, my sagging skin, my dismay, and I lay them there at His feet.

And His beauty covers me.

Later, on the ocean shore, I ponder these things, one baby pressed to me in my carrier, the other delightedly throwing rocks into the cold water and my husband's voice cuts into my thoughts--

"You know, you're beautiful in the sunlight."

And the Son's light covers me and I am washed there, on the shore, in His beauty.


 

I share my posts with these blogs: Strangers and Pilgrims on Earth, The Modest Mom, What Joy is Mine, Yes They Are All Ours, Missional Call, A Mama's Story, Mom's the Word, Rich Faith Rising, Time Warp Wife, Cornerstone Confessions, Mom's Morning Coffee, So Much at Home, Raising Homemakers, Hope in Every Season, A Wise Woman Builds Her Home, Woman to Woman Ministries, Whole-Hearted Home, A Soft Gentle Voice, My Daily Walk in His Grace, Messy Marriage, My Teacher's Name is Mama, The Charm of Home, Graced Simplicity, Children Are A Blessing, Mittenstate Sheep and Wool, Imparting Grace, Homestead Lady, Deborah Jean's Dandelion House, Preparedness Mama, A Look at the Book, Essential Thing Devotions, Count My Blessings, Beauty Observed, Christian Mommy Blogger, Serenity You, Renewed Daily, Sunday Stillness, The Beauty in His Grip, Tales of a Kansas Farm Mom.

Here With You

Mama . . .  Mama . . . MAMA! 

My little daughter panicked, frantically calling my name. 

I had rounded the corner to take something out of the closet in our room, and she couldn't see me, didn't hear me, didn't know where I had gone. 

So I popped my head out and she saw me and she ran into my arms, relieved. 

And I hugged her close and touched her tiny face and reassured her little soul, "Debbie; Mama isn't going to leave you . . . "

It was one of my worst fears as a child . . that I would get lost and not be able to find my Mom in a store. That I would be left alone and not know what to do. 

It happened in the library once. My Mom left me for the story-time for the first time--she was nearby, on the same floor, listening with one ear and looking at books. 

But I couldn't see her and I panicked. 

I didn't know that she was right around the corner. 

So I started to cry and they found her . . . 

And my Mama reassured me, "I'm not going to leave you; I was right here all the time." 

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed in this marathon of mothering. 

Where every moment is filled with little voices who need me now, who rarely let me sleep or have a minute "off." 

And this is God's will for me right now--to nurture these souls that the Lord in His mercy has entrusted to me for a season. 

But sometimes I get caught up in the chaos of it all, and I lose sight of the Lord, of His pillar before me and His cloud of fire by night. 

I get lost in the crowd and I just can't see Him. 

And I panic. 

I just don't have the time that I used to to spend in uninterrupted prayer--I often have to "pray as I go," pop in a sermon tape, pull out my Bible while my children nap, and make the most of the opportunities that I've been given. 

If I stay up too late at night, I have a hard time functioning the next day, especially with babies who still don't sleep through the wee hours. 

And sometimes through the tiredness, through the constant "going," and picking up babies and putting them down and feeding them and praying with them and disciplining them and loving them, 

I lose sight of Him.

And like my daughter, I don't know where He's gone. 

So in my moment of anxiety, I call His name --

I search for Him.

And I find that He was right there the whole time. 

Waiting for me to notice that I couldn't see Him for the moment, waiting for me to cry out for Him, to run into His arms in my need. 

Waiting to hold me-- 

And to touch my face with His peace and calm and quiet and trust and tell me, 

"I'm not going to leave you." 

Brokenness, Life, and a Tree

O Love, that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in Thee;
I give Thee back the life I owe,
That in Thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

 --George Matheson



There are so many stones in the brook that you cannot count them. Yet in every ten you cannot find more than one or two that are useable. There was no room in David’s pouch for stones which had not been polished smooth. The process of attrition was essential. In the same way those believers who have not yet experienced trials and afflictions, and who have not yet been disciplined by God, are still not ready for his use. What I am anxious to know is whether I myself am qualified to be a ‘smooth stone’ in the hand of my God.

--Wang Ming-Dao (persecuted Chinese pastor)

God uses broken things.

Broken people, broken things.

Soil that's been tilled broken, the clods pounded hard by the hoe.

Olives broken, crushed, for the oil that flows free and nourishing.

Broken bread to feed the hungry--

He uses broken things.

And so many times He breaks a heart before He heals it.

He crushes before He restores--

"For though the Lord causes grief, yet He will show compassion . .  though His hand wounds, it will yet make whole . . . "

Don't be afraid of being broken.

And I wept today because someone I love was broken . . . shattered. Lost every earthly thing of value and every support swept away like a breath punched out of their lungs.

God reaches down to broken things. He puts tears in bottles and remembers the agony of our sorrows.

And we have to be broken before God can use us, whether through our own decisions of surrender  or through the seemingly hard strokes of the Master's rod.

We must be broken . . .

Every ounce of self-reliance stripped away, every shred of pride pressed into the dust.

We must be broken.

George Matheson, Scottish minister and author of the beautiful hymn, "O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go," broken by blindness and the loss of his fiancé.

Corrie Ten Boom, joyful, Spirit-filled author and speaker, broken by the iron grip of the Nazi death camp.

John Bunyan, who took up his pen and wrote the great classic, Pilgrim's Progress, broken by prison and the fear of never seeing his dear, blind daughter Mary again.

Adoniram Judson, Baptist missionary and great worker for the Lord Jesus, broken by his wife's early death, broken by debilitating depression and prison.

The Apostle Paul, broken by affliction, pain, a constant thorn . . .

My Auntie, broken in years past by the cancer that drew her to Jesus . . .

Broken lives, restored; lives that reflect the glory of the Father of the broken.

Severe mercies, that cut away whatever we're leaning on--

Because when every support is taken away, we either fall utterly, or we fall on Jesus.

Walking in the woods with my sister this week along a new trail, we saw a tree.

A lovely, great tree, lying still on the quiet floor of the forest. Its leafy branches sweeping over the path.

A fallen tree, once-great -- now broken.

Quietness all-around, and the tree spread its arching branches over the expanse of the path, making a bridge over the shady pathway

And she said, "How beautiful."

Because this broken thing became a thing of grace and loveliness, a place of shade and a home for birds and animals, a silent witness to the strength and peace of brokenness.

And over the years it will nourish the ground, its wood splintering off, rotting away, giving life from its death.

There is grace through brokenness.

And the Beautiful One, the high and lofty One Whose name is Holy, Who inhabits eternity gave life on a tree fallen, a tree dead, the instrument of torture and crucifixion and suffering and death.

His death on that tree birthed life -- free and rich and new and eternal.

Life out of brokenness, grace out of suffering.

And the Love that was broken on that tree holds us in our brokenness.

Holds us to Himself--

And pours His life into our broken-dying.

O Cross, that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from Thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.

You might find me on these link-ups:

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Turtles, Turkeys, and Teaching Children Gentleness

The turtles basked in the happy sun. 

Craning their leathery necks, delighting in the sweet warmth of the last days of summer. 

A safe distance from the shore; they dare not come any closer. 

Soon. The children would be heading back to school and they could swim easier--

The lady who worked at the park told her, told my Mom--

"Those boys, those boys; you know what they do--they catch the turtles, and they smash them with their baseball bats."

The turtles, harmless, innocent turtles, broken to oblivion and crushed senseless. 

Senselessly crushed . . .

Why? 

Because destruction, causing pain in some unexplainable way gives a horrible pleasure to the sinful heart--

Young boys--another evidence that humans are not "good" at the root of it all . . . 

And I brought my daughter to the park the other day--brought her to the park to see "Tom Turkey," as she calls him, and Tom's "wife" and the other farm animals in the simple little petting zoo there. 

We walked up to the pen--and she was excited. 

But another girl, about 8 years old stood there too. And she started banging on the pen, banging hard, trying to make the turkey upset. 

And my immediate thought was, "Let's walk away; I don't want my daughter to see this--"

But then, I thought--maybe there's another way--and I spoke kindly to my daughter-and so that the little girl could hear--"What a sweet, gentle turkey . . . look at him in there . . . " and so on--

And the little girl, who probably was never taught not to bang on cages, or that turkeys can be gentle, sweet creatures, slowly stopped banging on the cage. She looked at me and listened with wide eyes. 

And she saw the turkey in a new way. 

Later on, we walked into the carousel and watched the children riding the colorful horses. 

The little girl was there. She saw me and waved happily at us as she went around. 

Children can be taught gentleness. And sometimes the Lord gives us the opportunity to "redeem" a situation. 

The best time to teach a child is when they are young, before the habits are set hard and fast and they are more difficult to break. 

Because if they're smashing turtles now, what will they be smashing later? 

So I try to teach my children gentleness, by the grace of God, and I try to set my example. 

So that they may not cause pain . . .  ("Lord, let my children not cause pain . . .")

And be sons and daughters of grace. 

When Things Were Simple . . .

We sat all-childish in the old orange booth, swinging our scuffed-up legs beneath us. The sun filtered in through the wide, large-open windows facing the street, when there weren't so many cars out to clog them and the days themselves seemed more simple and free, less bogged down and cluttered by activity.

Stores used to be closed on Sunday and the largest retail outlets were the old Ann-and-Hope and the Ames around the corner in East Providence. There were no Wal-Mart superstores to lose your mother in or to walk around for hours trying to find the person that you were with. 

Life was simpler, even those seemingly-brief years ago when I was a little girl and we used to frequent the then "Mister Donut" in Seekonk. 

It was always the square apple muffin that I chose. The lovely square apple muffin with the sugary caramelized apple chunks that weren't even close to being nutritious, but gave the aura of a nutritious lunch. That, and a small box of milk.

And once in a while, when I went there with my Dad, I would get a chocolate sprinkled donut, just to be like him. Unless, of course, he ordered the coffee roll, in which case, I was banned from eating such a large and "expensive" pastry. 

We usually went there with my Mom. Now that I look back on it, I think that she brought us there to "break up" the long hours in her stay-at-home-Mom day, a respite in-between visiting one of the libraries that we used to frequent where we would sit for hours while she read book after book after book to us. 

It was always exciting to enter into that warm and delicious-smelling donut shop, where we would take the teetering tray to our booth, the tray that was adorned with chunky glass plates and the silverware that used to be returned and washed at donut shops. None of this "throw-everything-away-culture" mentality back then.

We sat at our booth and watched the men who speckled the round-raised seats at the counter slurping their coffee and chatting away into the sunny afternoon. 

Every crumb was carefully savored, every drop of milk drank and we wiped away the happy remains with a delighted satisfaction. 

Things like that were meaningful to us as children. We didn't "have a lot" and so we were content, satisfied with the "simple." 

And I watch children nowadays in donut shops, one greasy hand gripping a large-sized coolatta, a heavily-laden, whipped-cream-confection, their other hand grasping an expensive bakery sandwich.

And I watch them halfheartedly partake of their decadent lunches, and then crumble a quarter of the remains into a nonchalant pile of rubbish and toss it unthinkingly into the trash can. 

I'm thankful now that I was raised without a lot of "stuff." I see it now as a gift from God that we were always struggling to make ends meet so that my Mom could scrape us through the Christian school that we attended and give us piano lessons.

I see it as a blessing now that our vacations were simple, uncluttered camping trips, that we ate a lot of meals of hamburger and beans and shepherd's pie and macaroni, that our refrigerator was never heavily-stocked.  

It made me more deeply grateful for the special times in life, for the occasional cupcake at school, for the delight of the holidays, and made me anticipate my birthday all year long when I would get to choose the kind of cake that I had. 

I'm glad that my Mama kept things simple when we were little . . . It made me treasure the important things and checked me from taking them for granted. 

It's harder now to do that . . . There are restaurants and fast-food pit-stops on every corner. Stores are open 24-7 and you can get what you want whenever you want it. 

Convenience is a blessing and a curse. 

Kids walk around in expensive clothing and carry technology with them wherever they go. Their minds are distracted, caught up in all of the random, suffocating clutter of this age. 

Clutter and noise that pushes out the gift of quietness and walking in the woods and resting by a stream and listening to the birds sing and the crickets chirping at night.

Noise that pushes out the voice of the Creator. 

I think that I liked it better when things were simple. 

So I try and the Lord gives grace to raise my babies the way that my Mom did. Without a lot of stuff -- whether by necessity or choice. 

If I have to choose, may God give me grace to choose the simple. 

I want my children to be in an atmosphere where they can hear His voice--there are enough distractions around already. 

The simple, uncluttered way that leads to Jesus. 

1.Photo credit: roboppy / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)
2.Photo credit: Qfamily / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)

For the Love of a Rabbit

My Mama loves rabbits . . . 

And this morning in the quiet day, one of her beloved rabbits died. 

And her eyes tear-filled, she took up a broom and cleaned up the place where the little bunny made her home these last 5 or so years. 

My Mama loves rabbits, any living creature, really. And she keeps her bunnies in the house, litter-box-trained, near the chair where she sits and she reads. 

And she holds one of her rabbits at night, the one with the chewed-off ear, she holds him and she rocks him and she reads and she loves. 

Two rabbits now; she used to have three, and we use a child's play-yard so that they can each have their turn "coming out" from their cages each day. 

She talks to them and she spoils them and she buys them special treats and she worries over them when they are sick and she loves. 

But one of her house bunnies died today--her favorite one, the soft gray bunny with the wide eyes and the gentle, peaceful heart. 

Some people think that it's silly to love a rabbit. 

But I don't. 

And in some mysterious way, I believe that creation itself will be redeemed in the last day, the creation that groans, the creation that suffers now--

The birds and beasts and trees and flowers destroyed, tainted by the Fall--

I believe that creation itself will be redeemed. 

My Mama hinted at this to a woman once - said that she might see her dying pet again one day--

And the woman looked at her sharp and with a jagged eye barked that her theology was faulty. 

And I think now - What about John Piper and Elisabeth Elliot and George MacDonald and C.S Lewis - They all believe in the redemption of creation itself - Is their theology tainted? 

Or do they see with a clearer eye? 

Maybe we just need new eyes . . . 

Eyes and hearts that love His creation, because we love the Creator--

My Mama loves her rabbits--

And loving them, loves Him. 

Like My Daddy--A Word to Fathers

My Daddy left us. 

He took his things and he sauntered away with a chip on his shoulder and the world in his heart, the lust of the things of this life flowing through his deep red veins. 

And he took his things and he slammed the door on a past that he didn't want to bother with,  didn't have time for, didn't care about any more. 

Slammed the door on his family, on the God he claimed to know. 

My Daddy left. 

And I still hold on to strong memories from the time that my sisters and I were little girls, little girls who adored their Daddy, their Daddy with the strong, sinewy carpenter arms and the gruff truck-driver voice and the smell of sweat and cigarettes and coffee and cologne that was him. 

I remember--

The donut shop where I would order the chocolate sprinkled donut--the same kind that he ordered--to be like my Daddy.

Working in the yard and watching him labor there in the hot sun, even the strongest heat of the summer--he was a strong man. 

But not strong enough. 

And he could sweat and grow browner and browner and drink coffee in the sweltering afternoon and it didn't affect him. 

My Mama was always physically weak; but she always said that it was her weakness that humbled her and drew her to the Lord . . . 

So my Daddy was strong. And he could swing the hammer hard and I loved to work on projects with him and watch him pound the nails in deep and smell the delicious scent of sawdust and the motor of the saw. 

And I remember how he used to get up so early in the morning and make his thick, dark coffee and drink more than a cup or two. 

And he left for the cheap things in this life--the beer, the women, the glitzy thrills of a quick-night spent and a morning of regret.

He left the things of value.

Sold his inheritance for a bowl of soup and a pocketful of silver. 

The bread of life forfeited for a moldy, stale crust that is bitter to the taste. 

I loved my Daddy. 

I wish that things could've been different, but God gives a choice. 

And I speak these things from the hurt of a little girl, but also from the wisdom of the grace of healing and years and tears and surrender. 

The Lord gave me grace to experience His loving and continual healing in my life over my father's conscious and deliberate choice.

And that is the mystery of His will to me--

That He could give my Daddy a choice and "empty" me of the blessing of an earthly father who loved me--

And then fill that emptiness with Himself, the Father of my heart, the One who chose me from the foundation of the world--

The One who loved my Daddy, but gave him a choice. 

And my Daddy chose the world--over the woman who loved him more deeply than he knew how to love and the three little girls who belonged to him. 

Did he forget . . . ? That they belonged to him? That he was given a charge to be their earthly protector, provider, and example of Jesus to them? 

Did he forget? 

And the things of this world appear so lovely, all-polished and shiny and pleasant to the eye. 

But in the end, they bring forth sorrow and death and devastation and hurt. 

The hurt cut deep. 

And I pray that the pain that I experienced would be a lesson, a warning to other fathers, to other men. 

The pleasures of this world are fleeting--

Lay hold of Jesus, and embrace those things in Him that have lasting value. 

Be still before your God and turn your eyes away from looking at worthless things. 

And see the woman that you covenanted with and the children that she gave you as a beautiful gift, as a charge to keep, a charge committed to your trust. 

See the gift as precious; see Him as precious. 

So that you don't leave sorrow and pain in your wake, but grace and strength.

The strength of a man who loves his God and whose eyes "look straight ahead," straight ahead to Jesus, to glory, to peace. 

The strength of a man who loves his family and his children and who truly wants the best for them. 

Learn from the lesson of my father--

And embrace the high calling of the Great Father of our hearts. 


1. Carpenter
Photo credit: ajschroetlin / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC 2.0)

2. coffee
Photo credit:shoothead / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)