5 Things Financial Struggle Taught Me (Thus Far)

I’m not poor. Low income, I guess. Ever since I met Laura, the single, Mexican mom who was raising her four children on $400 bucks a month, I’ve known I wasn’t poor. I’ve even climbed my way above the Canadian poverty line, now that i’m a pill-maker by trade (the legal kind).

But I’ve struggled lately–partially because I still don’t make a lot of money, and partially because I dream big and publish novels, and partially because I’ve tried to look like I’m not struggling. Well, time to be honest. For the last six to nine months I’ve barely gotten by. Its one of at least four spells of financial hardship I’ve lived through–others included college and unemployment–and now that they’re passed I look back on them with a measure of pride.

Financial struggle is a hard taskmaster, but it does impart valuable lessons. Here are 5:

Never Give Up. I’ve often reminded myself that though things may not be comfortable, I will not starve. I may lose my job, my apartment, or my car, but I will live through it, and I will come through it stronger. One day, this will be a good story, so don’t give up.

Be grateful. Ingratitude will only dig the hole deeper. HECK YES! I dug my financial hole in part because I was materialistic, unsatisfied with the many good things i had. I’ve learned much about gratitude in the last six months, but I have a long way to go.

Being resourceful is like being a hunter, artist, and a mathematician at the same time. Fellow Mennonites may have the same pastime of cruising the grocery store, hunting for those pink ‘30% off’ stickers. This is how I bring home meat for my family. I hunt it!

I love the show Masterchef. In that show, the contestants are often given a ‘mystery box’ full of food items, and told to cook a gourmet meal with it. That’s a bit like shopping on a shoestring. Here are my odd items of meat and (eureka!) 30% off mixed greens. What healthful, tasty dish can I make from it? My meals are sometimes simple, but I’m proud of the healthy lifestyle my sister and I maintain on a tight budget.

It’s like being an urban survivalist, in a way, and it’s something to be proud of.

Ask yourself, “What can I do right now to help myself?” I lost my job in spring 2012 under bad circumstances. My confidence suffered to the point that when I tried to revamp my resume, I cried to my Mom “There’s nothing I’m good at.” And because she’s my Mom, she was able to list things off. Looking for work slammed my wavering self esteem over and over again. But, as my bank account dwindled, I forced myself to do something every day to find a job. Meanwhile, to pay the bills, I posted on Facebook that I was looking for odd jobs. I painted a lot that spring. I mowed grass. I took on casual work as a gardener. Every week I scraped together the money to pay my bills.

In my most recent financial hardship, I drew on this experience when I was low and desperate. I’d ask myself: “What can I do right now to help myself?” This translated to selling things on Varage Sale (any clothes I didn’t need, books I wanted to keep but I knew would sell, and even Christmas presents I didn’t like…sorry!), working overtime, and, once again, doing odd jobs.

Once again, by God’s grace and hard work, the bills are paid.

You can still do great things. Dreaming big can be expensive, but it needn’t be. I published Sons of Earth for about $600 bucks, for instance. I ran my first three 5K races in $80 dollar shoes, and cheap athletic gear.

In my city, Library memberships are free. Thrift stores are packed with cheap books. You can get free podcasts on whatever topic you want. This means you can get an informal, self-directed education for almost nothing. Sure, you don’t get a certificate on your wall, but you can study whatever your passions are and become a better read, better spoken, productive citizen without the approval of so-called experts.

You can give up a couple hours a week to volunteer with a church or organization, babysit your little cousins or neighbour kids, or visit the elderly. In doing so, you can leave a lasting impact on your town.

In the last financial struggle, it was impressed on me that this was a lesson, and I needed to learn. If I didn’t learn, this would keep happening, and happening, and happening. I needed to acknowledge my greed and materialism and swap it for gratitude. I needed to stop taking the easy way out, to work hard, and to be resourceful.

Above all, try not to worry. It’s not helpful.

The Bible says, “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (Matthew 6:25-27, New International Version)

Waiting For Aslan to Move

What do you do when you are hopeless, in the deepest of slumps. Help is immanent, but it’s not here yet and you can’t bear it any longer?

It feels like darn near everything is going the way of the buffalo. That’s extinction, if you haven’t guessed. I feel like a broken record saying this, because it seems slumps are a regular part of my life and I haven’t been silent about this.

Running is bad right now.

Today was another in a series of crap runs. I stopped at about two miles in and cried. I don’t know why. I just did. It’s a girl’s prerogative to cry whenever she darn well pleases.

Money sucks right now.

Due to issues with the tax man, I’ve been waiting on my return for three months now. Government efficiency and all that. Meanwhile, I, the dreamer of big dreams and the lover of new clothes, have run furiously on the treadmill of my finances, living in hope of that big cheque coming in the mail. It’s become a schtick of sorts. I text my sister as soon as she’s home for lunch.

“Did anything come in the mail?”

“Nuthin'”

“Darn them!”

Wednesday night, after the cheque didn’t come and I aborted my 13 mile run at 9 miles due to persistent hip and knee pain, I cried in the shower.

Girl’s prerogative, to cry when she darn well pleases.

Those two big issues seem to drag everything else down too. I’m lost with my writing. I’m not blogging, and I’m not really present on social media. I just don’t want to.

Self-medication, can you help?

But I realized that I couldn’t keep waiting, putting my life and happiness on those two things: a good run, and a government cheque. I had to do something about it. And I was reminded of this story from Prince Caspian in the Chronicles of Narnia. God does love to give me examples from fantasy literature. He knows me well. 🙂

The four children, Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy are called from England into the land of Narnia as Prince Caspian and his band of faithful Narnians do battle against the usurping king Miraz and his nation of Telmarines. (This is the book we’re talking about, not the slightly sub-par movie–cute Prince Caspian aside). Caspian and his insurgents are besieged in the stronghold of Aslan’s How, at the last of their strength, wits and supplies. Everyone among them has lost blood. And then the four children arrive, late at night, at the How, guided there by Aslan the Lion himself.

But here’s the thing. Aslan doesn’t leap upon the Telmarines and kill them himself. He sends Edmund and Peter into the stronghold to help Caspian. Then he leaves with Susan and Lucy on a tour of the countryside. It doesn’t look like he’s going to help at all.

So Peter proposes a plan. It’s a near hopeless plan. He will personally duel King Miraz, man to man, sword to sword. “Can you beat him?” Edmund asks. “I’m fighting him to find out,” Peter replies. It’s a lousy plan and he knows it, but as he explains, it will take the better part of the day to send messengers back and forth between camps. By the time they set up the duel, Aslan may have done something.

Aslan may have moved.

And he does, by the way. As the duel ends in treachery, and the two armies clash, the trees, which Aslan awakened, sweep down the hill into battle and terrify the Telmarines into submission.

Yes, it is a girl’s prerogative to cry when she wants to, but sometimes you have to dry your eyes and make a plan. Do something, do anything, even if its a lousy plan. Take the first step from your slump, and perhaps by then, Aslan will have moved. Deliverance may be upon you.

So what was my first step, by the way? Yesterday, in anticipation of not receiving the financial deliverance I’m looking for, I made two or three plans of inexpensive things I could do that evening. 1) Use my theatre gift card and see a movie with my sister. 2) Go for a run. 3) Make coconut-lemon icecream out of coconut milk so that my sister (who is dealing with allergies) can have icecream again.

We picked #1.

Today, after my awful run, I decided to pack up my laptop and go get an iced coffee at McD’s. I’m writing this post there. I guess I’d better post it before I don’t feel like it any more.

You Can’t Skip the Process

“You can’t skip the process. You can’t shortcut the process. You can’t speed up the process .You have to go through the process” –Pastor Kris Duerksen, this Sunday morning.

Ugh, how I love-hate the process. On one hand, the process is glorious. I have it emblazoned on the header of this blog: “Life is a grand adventure, or nothing.” It could also read, ‘If you’re not struggling you’re not living.” There is something exhilarating about the tension of being far less than what you see yourself being. You’re not comfortable, but at least you know you are alive. Your aching muscles keep reminding you.

My clothes are laid out for tomorrow’s tempo run.

But if you’re like me, you think you should have your life together already, know what I mean? In example, how long does it take to get my finances in order? Can I just expect to be broke for the next ten years? Why can’t I muscle my way into a better monetary place? Well I am, sort of, in a better place than even two months ago. Still, it’s hard to believe I could ever rise above.

The quote above reinforced in me this idea: It’s no use beating myself up about it. I’m such an expert at self-flagellation. I remind myself every second minute that I’ve yet to reach my goal of perfection. But I can’t fix (insert problem here) by guilt-tripping myself. I’ve got to keep powering along, trusting that each incremental change takes me closer to freedom. I also have to trust that God is working in me, and that even though I’m tired, he isn’t. He won’t give up on me.

So, with that in mind, here’s a motto I picked up along the way. “The only way to go back is to go forward.” I utilize this during longer runs, when I’m still at the pre ‘runner’s high’ stage and asking myself why I’m doing this to myself again, or near the end when my legs have had enough. “Well how will you get home if you don’t keep going, huh?” You don’t get home by sitting there. You don’t get better by bailing on the process.

The process is sometimes fun. My first couple weeks of half-marathon training were fantastic. I longed for the end of the workday when I could hit the gym, or the pavement. But now I’m stressed, and kind of terrified. I think it will become fun again.

There’s only one way to find out. “Once more unto the breach!”

How Romance Novels Tried to Ruin My Life (Why I Didn’t Watch 50 Shades)

I’ve remained silent, at least in the blogosphere, about 50 Shades of Grey because everyone seemed to be blogging about it and I didn’t want to add my rant to the cacophony. Frankly, whoever wants to see it probably has, and whoever was desperately against it has said their piece. 50 Shades likely benefited tremendously by the controversy.

I haven’t seen the movie. I haven’t read the book, aside from reading a synopsis, but this isn’t from lack of interest. Believe you me, there is a base level of me that wants to read the book and see the movie. I’d like to explain why I haven’t.

First Exposure to ‘Romance’

I was eleven or twelve when I had my first exposure to steamy literature. My Grandma had a romance novel (a conventional one, not ‘erotica’) in her bathroom. I picked it up, and in a few page flips, came upon a sex scene. I still remember it really well. The hero and heroine had a bath together, undressing and caressing in minute detail.

It was my first real peek at sex, and I guess I was curious. Soon I had another chance to read a romance, and I paged through it until I found that scene. I don’t really understand the biological reasons for why this had such an impression on me. All I know is that as a teenager, these books drew me like a magnet. Not to read the story, but to read the racy bits. I knew it was wrong—I’d been raised to believe that human sexuality was sacred—but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. It was only after confessing this in tears to a group of girls from church, much later in life, that I experienced a real breakthrough and no longer felt the dreaded pull. The library became a safe place again.

This may sound prudish to some of you, and by today’s cultural standards perhaps it is. As a Christian, my belief is that sex is an expression of love between (and only between) husband and wife, designed to be a means of bonding them together, and for procreation. I believe that if I follow this design, it will ultimately give me the happiest life. This belief doesn’t just define how I conduct myself with a boyfriend, but also how I dress, what music I listen to, what books I read, and what movies I watch.

Why Shouldn’t I Watch What I Like?

What is the harm of watching a movie with a racy sex scene? Maybe nothing—at first. But what about the compounding effect? Face it, we are bombarded with sexual material at various points in the spectrum. I don’t view hardcore pornography, and never have, but softcore porn is almost impossible to avoid. Sexuality is the selling point of media. If I view a movie trailer, there will be a hint of a sex scene (cutting away as the woman removes her top), or if I listen to the pop music station, there will be some line about ‘loving all night’. The magazine at the checkout has a girl in a bikini and says “best sex moves” on it. The rom-com has the couple waking up together, the morning after they consummate their relationship.

Brainwashing of the Sexy Kind

Like it or not, this has altered my perception of sexuality. I’ve realized there’s what I think I believe, and what I actually do/think. Here are some of the ideas that have taken residence in my head.

1. Romance is primarily expressed sexually, and physical intimacy is a precursor to emotional/relational intimacy. The sex is the exciting part, and the conversation, shared experience, shared hardship, commitment, and work is ‘boring.’ I write fiction, and before the story ever hits the page, there is an incubation period where the story evolves in my mind. It seems I always have this conversation with myself, in which I decide what kind of romantic relationship the hero and heroine will have. Will it be a healthy, wholesome one? Or will it be an exciting one? Does there really need to be that dichotomy? No. That’s a lie I picked up somewhere. And it wasn’t from Bible study, I’ll tell you that much.
2. People are primarily sexual objects/animals—or at least young, attractive ones are. Not that I go around fantasizing about every handsome guy I meet. What I mean is that I’m in the hunting mindset far too often. When I joined a very large church with a healthy population of young men, it was very difficult to not walk through the teeming hall going ‘there’s one, and there’s one, and there’s one.’ Whereas, if they don’t fit my type of ‘good looking’, they were dismissed. This is normal, I guess. But I wouldn’t want this done to me. Likewise, I am ferociously hard on my physical appearance. Do I want to be known as a person of good character, high intelligence, ambition and kindness? Absolutely! But face it, what do I spend more time on? My appearance. It’s a point of despair sometimes, because I will never, ever fit the cultural mould of beauty. I do alright, but my genetics just aren’t there.
3. I’m a prude and sexually repressed. I’ve done it already in this article—apologized for being sexually conservative. Why should I be ashamed of my celibacy? Why should I apologize because I have a moral standard that I hold myself to? Don’t I have just as much of a right to NOT partake of sex as others have to be sexually free?

So Why Not 50 Shades?

So let’s loop this back around to 50 Shades of Grey. Why didn’t I watch it?

First of all, there are actually redemptive points to the story. Ana, a nobody, is noticed, desired and romanced (I guess) by a powerful, rich man. Many of us want to believe that though we are ordinary, we are worthy of love, we are noticeable, we are special.

The story is also a backhanded expose of childhood abuse and the lengths a person will go to to expunge their pain. In an article on XXXchurch.com, Craig Gross says, “The best available research suggest that 75% or more of those who commit acts of sexual or physical abuse against others were themselves abused as children. Christian Grey was abused as a child, a horrendous act that he never got over or dealt with or talked with anyone about. This has led him to some serious walls that have gone up in his life. and the only way he knows how to deal with it is to abuse someone else. He has done this to over 15 women and will continue. I heard this story was about sex, but this story at its core is about a broken man and his inability to love and be loved.”

That’s actually a very compelling story. It’s not the story, then, it’s the delivery. In the end, I have to keep that sexual imagery out of my head. My author’s imagination couldn’t handle it. I would never, ever get it out of my head. It would sit there, further selling me on ideas that don’t line up with my moral foundation. It would change how I view myself, and how I view others.

What do I want out of life? I want to have a loving relationship with my God. I want to view all people as inherently valuable as bearers of God’s image. I want to treat all with love and respect, and be treated with love and respect. I want to have a loving, trusting relationship with a future spouse, complete with a healthy sex life. Watching Ana and Christian get it on in the red room will only get in the way of that life.

What we take into our minds matters. In the end, do what you like. But don’t imagine that everything is neutral. Know who you want to be, and what you believe. Because whatever you’ve done, looked at, heard, and read in the past all added up to the person you are today. What you are doing now will produce the you of the future.

My Story of Doubt

I was born to Christian parents. I went to the same church for the first twenty-three years of my life. It’s natural that I’d follow in their footsteps. I believed from a young age. As a young teen, I began reading the Bible for myself, and spending time in prayer. Bolstered by my parent’s faith, I began my own relationship with God. I saw rapid change in my life, as I learned to listen to and obey God.

I was confident in the validity of my faith. As part of my home-school studies, I loved to study ‘proofs’ of God’s existence, especially materials that spoke out against the theory of Evolution. Truthfully, I thought that everyone from the scientists to the ‘poor public school kids’ who believed in Evolution were deluded, maybe stupid.

At age twenty, I enrolled in a local conservative Bible college. In my second year, during a course called ‘Faith and Science,’ I read a book called The Lost World of Genesis One, which espoused the view that as 21st century, scientific minded people, we couldn’t read Genesis one literally, as the Hebrews would have. The creation story was actually a response to the Babylonian creation myth, and didn’t truly mean a literal seven days of creation.

It was frightfully logical. I dove into study, and realized that whether I believed in the young earth creationism of my youth, or that the earth evolved under God’s direction, I could find equally convincing evidence for my ideas.

Was The Lost World correct? And if so, what else couldn’t be read literally?

My protective bubble shattered. I was shattered, and very angry. I began to view knowledge with cynicism, and discount whatever people said about the Bible or God. After all, however convincing, there was probably an equally good argument against it. They might be lying. I wanted to talk about my doubts, but when I did I’d only become angry and cry.

One day a professor suggested that God sometimes causes evil to accomplish his purposes. Causes evil? Didn’t that make him evil? I lay in bed that night, broken and in tears. What would I do? Could I believe in anything anymore?

It’s occurred to me that this is the part where I’m supposed to say, “And so I became an atheist.” Many stories do end like that: “I had questions, and no one could give me convincing evidence, so I ceased to believe.” I sympathize, but that’s not how it ended for me.

Lying in my tears and snot, I asked myself, “Do I believe that God is good?”

“Yes. I do believe that God is good.”

I fell asleep.

My questions weren’t resolved. In fact, on the question of Creation, I simply had to suspend judgment. I had no more energy to expend on it. Is God good? This has been resolved through time.

I’ve seen his faithfulness in the midst of a horrible job and the depression that resulted. I saw his provision when I lost that job and went without a job for over two months. I managed to find enough money to pay all my bills–actually, partially because of an injury while doing casual work. I see how he’s orchestrated my life, brought good from bad events, and led me to a fulfilling purpose to drive me from day to day.

But mostly, I experience his love, forgiveness, friendship and fatherly guidance on a daily basis.

Can I argue from philosophy? Certainly. I still love to study how to defend my faith. I can tell you the logical reasons why I need a god in my life, how without God neither I nor you have inherent value, how without God we must base our lives on the ‘firm foundation of unyielding despair’ (Bertrand Russell).

Does that cement my faith? No.

It is the simultaneously tenuous and bulletproof foundation of God’s love in my life that I build upon. My story cannot be proved, nor disproved. It is only mine. But I hope it will encourage you to probe your own ideas, and seek a firm foundation.

Things We Suck Happiness From

Coffee addicts know that tea is no substitute for the ‘real thing.’ After six days without that rich, brown nectar of heaven, I know this for sure. I don’t know how much caffeine tea has in it, but not enough to stave off the headache and muscle ache of withdrawal.

Poor me. 😉 I’m sure going to enjoy my big cup of coffee tomorrow.

Last week I talked about how I’d given up TV for the majority of the month as a way to purge clutter from my life. This week, I added coffee to the list of banned things. When you start to equate a good cup of coffee with true happiness, it’s probably time.

It wasn’t long before I regretted it.

When I work day shift, every evening is scheduled for an appointment, or spent frantically cleaning, cooking, doing laundry and trying to get my writing done. As a homebody, I don’t like these weeks. I just want to be at home in front of my laptop… with coffee. I was sick with a cold this week. I also had a lot on my mind–mostly stuff I can’t go into. While normally I can deal with the stressful schedule at work, this week I often developed shortness of breath and chest pain by the end of the day.

Normally I’d go home, sit in my easy chair with a cup of coffee and watch a few mindless YouTube videos. During the day, I sometimes hold out that chair and coffee mug like the proverbial carrot in front of the donkey. “Just a little farther, and then you can have it.” But this week I’d get home tired, sick and weepy and none of my ‘medication’ would be there.

I grew up thinking that people with real problems used alcohol and drugs to numb their pain. It’s become uncomfortably obvious that most people have their ways of self-medication, inane, ‘harmless’ things to make them feel better. It’s not bad to drink coffee, or watch TV, or drink a glass of wine. But many souls like me use these things like patches instead of facing the real issues.

Then, when we take away our crutches, we fall. We’re sad. A girl I know talked about how sad she was when she gave up sugar and sweets for the month. It was her birthday, and she couldn’t have cake, and she was depressed. You can also observe how upset people get when the weather is rainy in the summer, or frigid in the winter. Are we really basing our happiness on externals like that? Yes, that is the primary way humans attempt to bring happiness into their lives.

What is the alternative? I would posit two–with the caveat that I’m just trying to figure this out myself.

Chris Brady said, “To be happy, you’ve got to give happy.” That is to say that when we’re feeling low, we need to take our eyes off ourselves and bring happiness to others.

Second, we need a solid internal constitution, or foundation of principles to fall back on when our externals fail us. What is our anchor?

Personally, I need to learn to seek out Jesus as my friend, constant companion and life giver. There is no switch I can flip to learn that, but in the bleakness of the workweek, there were sweet moments when I paced back and forth in front of my coating pan or crashed in my comfy chair and prayed. Even if what I prayed was pathetic things like “make me happy, pleaaase.” 🙂

The 5th Day Without TV

I don’t own a TV, but I do own an iPhone. Therefore I have perpetual access to YouTube.

I am addicted to YouTube, or at least nearly so. It is a pitiful thing. Since my sister and I got wifi in our apartment, I also can stream my favourite shows, and due to the video rental store a block away (archaic, I know) I need not ever lift my head from the screen.

And for the last few months, it seems I didn’t. I’d come home from work, meaning to read, write, or do something useful. But I’d be tired and sit down ‘just for a few minutes’ with my laptop. Before I knew it, it would be time for dinner (or two-thirty in the morning depending on the shift).

So, when I was challenged to a ‘media fast’ as part of my church’s ‘Month of Prayer and Fasting,’ I knew exactly what I needed to do. For those who are not of religious background, ‘fasting’ traditionally meant giving up eating for a time. Many Christians have expanded the definition to mean laying down a good thing (such as food, TV, coffee, etc.) in order to concentrate on prayer, and to submit that thing to God. For the next month, Monday to Saturday I may not watch TV, movies, or YouTube.

Today is the fifth day. And you know? i don’t miss it–not really. I mean, it’s Friday night and often that meant watching a movie with a snack and coffee. Tonight I’m home sick from work, and I’m on a the couch anyway, so a movie would be lovely. Tonight, I do miss it. I’ve ‘settled’ for a radio version of Les Miserables (no singing–yay!).

Every other day, I’ve enjoyed the freedom of having no choice. It sounds strange, but the worst thing about watching YouTube as much as I wanted was the compulsion. I couldn’t seem to resist it. So now my mind is made up for me. And also, I was the master of multitasking. In fact, it seemed I couldn’t concentrate on writing without a YouTube clip or a TV show playing in the background. Now I enjoy music, or silence instead. On the whole, my head feels clearer and I’m more productive.

But we weren’t challenged to fast from media to clear our heads and make us more productive, any more than we’re challenge to fast from food to make us lose weight. Here is the question: have I been using TV and media as a God-substitute? I realize after the fact that watching TV after work was just novocaine. It was a distraction so I didn’t have to face my issues. It was an easy way out.

Does one month of fasting fix this? I don’t know. I’ve never tried this before. It’s my hope that after a month, I’ll be able to enjoy movies and YouTube in more moderate doses, and to REALLY enjoy them without guilt because of it.

Why I Gave Up the Violin

I used to get stuck in doors when I played Call of Duty.  Those controllers were the death of me hundreds and hundreds of times, and when it wasn’t that I was getting lost on the maps, even the small ones.  I don’t get stuck in doors anymore, but I’ve yet to master the game.  I never will.

I simply don’t have the time.

It’s unfortunate for impatient souls like me, but mastery of anything–including fake combat with a plastic controller–takes… time.  Lots of it.  That’s why I quit playing the violin.

I began playing the violin when I was eleven after I won a violin in an auction.  I’d always wanted to play, and my chance finally came.  I loved it.  But it’s so dang hard to play, and after years of lessons I was no master.  I was tired of being embarrassed by my lack of skill.  I was an adult now.  I had a full time job, little time to practise, and no money for lessons (and no one in my apartment block wanted to listen to me screech).  Writing had become my passion.  So I played one last recital, and I haven’t even opened the case since.

That’s also why I don’t play hockey, or paint, or draw anymore.  I hate being bad, and I’ve no time to be good.

But I can’t always quit things I’m bad at, can I?  Case in point: singing in the church choir.

Swearing at the Choir

It doesn’t sound difficult.  You show up and sing.  But as singers, we are considered leaders and we are held to a high standard in how we live and relate to Jesus.  This accountability is excellent.  But I’ve come face to face with reality in the past few days.  I’m a the good Christian nice girl. I’m kind of a bitch. I rant. I swear.  I go into seething fits about inconsequential details, and offences, and misunderstandings.  I critique others mercilessly while indulging myself. I’m addicted to silly things like YouTube and chips.

I’ve been flabbergasted by my inability to connect to, and like the music I sing.  Two ladies were cooing about how much they liked the new Christmas songs, and inside I’m like ‘really? I think they’re lame.’  This should all be so secondary, because the music is hardly the point.  The point is to worship Jesus through song, and by giving of my time and energy and voice so that others can meet with God.

My leaders have told me is that the frustration I bear owes to the fact that I have a lot of personal and spiritual growing to do.  I know they’re right, and I’m depressed about it.  I want to be fixed.  Now.

And that’s impossible.

A Summer of Masochism

While in prayer yesterday, God reminded me of how I learned to run.  I began Couch to 5K on June 17th, ran my first 5K race on August 19th, and ran 10K on November 1st.  This would have been impossible without 1) a program 2) time 3) lacing up and never missing a workout.  Most of it was great, but there were horrible things mingled in–days when I almost puked from heat an exertion, speed intervals in downpours, black and blue toenails, 5Ks I ran while sick with burning lungs and muscles (probably shouldn’t have done that).  Basically, I was never without pain for the entire summer.

Does that sound like torture?  Well, it sort of was.  But here I am a runner, and I’m so glad.

So I sensed that he was telling me not to be discouraged because I couldn’t be strong that very instant. I need time, training, and discipline.  It’s amazing what a year can do.  But what about two?

I have big plans for next year.  I’ll run my first 10K races, and I plan to run my first half-marathon at the end of the summer.  But there’s a chance that I’m thinking too small entirely, and what I’ll end up accomplishing is a lot bigger than that.  Effort, compounded, can do surprising things over time.

If you’re willing to give it.

Mohammed Ali said, “I hated every minute of training, but I said ‘Don’t quit.  Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.'”

 

 

Repeat After Me: There is No Perfect Woman

“I have an iron will, and all of my will has always been to conquer some horrible feeling of inadequacy… I push past one spell of it and discover myself as a special human being, and then I get to another stage and think I’m mediocre and uninteresting… again and again. My drive in life is from this horrible fear of being mediocre. And that’s always pushing me, pushing me. Because even though I’ve become Somebody, I still have to prove I’m Somebody. My struggle has never ended and it probably never will.”  (Madonna, in a 1991 Vanity Fair interview)

I’ve been told that this is predominantly a girl-problem.

Body Envy/Worship Envy

In every arena of life, I relentlessly compare myself to others.  Not men, other women.  There are the obvious ones, like comparing my muscular build to their hour glass figure, or my hipster/writer costume to their sophisticated duds.  The mall is hell for these sorts of things.

But that isn’t all.

I get angry because so-and-so in my church cell group is better at worshiping than me.  They have their eyes shut and their hands raised, while I just got distracted by the sound of my own pure soprano.  And they’re crying and getting all lovey-dovey with the Father and I’m thinking, “Jesus, I really hate this song.  Can you zap this song and make it disappear?”

And then I look at them and think “You’re faking it.  I just know it!”

So women push themselves toward the crippling burden of perfectionism.  Perfect body, perfect hair, jeans that fit perfectly, perfect hostess, perfect Mom.  Not only do I need to run three times a week to fight back the potato chips, but I need to go out in stylish gear so I look hot while doing it.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that ain’t happening.

That is why most people who suffer from eating disorders are women.  Women are more likely to self-harm and commit suicide.

I am Remotely Controlled

But this attempt to control our lives and make them perfect is actually to give ourselves over to be controlled.  We may desire peace and contentment, but the popular opinion of beauty and fashion will not let us.  ‘The Jones’ won’t let us be happy until we keep up to them.  Heck, as I’ve talked about in Still Fat on the Inside, we won’t even be able to enjoy innocent pleasures like food.

We will miss opportunities that could be life-changing, all because we were afraid of looking stupid.  I can think of fun activities that I didn’t participate in because I was afraid of failing.  I’ve never been to the gym, because I’m afraid of looking stupid (that will have to change soon–ugh).  I won’t ask for help, i.e. in finances, because I don’t want to admit areas of weakness.

So while I am trying to control how others think of me, they are actually controlling me.

And why?  Tell me: would we like a perfect person?

The Flawed Hero is the Best Hero

As we stood outside my building after a run, my friend Rosie and I were talking about a book series she’d been reading.  The one book had this character who was a good Christian girl, willing to do whatever God asked.  It was like she could do no wrong.  The second book starred a young gladiator who hated God.  Who did we agree was more fun to read about?

I’d say this was part of our comparison and perfectionism, but I suspect there is something else to it.  Our subconscious minds can spot a fake.  The author can sell us that godly goody-two-shoes as reality but in the back of our minds we know that this is just wishful thinking.  There are some really awesome people out there who love God and want to follow him.  But we know ourselves, and we know how hard we have to fight just to do one or two good things every day.  We know that we treat God like we treated our parents.  We do what he asks, while stomping around and kicking the dog to prove that we’re only doing it because we have to.  And only for the briefest moments do we experience the harmony with Him, and that intimate friendship that we so desire.

If we love the loser characters, can’t we accept ourselves too?  Can’t we look into our own hearts and see the weaknesses, and realize that no one is without flaws?

You can’t see what goes on inside another woman’s mind.  You can only see the external accoutrements of her life.  You haven’t seen the price she paid for what she has.  I worry sometimes that people look at me and think I have my whole life figured out.  Like today, I mentioned the awesome run I had to an friend.  She asked, “how long did you run?”  I immediately felt the need to downplay and said, “Well, 10 kilometres–but I don’t run 10K every day!”  I used to think that ‘real runners’ practically floated above the ground, and ran without pain and gasping for air.  Now I know this is a fantasy every time I pull off my jacket and the stench of sweat emanates from my shirt.  I know the perpetual tired legs, and the burning chest, and the foolish feeling one gets when prancing around in skin-tight pants.

So allow others their weaknesses, and own up to your own.  It can be immensely freeing to admit that you’re weak.  I’ve found great relief in telling my friends my struggles, only to have them smile and say, “I feel the same way.”

Repeat after me: there is no perfect woman.  And we aren’t so different after all.

 

 

 

 

 

Still Fat on the Inside

“Reject the the philosophy that is causing you to fail, or you will never succeed” (loose quote of business leader Claude Hamilton).

It’s been seven months since I committed to losing weight.  Wonder of wonders, it actually worked and I am sitting here on a smaller butt than I was in March.

And it’s been five months since I began running.  Tomorrow I’ll run 10K for the first time.  The other day, my sister made an off-handed comment about ‘yeah, but you’re in shape’ and I went ‘ha ha… oh.’  I guess anyone who can run ten kilometres can be vaguely construed as in shape.  I’ve never, ever been in that category.

But am I really a different person?

January 2014

September 2014

Most days I don’t eat sugar, and I eat my veggies and my flax and my sweet potato fries.  I like eating that way.  I feel good.

But then the next day I have unbearable cravings and I polish off a bag of chips.  I did that yesterday, and afterward I was like “why the heck did I do that?”  I know that about halfway through I’ll stop enjoying them, but the hand will keep going to the mouth just because… because why?  I don’t know.  I can’t seem to stop it.

A lot of things have changed, but some key things haven’t.  I still love food far, far too much.  If anything, it seems to take a more integral part of my life because now it is all about timing my meals to get optimum energy, and obsessing over if something has too many carbs or not enough, and feeling guilty every time I eat pumpkin pie at a family gathering.

I did that when I was fat, too.

I’m not talking about body image.  I like my body, thank you very much.  I’m talking about freedom.

At the time of writing, I am almost twenty-four hours into a day of prayer and fasting.  No food.  For those who’ve never fasted, it isn’t that bad.  For me it is almost entirely psychological.  I hate to not eat.  I hate the dull ache in my stomach.  I hate having nothing to munch.  I even miss cooking… kind of.

It took me days to talk myself into doing this.  I’ve fasted before.  Last time I spent all day fantasizing about food, until at about half way into my late shift, I got dizzy and had to break the fast early.  Today my work day was too busy to allow time for daydreaming, but now that I’m home, I’m considering padlocking the fridge and throwing the key off the balcony.

But I want to be free.  I want to be free of my external weight AND this internal weight.  I want the food monster to stop dogging my step all the way around the grocery store.  Food was supposed to be one of the most innocent of pleasures.  What happened?  So it seems right to give up eating while praying about freedom from food.

At midnight National Novel Writing Month begins.  I’m going to stay up, have an omelet and begin my next novel.  I don’t expect to be free in an instant, but tomorrow will be a new day, a new month, and a new chance.