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.

 

Why I Ignored My Phone Yesterday (Or, A Guilt-Free Holiday)

I love to write. But what I didn’t realize that, these days, writing means building a social media presence. Before I began taking my writing seriously, social media was something I did once or twice a week. Now whenever I pick up my phone, I hit the Facebook, Twitter or WordPress app immediately. And I pick up my phone every ten minutes.

I just checked my phone.

You’re looking at your phone, aren’t you?  I knew it.

Checking my blog stats is beginning to feel like an addiction. It’s beginning to feel like… slavery. So, this Sunday, I decided to take a Sabbath from social media.

‘Sabbath’ is a Judeo-Christian concept, which began as a day in which no work was to be done. It memorialized a couple things: first, that on the seventh day of creation, God rested from all his work. Second, it reminded the Children of Israel that God had freed them from slavery and forced labor. And, now, in the Christian tradition, the Sabbath falls on Sunday to honor the resurrection of Jesus Christ. It is a day to reflect, and a day to be free. As Mark Driscoll has said, God is a loving Father who doesn’t want his kids to work all the time. He wants them to have time to spend with him.

But it isn’t just for those of faith. We all need time to be free. Daniel Pink, author of A Whole New Mind (and of no discernable religious affiliation), suggests taking a Sabbath as a way to “remove yourself from the maw” and refocus. He says “Whatever your faith, consider experimenting with this practice [of taking a day of Sabbath]… If committing to this weekly ritual isn’t right for you, consider [Wayne] Muller’s alternative: ‘Choose on common act during your day to serve as a Sabbath pause.’”

Another way of looking at it: when I was in college, my professors suggested working hard all week, and then making Sunday a guilt-free, ‘homework holiday’. I’m suggesting the same thing. Make one day (or afternoon, or evening, or moment) your guilt-free holiday.

There is something powerful and invigorating about a break from the ordinary. If you are person of faith, I suggest taking time for prayer, meditating and reflecting. Then, do something you wouldn’t normally do. Go for a walk. Play a game. Read a novel. Or, my personal favorite, drink good coffee and cook something awesome. Recognize that you need it. If God ordered a day of rest, take it! I think that’s license for a break.

So, this Sunday, in order to ‘remove myself from the maw’, I put my phone on my nightstand and removed myself from social media. What did I do instead? Napped. Napped for two hours. And then, I hung out with my family, watched football, and fried fish.

The concept of Sabbath is ever-evolving for me. I don’t claim to have a fool-proof plan, or even stick to my guns on this all the time. I’m learning. Next Sunday, I plan to put my phone on the shelf again, and the Sunday after that, and after that. Maybe I’ll make this a life-long habit.

The Backhanded Cure for Low Self-Esteem

This is what happens to me when I walk through a mall: I observe another woman’s effortless elegance, hour-glass figure, or the handsome dude she’s with, and feel like a pitiful excuse for a human being. I might have felt like a million bucks when I left home, but once I saw what she was wearing… jig’s up.

And so I take the next left into the clothing store, or the makeup counter, and spend money I shouldn’t–or I medicate with a Pumpkin Spice Latte (no need for a spoonful of sugar to make that medicine go down). This insidious form of low self-esteem, called comparison, lurks at every corner of the mall.

I say to myself: “There must be something wrong with me. If I was beautiful like she was, I’d have a man.” Or, “It’s bad genes that keep me fat.” Or I just medicate with a Pumpkin Spice Latte.

That would be a lack of pride, right? I don’t feel proud of myself, so I lack self-esteem.

Edward T. Welch has a different take:

“Low self-esteem usually means that I think too highly of myself. I’m too self-involved, I feel I deserve better than what I have. The reason I feel bad about myself is because I aspire to something more. I want just a few minutes of greatness. I am a peasant who wants to be king When you are in the grips of low self-esteem, it’s painful, and it certainly doesn’t feel like pride. But I believe that this is the dark, quieter side of pride—thwarted pride” (1).

That’s a head-scratcher. Let me get this straight: low self-esteem equals thinking too highly of myself?

Right.

But it actually makes sense. Welch said “I feel I deserve better than what I have”—as if the hand I was dealt by the Creator is beneath me. I’m too good to be single. I’m too good for acne. I’m too good to be fat. I should have been given a better hand!

I’ve always believed that if someone was truly great at cards, they could win with whatever they were dealt. The glory was in winning against the odds, not with a stacked hand. We root for underdogs—just watch any sports movie Hollywood puts out.

Reason number one to stop bemoaning my life: if it’s bad, all the more impressive when I win. I must make the best of it.

And the biggest reason: God gave me this life and its set of circumstances. How prideful of me to say he was wrong!

“Yeah, you’re Creator and omniscient, but you should have given me a better face.” Tear, sob, sip of PSL.

Stop it, you big baby! (Talking to myself, here—or the person beside you). Put on your big-girl panties and get to work.

I’m not preaching fatalism, here. I’m saying play the hand you’re dealt, and play it well. It wasn’t given to you at random, but for a particular mission. If you don’t believe there is a creator, that doesn’t exempt you. What makes you so good that chance should have dealt you a better hand? Make good on it.

Get your focus in the right place—not on yourself, not on the other person’s stuff, but on the face of Jesus Christ. “And the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace.”

Let’s work on this together, shall we?

Reference:

(1). Edward T. Welch, as quoted in Confidence of a Champion by Tim Marks.

The Calm in the Center of my Storm

9:30 pm. I was pacing back and forth in front of my coater. It was running smoothly and didn’t require my attention. Nothing to do but think. My chest ached. My heart was heavy because there was nothing I could do to alleviate the conflict that was swirling around me. I wanted to pray but my words had run out. So I leaned against the warm glass of the coater’s door and stared at the tablets rushing past, and said “Lord, you can fill in the blanks.”

The day was in wreckage. I’d melted down at job #1 that morning, and biked home in tears. I’d gotten myself together in time to go to job #2, and now there was friction and hurt between my friends. My mind was too full. I’d pushed myself to breaking. I was spent.

But CTP-10 wasn’t out of God’s reach. The concrete ceiling couldn’t keep my prayers, nor my songs from reaching him. Thus, as I prayed and sang, my stark process room was God’s temple, and his presence brought me peace. He is the constant, the anchor.

“You are the calm in the center of my storm. When the cold winds blow, you’re the fire that keeps me warm. When this old world gets me down, I will rest inside your arms. You are the calm in the center of my storm” (Paul Overstreet).

Person Looking for a People

I never knew I wanted a ‘people’ until a couple winters ago. I was preparing for a missions exposure trip to northern Manitoba. Part of that prep was a course that covered the history of the native people in Canada, as well as their culture in northern Manitoba. I was struck by the loyalty of the aboriginal people—loyalty to their people, to their ancestral lands, their languages, and their heritage, loyalty in the face of a hostile culture that was intent on wiping away their culture and practice. But in the face of this loyalty, I came to realize: I had no people.

Technically, I am a Mennonite. I have blood-ties to the Mennonites who emigrated from Russia in the late 1800’s. I know what warenke, kielke and farmer sausage are (even though I don’t really care for them). In my understanding, Mennonites don’t drink, don’t dance, are theologically conservative and emotionally non-demonstrative. And I appreciate that. I admire the Mennonite commitment to a holistic spirituality—taking care of the heart through a missions’ focus, the body through relief work, and the lifestyle through a simple way of life and hard work. I hold to Mennonite theology to the best of my understanding though, as most people, I have my difficult spots and doubts.

But I have a very difficult time seeing Mennonites as ‘my people’. My theology may be Mennonite but my ethnicity is only… sort of. I didn’t grow up in a Mennonite community, and though my church belongs to a Mennonite conference, it does not reflect a strong Mennonite culture. My father’s side of the family is not Mennonite. I don’t have the right last-name. I’ve sometimes called myself a ‘half-breed Mennonite’.

So, I suppose the Mennonites are not my people.

I’ve been studying 1 Peter for almost two months now. One of the key points of 1 Peter is that Christians are God’s people—once we were not a people, now we are His people (2:10). We are now ‘living stones’ being built up into God’s temple (2:5). Wherever we are from, whatever our ethnicity, whatever our ‘sect’, our macro identity is found in the church, the people of God. This crystalized for me this morning as I read McKnight. He said “find your identity in being part of God’s family, not in being part of a society that does not accept you”. The fragments of thought came together in my mind. I do have a people.

I recently joined a ‘cell’ group from a church in my community. I don’t attend that church, but I was looking for other women my age to connect with. On the whole this church believes as I do, but their practice and emphasis is quite different from what I am accustomed to. Still, when I met with these girls, prayed, worshiped and confessed with them, I felt at home. I felt connected, like I’d known these girls for a long time. And why not? They’re my family. Together we are God’s household, his people.

I do have a people. My people are the church. Locally, that means Mennonites, but on a broad scale, my people are all around the world, worshipping Jesus and living to please him. When they are oppressed, that is my people being oppressed. When they thrive, that is my people thriving.

The only question is, what am I going to do about it?