"After this baby is born, I'm writing an entire series on why you shouldn't believe anything you read on the internet concerning pregnancy." I said to my husband, slapping my laptop shut. He chuckled. "So they shouldn't believe anything you write, either." "That's...
This post is a part of the series The Broken and Beautiful, a discussion of identity, self-perception, and beauty.
I stood in front of the mirror and frowned. What had once been the outline of my abs was disappearing overnight, my face was broken out in all-new places, and I could point out several other flaws at the drop of a hat. Mr. M poked his head in the bathroom door.
“You’re beautiful.”
I smiled wanly. “At least you think so.”
I am now five months pregnant with Baby M, and though I’ve been able to hide my growing body underneath my regular clothes so far (thank heavens for blousy trends!), it is growing more difficult by the week. Not just that, but I’ve seen the visible changes as I get dressed each morning and hastily cover up my “undesirable” to put best face forward in my world.
Many of you are like me. Pregnant or not, you look in the mirror and cringe at what you see; then you cover up the “undesirable” before facing your world.
The other night I made a magnificent replica of Olive Garden’s chicken and gnocchi soup. It had a whole stick of butter and two cups of milk and it was Italian perfection.
The problem: it made enough for six people, and Mr. M and I are only two.
I put the pot in the fridge and for the next week chicken and gnocchi stew was our primary lunch option. By the third day, I was really over it.
We were still in the midst of the gnocchi siege when my parents called, saying they would swing by on a Tuesday night – boosting our dinner number from the usual two to seven people. I raced to Kroger on my lunch to buy a fat-laced chuck roast, heirloom carrots and fingerling potatoes. Then I floored it home to get the meal in the crock pot before heading back to work.
The roast turned out perfectly for our company – walking in the door I could smell the herbs I’d rubbed into the meat, the smell of the beef broth and the vegetables, and pretty soon the green beans and rolls began to waft their scents into the air. I set the table carefully with my Blue Willow china and cleaned the kitchen. It’s not every day you have company from 16 hours away!
I put the gnocchi soup on the stovetop as a back up in case people were still hungry… but never served it. After all… it’s leftovers.
It’s not the first time I’ve used such choice words. Or rather, words of choice – those few who make themselves readily available in situations such as these. They lie in wait for stress, anxiety, car doors and thumbs to make their grand entrance. Not everyone struggles with their mouth and not everyone struggles with their mouth in this way. While I’m not proud about my temptation to swear when frustrated and angry, I’m not going to pretend I haven’t done it, as the story above illustrates with painful clarity. But there’s a bigger issue at play here; a question that may seem silly to ask but in a culture of compromise is one many Christians are asking: should I do anything about it?
The laborious groan of a UPS truck pulled me away from stovetop to kitchen window, where I peered through my blinds like a nosy neighbor. Every time the UPS truck pulls into our complex, I am at the window willing the khaki-clad man to have something in that truck addressed to me. It’s my CBD order – a stack of books I’d bought as my reward for finishing my second, and last, college degree.
The UPS man drove off and I went back to cooking dinner. As a voracious reader, the best reward I could think for myself was a whole stack of recreational books, considering my reading material for the majority of the last three years has been made up of theology textbooks and other assigned reading.
But when I put together my book list, I did not select any fiction. That’s because I don’t read it. This comes as a surprise to many people since fiction is enjoyed by many – and it once was stacked on my bedside table, too. But I stopped reading it, and here’s why:
1. Much modern fiction – especially Christian fiction – has a plot line focused on a love story or romantic theme.
Dear girl,
When I got your letter my heart sank to the pit of my stomach and I felt sick. I read the pain and confusion in every line; the desperate plea for clarity… for identity. When you met Jesus, you gave it all up for Him: all that identified you as you. Your makeup and nails and pretty things, your music and yoga pants. You gave it up because you thought you had to. You thought doing all the ‘right things’ was what faith in Him looks like.
And now you stand here, wondering who you are without who you were, confused, frustrated, and lonely.
Perhaps someone told you to get rid of your manicure in the name of vanity.
Perhaps someone told you your lipstick was too bright.
Perhaps you read my post about yoga pants and thought changing the trappings was enough in God’s eyes.
Dear girl, stop following the rules.
“Turn around and do it again!” My coach yelled from the fence.
“Tighten your legs!”
“Heels down! Look at the corner!”
“Turn around and do it again! Pick his hind feet up!”
Over and over I steered my horse along the fence rail and pushed him into a canter. Over and over I adjusted my seat, pressured him in the ribs and tried to force him to change his lead. His ears flicked between my murmur and my coach’s yell.
“That’s it, boy, come on, you can do it,” I said softly. I tapped his hindquarters, pushed him forward and twitched my ring finger. I felt the slight jolt of his shoulders and his stride changed. Immediately, I stopped him and patted his neck; his chest was heaving from thirty minutes of repetition.
The relationship between a horse and rider is more of a partnership than anything else: the rider asks something of the horse, and the horse responds in turn, with the reward of pats or pasture for his efforts. He may not always like the commands he receives; he may buck and pull and resist, but it is the rider’s job to train him into submission so the horse is fulfilling his full potential.
Husbands are not horses, but sometimes we treat them like they are.
My friend Leigh and I sustain a mutual coffee addiction of obnoxious proportions.
We celebrate cold brewing at home. We talk about french presses versus percolators. We send each other pictures of coffee.
Pictures. Of coffee.
We firmly believe that coffee counts as a vegetable, because it grows on a plant. (Okay, a tree, but it’s in the vegetative family.)
The day we found the article that said coffee was the best pre-workout beverage… we almost sang the Hallelujah Chorus together.
So really, we share two life priorities: Jesus, and coffee. As I was having my devotions with pour-over Chemex-brewed cinnamon-and-orange-peel decorated beverage in hand, it dawned on me: the Creator of coffee actually has a lot in common with this beautiful drink. And it makes perfect sense, considering how positively divine coffee is…