I had a spare 45 minutes or so until my kids get up from their naps so I thought I'd write a little, and I was surprised when I logged on to find that my blog has two followers now. When did that happen? When I shut up, apparently. I guess this means I should be a little more intentional about updating it. So here goes.
Writing "a little" would be an improvement over absolutely nothing, which is what I've been writing for the last few months. I've missed it, and while I would often recall how good it feels to sit down with a hot cup of coffee and bang out something on the keyboard I just didn't have the energy to come up with a worthy topic. I could say that the holiday season wiped me out and that would be true, but it was more than that. Life has been a bit overwhelming, at least in my head.
We've attempted and, so far, failed to potty train our 3-year-old, which only feels like a big deal because we can't enroll her in preschool this fall unless she's completely diaper-free. Any bets on whether that will transpire? We've bribed her with all manner of candy, stickers and toys while practically having a parade through the living room when she has a success. But frankly, this girl really isn't motivated to keep it up. My latest move of desperation is in reading Potty Train Your Child in Just One Day - Proven Secrets of the Potty Pro. It seems a stretch to me, but what do I know compared to a pro?
We've now added food battles to our daily entertainment, as both kids have decided to eat virtually nothing but peanut butter sandwiches. Here, I've enlisted the help of Jessica Seinfeld, Jerry's wife and author of Deceptively Delicious, a book about hiding pureed vegetables in just about everything, including brownies. We're giving it a whirl, although I had a misstep the other night when I set out to make a veggie-laden meatloaf. Our small group was coming over in two hours and I still hadn't pureed my veggies yet. So I started steaming the cauliflower and carrots at 4 p.m., but by the time I finished with the purees it was nearly 5 p.m., leaving no time to cook the meal. So here I was with a house that wreaked of cauliflower and only leftovers to feed my children, who of course didn't eat them.
This blog has been empty since last fall, except for the New Year's Eve message. And that, of course, was a must because it's the closest I may ever come to sending out Christmas cards like the ones we receive from friends and family - the quarter-folded pieces with professional photos of their families and stuffed with full-page update letters. I can't tell you how I love and appreciate those cards, by the way. Those take considerable funds and effort to send out, and please know that I keep them. I'm just not that together yet. Sigh.
Life just weighs us down sometimes. The economy stinks. People close to us get sick; some of them don't make it. Marriages struggle; some of them don't make it. People are killing one another worldwide, and practically in our back yards. With all due respect to Louis Armstrong, I find the world to be less than wonderful.
For my part, for the last few months I've been spending time both on top of mountains and deep in valleys, spiritually. I've felt wrung out, which is not necessarily a bad thing. That's the place where one finally gives up trying to control life and hands it over to the Lord. It's also the place where I find myself nuzzling into Him for comfort and to just feel safe. The really cool thing is that He responds in the most incredible way - by showing me His heart. What an awesome God, who takes what is ugly and makes it beautiful in His time!
Having said all that, my two followers, I just may emerge from my funk to write more often. Sorry about the delay :)
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Friday, December 31, 2010
A Johnson 2010 Review
As in years past, a huge piece of our lives involve ministry and our church, Southeast Christian. Aaron and I love our Sunday school class, Crossroads, and are enjoying the friendships we're cultivating there. Aaron taught a Christian worldview and apologetics program to high school and college students last winter and spring; he plans to teach it to our couples group this spring. We have lead a Bible study for married couples in our home each Sunday night, although our group has been on a break for a couple of months. Aaron and I each are enrolled in the Discipleship Curriculum, a Bible study that over a nearly 2-year period challenges small groups to read the entire Bible, as well as other Christian books, and commit about 70 Scriptures to memory. Together, our respective groups are learning the history of the church and important points of doctrine, as we learn to teach and disciple others. Aaron will finish up the program this spring, and since I only enrolled this fall I will have another year to go. We continue to serve in many other areas at church. It is a blessing to give as God has given to us.
This past spring, Aaron and I took Adam on our biannual trip to Hawaii, leaving Katie at home with Grandma J. Hey, it was fair to take only Adam - Katie had her solo trip to Hawaii before he was even a glimmer in our eyes. Since 2010 also marked the end to one of our favorite television shows, please indulge me while I reminisce using lots of references herein: We visited the LOST island (Oahu), where our airplane came to rest (Softly). We braved the elements (Light drizzle during a horseback ride on the North Shore which, of course, subsided to reveal perfect 80-degree sunshine). We communicated with the natives (ordered breakfast at Zippy's) and tasted exotic foods enjoyed only in their culture (Spam). Thankfully, we never were confronted with a smoke monster or polar bears, but when was the last time you saw a penguin in the tropics? (They were waddling around for display at the Hilton Hawaiian Village on Waikiki, presumably borrowed from the zoo.)
The only other out-of-state trips we made as a family this year were to upstate New York for our annual week at Camp of the Woods to visit with Grandma J and the Wellman family at their lakehouse and the aforementioned Christmas celebration in New Jersey, where they live most of the year. We love spending time in such a beautiful place with our loving extended family! And for the first time, Katie and Adam were old enough to enjoy playing with their cousins.
We've done a lot as a family, but each of us has had an eventful year. Here's a glance:
Katie: Our firstborn just turned 3 and is growing into the prettiest little girl, if we do say so ourselves. Precocious and strong-willed, Katie keeps us on our toes - a tiny force to be reckoned with, to be sure. A doll, nonetheless. We're still trying to potty train and are told that one day she'll just do it; we live for such a day and hope that it comes before college. Katie loves to sing and twirl, play with her dollhouse and watch Pixar movies (her latest obsession: Toy Story).
Adam: I'm convinced that Adam is the sweetest little boy in the whole world, as at 16 months old he still loves to snuggle with his mommy. Of course, he calls me "Daddy," but such indiscretion is easily overlooked when perpetrated by one so incredibly cute. Adam loves to explore the world, now that he's mobile, and he particularly enjoys turning off the television while his sister is watching the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Much like his daddy, Adam would much rather spend his time reading books than watching tv. His vocabulary is small but Adam enjoys a good chat, so long as it regards food. Considering his mommy's preoccupation with that topic, I suppose that apple didn't fall far from the tree, now did it?We're thankful to God for the abundant life He's given us, for bringing us together as a family and for putting each of you into our lives as well. We wish you all God's best in 2011!
The Johnsons
Aaron, Tonia, Katie and Adam
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Bob has a buddy
Five years ago, after months of investigating the source of severe fatigue and weight loss, my doctor discovered it all came down to a tiny growth on my pituitary gland - call it a microadenoma, if you want to impress your friends. Of course, all I heard was "brain tumor" when I was diagnosed. But the truth is, it's just a benign nubbin. A little extra tissue. Nothing to fear. So figuring that since I would probably live out the rest of my days with the doodad living in my noggin, I might as well name it. Something benign... like Bob.
In a similar scenario, my doctor has been investigating another mystery illness of mine for the last month - persistent nausea and unintentional weight loss - and incidentally came across another microadenoma on one of my adrenal glands. Neither my doctor nor I think this one is anything to fear either, but just to be sure I'm going to have another MRI performed in the coming days.
It's true what my dear, sweet grandfather used to say - If you go to a doctor, he's just going to find something wrong with you. In my case, I usually find out that I'm growing extra parts. My doctor says I'm just bumpy, but I feel more like one of those lab rats that researchers use to grow ears and such.
I haven't come up with a name for this little nodule; I think I'll wait until the MRI - sort of like waiting to name your baby until you've at least seen his or her little face on a sonogram. I'll take suggestions.
All levity aside, after multiple pregnancy tests, blood work, an MRI of my brain and a CT scan of my chest, abdomen and pelvis, all we've come up with is a UTI, a tiny kidney stone and this microadenoma, none of which explain my symptoms. I'm convinced the nausea and weight loss (which seems to have leveled off) are related to stress, as my husband and I are having a particularly tough time dealing with our toddler - let's just say the "terrible twos" are aptly named. I see a gastroenterologist Sept. 23. My primary doctor says he'll probably want to run a scope down my throat to take a look around, and I'm not too excited about those prospects. Could you pray that God would make it plain to my doctors what is going on in my body so that they can treat it properly? Thanks in advance!
In a similar scenario, my doctor has been investigating another mystery illness of mine for the last month - persistent nausea and unintentional weight loss - and incidentally came across another microadenoma on one of my adrenal glands. Neither my doctor nor I think this one is anything to fear either, but just to be sure I'm going to have another MRI performed in the coming days.
It's true what my dear, sweet grandfather used to say - If you go to a doctor, he's just going to find something wrong with you. In my case, I usually find out that I'm growing extra parts. My doctor says I'm just bumpy, but I feel more like one of those lab rats that researchers use to grow ears and such.
I haven't come up with a name for this little nodule; I think I'll wait until the MRI - sort of like waiting to name your baby until you've at least seen his or her little face on a sonogram. I'll take suggestions.
All levity aside, after multiple pregnancy tests, blood work, an MRI of my brain and a CT scan of my chest, abdomen and pelvis, all we've come up with is a UTI, a tiny kidney stone and this microadenoma, none of which explain my symptoms. I'm convinced the nausea and weight loss (which seems to have leveled off) are related to stress, as my husband and I are having a particularly tough time dealing with our toddler - let's just say the "terrible twos" are aptly named. I see a gastroenterologist Sept. 23. My primary doctor says he'll probably want to run a scope down my throat to take a look around, and I'm not too excited about those prospects. Could you pray that God would make it plain to my doctors what is going on in my body so that they can treat it properly? Thanks in advance!
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Remembrances of 9/11
Nine years ago on Sept. 11 I was running a tad late for work. I can't remember why, but I can remember what it looked like when I walked into the newsroom at The C-J like it was yesterday. Every reporter, editor and copy editor were crowded around the three televisions mounted from the ceiling in the center of the room, jaws gaping, eyes wincing as they watched black smoke pour out of the side of one of the World Trade Center towers in New York City.
"A plane just flew into the World Trade Center," a coworker said in an update as I squeezed into the mix of newspeople strangely ignoring the stories they had been working on at their desks.
I saw the second plane careen into the other tower in disbelief. It wasn't an accident.
The phones weren't ringing off the hook as usual, or at least only the clerks were hearing them. The rest of us weren't about to take our eyes off the screens. It seems like we stood there for hours, but I know that can't be true because we had a paper to put out, and now we had a special edition to crank out on top of that. But I remember shouting back to editors as updates shot across the bottom of the screen about a third plane crashing into the Pentagon and yet another into a field in Pennsylvania. Our country was under attack, and while I wondered where the terrorists would strike next I was never so glad to live in Kentucky, an unlikely target. But I knew I'd never be the same, never feel as safe.
As I monitored network news stations all day it seems like I watched those planes smash into the twin towers a hundred times, and by evening the stations had voice mail recordings from husbands and wives, sons and daughters saying their last goodbyes as they waited for the inevitable inside the burning buildings. I wondered about all of those families holding out to hear from loved ones unaccounted for; the policemen, firemen and average Joes who went to their deaths trying to save people who were trapped; all those daycare children who never had a chance to grow up. In the harsh flicker of my television, I sat there alone on my couch until 2 a.m., still too scared to go to sleep but I just couldn't cry anymore.
One other remembrance from that day nine years ago: on my way home from work that night I came to a red light at the corner of Dutchmann's Lane and Breckinridge - always a busy intersection notorious for traffic congestion and fender benders - and saw something I'd never seen before that provided probably the only happy tears I produced that day. A middle-aged man stood in the median waving a huge American flag as cars whizzed by, many of them honking in support and a flood of patriotism. God bless that man because I desperately needed a lift in that moment. We all did.
In the months that followed I saw similar displays of patriotism - flags posted outside many doorsteps in any given neighborhood and a general sense of pride in what this country is about.
Today I don't see so many flags and I hear more negative sentiments about our country than positive. We're divided more than ever. Collectively, we don't look to God to restore us. And this just makes my heart sink.
"A plane just flew into the World Trade Center," a coworker said in an update as I squeezed into the mix of newspeople strangely ignoring the stories they had been working on at their desks.
I saw the second plane careen into the other tower in disbelief. It wasn't an accident.
The phones weren't ringing off the hook as usual, or at least only the clerks were hearing them. The rest of us weren't about to take our eyes off the screens. It seems like we stood there for hours, but I know that can't be true because we had a paper to put out, and now we had a special edition to crank out on top of that. But I remember shouting back to editors as updates shot across the bottom of the screen about a third plane crashing into the Pentagon and yet another into a field in Pennsylvania. Our country was under attack, and while I wondered where the terrorists would strike next I was never so glad to live in Kentucky, an unlikely target. But I knew I'd never be the same, never feel as safe.
As I monitored network news stations all day it seems like I watched those planes smash into the twin towers a hundred times, and by evening the stations had voice mail recordings from husbands and wives, sons and daughters saying their last goodbyes as they waited for the inevitable inside the burning buildings. I wondered about all of those families holding out to hear from loved ones unaccounted for; the policemen, firemen and average Joes who went to their deaths trying to save people who were trapped; all those daycare children who never had a chance to grow up. In the harsh flicker of my television, I sat there alone on my couch until 2 a.m., still too scared to go to sleep but I just couldn't cry anymore.
One other remembrance from that day nine years ago: on my way home from work that night I came to a red light at the corner of Dutchmann's Lane and Breckinridge - always a busy intersection notorious for traffic congestion and fender benders - and saw something I'd never seen before that provided probably the only happy tears I produced that day. A middle-aged man stood in the median waving a huge American flag as cars whizzed by, many of them honking in support and a flood of patriotism. God bless that man because I desperately needed a lift in that moment. We all did.
In the months that followed I saw similar displays of patriotism - flags posted outside many doorsteps in any given neighborhood and a general sense of pride in what this country is about.
Today I don't see so many flags and I hear more negative sentiments about our country than positive. We're divided more than ever. Collectively, we don't look to God to restore us. And this just makes my heart sink.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Two types of people
First of all, does it say much about the course of my life that I haven't posted anything since April? It's been a tough summer, with a toddler and baby to chase around the house and my mom's illness, but finally, the house is quiet and enough thoughts are rattling around in my brain to write something :) So here it is...
There are two types of people in the world based, of course, on many varied categories. For example, there are those who love toasted coconut and those who think it tastes like pencil shavings. There are the left-handed, the right-handed. Tow-may-tow, tow-mah-tow. Some think rapper Eminem is a genius while others say he's a no-class punk who has managed to impress the masses with his fifth-grade rhyming skills - enough to distract listeners from his hateful rants against women. Any guesses on where I fall?
Today I reflect on those who give joy and those who steal it.
Last night my family and I rolled in from a trip to upstate New York to visit my in-laws and extended family at their lake house on beautiful Lake Pleasant. More on the trip later, but suffice it to say the plane rides to and from with two kids under age 3 weren't, well, pleasant. In fact, it was exhausting. It turns out that my sweet 2-year-old, Katie, doesn't travel too well, and in our layover in Cleveland, her displeasure with riding in car seats, airplanes and strollers had reached its saturation point. A tantrum ensued, and a very public one at that. Aaron and I were eager to get dinner for all of us before catching our home-bound flight, but Katie was too far gone to follow any more orders and decided to flail and scream. Blood red and barking "I want to get down," Katie attracted a sizable audience as Aaron and I tried to calm her. But without a time-out spot to put her in or the guts to spank her and risk someone freaking out and calling child protective services, we told her we weren't going to eat until she finished her fit. Obviously, this one was going to take a while to run its course, so there we stood, waiting.
Before you think I'm going to say that my child is a joy-stealer, think again. Because here he comes. Enter angry middle-aged man from stage right. He stomps up to my husband, waving his arms and telling him he should just pick her up and hold her. We were being cruel, he said. Aaron just shrugged his shoulders and smiled at the guy, who apparently thinks a good cuddle will solve this whole kicking and screaming business. In retrospect, we should have offered him a chance to prove his armchair parenting. He walked away, cursing as he passed me.
Shortly thereafter, Hurricane Katie was downgraded to a mere squall and she ended up happily sharing my dinner and running around the terminal before we boarded our flight. I, on the other hand, spent the rest of the evening fuming internally over the nerve that man had to scold us. Aaron and I wondered whether he'd ever had a child before. How did his cuddle method work for that kid? How did his kid turn out in a world in which it's a little unusual, say, for a police officer to offer you a squeeze when he's clocked you doing 70 in a 45 mph zone or your boss to give you a bear hug when you're underperforming.
But, as is typical for the Lord to do, He put a joy-giver in front of me this morning to remind me that not all strangers are strange. The kids accompanied me on a grocery trip to Kroger on a steamy Louisville morning with temperatures already in the 90s. We walked through the sliding front doors, Katie at my left side and Adam hanging in his car seat from my right elbow. I scanned the fleet of carts for the kind with the kiddy car in front for Katie but couldn't locate one. Man, I didn't want to go back out in that heat with two kids - one of them very heavy, I might add - to find one. But Glenna noticed.
Glenna is a dear, sweet lady whose job it is to greet Kroger customers and collect stray shopping carts, although she typically goes above and beyond where we're concerned. I have to preface this with the fact that Glenna has to be well into her 70s, and I truly hate the fact that she has to work at all. Of course, for all I know she may do it because she loves it. She certainly acts that way.
Anyway, Glenna noticed my dilemma and offered to fetch the cart for us.
"What color would you like?" she asked Katie.
"Pink," Katie answered, her usual response to any question of color preference. Of course, that wasn't an option. Glenna took Katie's hand and led her out to pick one while Adam and I waited inside the air-conditioned entryway.
They returned with Katie behind the plastic wheel of a green car, and with a thanks and a wave to Glenna we were off to shop.
As I was checking out, Katie had decided she'd had enough of riding and declared she was walking to the car with me - a perilous excursion in my experience, although Katie typically sticks close by and holds my hand as we walk through parking lots. But noticing my mini-me had ditched her side car, Glenna offered to walk us out, holding Katie's hand for me. On the way out, Glenna told me a little about her family - that she was sending her granddaughter to Disney World as a gift because the girl had lost her mother, never known her father and recently lost her grandfather unexpectedly. Her grandfather, of course, was Glenna's husband, but she told it from her granddaughter's perspective, as is common for those who are focused on others.
As I strapped the kids into their car seats, Glenna loaded my groceries into the trunk and wished us a good day.
"Thank you so much for all your help," I told Glenna, patting her shoulder. "You know, you really didn't have to do any of that."
"That's OK," she answered. "I just love spending time with young families."
Well, all I've got to say is I'm thankful for people who love on young families and don't look at them like they're a burden. God bless you, Glenna, and all of those like you.
There are two types of people in the world based, of course, on many varied categories. For example, there are those who love toasted coconut and those who think it tastes like pencil shavings. There are the left-handed, the right-handed. Tow-may-tow, tow-mah-tow. Some think rapper Eminem is a genius while others say he's a no-class punk who has managed to impress the masses with his fifth-grade rhyming skills - enough to distract listeners from his hateful rants against women. Any guesses on where I fall?
Today I reflect on those who give joy and those who steal it.
Last night my family and I rolled in from a trip to upstate New York to visit my in-laws and extended family at their lake house on beautiful Lake Pleasant. More on the trip later, but suffice it to say the plane rides to and from with two kids under age 3 weren't, well, pleasant. In fact, it was exhausting. It turns out that my sweet 2-year-old, Katie, doesn't travel too well, and in our layover in Cleveland, her displeasure with riding in car seats, airplanes and strollers had reached its saturation point. A tantrum ensued, and a very public one at that. Aaron and I were eager to get dinner for all of us before catching our home-bound flight, but Katie was too far gone to follow any more orders and decided to flail and scream. Blood red and barking "I want to get down," Katie attracted a sizable audience as Aaron and I tried to calm her. But without a time-out spot to put her in or the guts to spank her and risk someone freaking out and calling child protective services, we told her we weren't going to eat until she finished her fit. Obviously, this one was going to take a while to run its course, so there we stood, waiting.
Before you think I'm going to say that my child is a joy-stealer, think again. Because here he comes. Enter angry middle-aged man from stage right. He stomps up to my husband, waving his arms and telling him he should just pick her up and hold her. We were being cruel, he said. Aaron just shrugged his shoulders and smiled at the guy, who apparently thinks a good cuddle will solve this whole kicking and screaming business. In retrospect, we should have offered him a chance to prove his armchair parenting. He walked away, cursing as he passed me.
Shortly thereafter, Hurricane Katie was downgraded to a mere squall and she ended up happily sharing my dinner and running around the terminal before we boarded our flight. I, on the other hand, spent the rest of the evening fuming internally over the nerve that man had to scold us. Aaron and I wondered whether he'd ever had a child before. How did his cuddle method work for that kid? How did his kid turn out in a world in which it's a little unusual, say, for a police officer to offer you a squeeze when he's clocked you doing 70 in a 45 mph zone or your boss to give you a bear hug when you're underperforming.
But, as is typical for the Lord to do, He put a joy-giver in front of me this morning to remind me that not all strangers are strange. The kids accompanied me on a grocery trip to Kroger on a steamy Louisville morning with temperatures already in the 90s. We walked through the sliding front doors, Katie at my left side and Adam hanging in his car seat from my right elbow. I scanned the fleet of carts for the kind with the kiddy car in front for Katie but couldn't locate one. Man, I didn't want to go back out in that heat with two kids - one of them very heavy, I might add - to find one. But Glenna noticed.
Glenna is a dear, sweet lady whose job it is to greet Kroger customers and collect stray shopping carts, although she typically goes above and beyond where we're concerned. I have to preface this with the fact that Glenna has to be well into her 70s, and I truly hate the fact that she has to work at all. Of course, for all I know she may do it because she loves it. She certainly acts that way.
Anyway, Glenna noticed my dilemma and offered to fetch the cart for us.
"What color would you like?" she asked Katie.
"Pink," Katie answered, her usual response to any question of color preference. Of course, that wasn't an option. Glenna took Katie's hand and led her out to pick one while Adam and I waited inside the air-conditioned entryway.
They returned with Katie behind the plastic wheel of a green car, and with a thanks and a wave to Glenna we were off to shop.
As I was checking out, Katie had decided she'd had enough of riding and declared she was walking to the car with me - a perilous excursion in my experience, although Katie typically sticks close by and holds my hand as we walk through parking lots. But noticing my mini-me had ditched her side car, Glenna offered to walk us out, holding Katie's hand for me. On the way out, Glenna told me a little about her family - that she was sending her granddaughter to Disney World as a gift because the girl had lost her mother, never known her father and recently lost her grandfather unexpectedly. Her grandfather, of course, was Glenna's husband, but she told it from her granddaughter's perspective, as is common for those who are focused on others.
As I strapped the kids into their car seats, Glenna loaded my groceries into the trunk and wished us a good day.
"Thank you so much for all your help," I told Glenna, patting her shoulder. "You know, you really didn't have to do any of that."
"That's OK," she answered. "I just love spending time with young families."
Well, all I've got to say is I'm thankful for people who love on young families and don't look at them like they're a burden. God bless you, Glenna, and all of those like you.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Weighty matters
The words still sting a little when I remember a day from my pre-teen years when a classmate shouted across an open yard that I was "short, fat and ugly." She said it in front of a boy I liked, and he laughed. And for the first time I looked in the mirror in a way that would stick with me for the rest of my life. Ugly? I looked as awkward as any other kid my age, but up until that point I'd never considered my appearance as somehow sub par. I was, in fact, short but what in the world was I to do to correct that? So I zeroed in on what I could control. I was overweight - I weighed in at my first Weight Watchers meeting at age 12 at 142 pounds - and oh how I hated myself for that.
As destructive as self-loathing is, it did propel me through the Weight Watchers program, and I lost about 30 pounds in a little more than six months. I learned how to maintain a healthy diet, although I didn't fully comprehend the absolute necessity of exercise until years later. I was making friends, finally. Boys noticed me. Life was good. But inside lurked an undeniable fear that if I regained weight I would experience the same rejection I felt when that classmate chided me from afar all those years ago. I never fully accepted what I saw in the mirror; my reflection would always be an awkward-looking little fat girl. And when life circumstances got tough, the terror pushed me into self-destruction mode.
I'm not blaming that little girl who called me names for my negative body image. Believe me, others shared similar thoughts over the years as well. One boyfriend told me, "If you'd just lose 15 pounds, you'd be unstoppable." In the end, he was right. I lost 20 pounds, walked out of his life and never looked back. Unkind evaluations from others aside, what we tell ourselves in our solitude is far worse than what they say to our faces.
Several years ago I was experiencing some relationship struggles, which had become pretty frustrating after years of nowhere dating. I knew Christ and was growing every day in the Word, but I was still trying to fill my broken spirit with something else. So I fed it ice cream. A lot of ice cream.
By that time I'd spent a couple of years getting my body into the shape I'd been after forever, depriving myself of pretty much anything remotely fattening. No salad dressing. No soda. No chocolate. Just whole grains, fruits and vegetables and anything made of soy. Coupled with near-daily exercise my methods were paying off, but I knew I could kiss it all goodbye if my ice cream indulgence became a nightly venture. So I bought sugar-free frozen yogurt, which I figured tastes close enough to the real thing to satisfy my growing sweet tooth without making me feel guilty for eating a whole dish of it. I resisted doing even that, but every time I had a bad day or felt a tinge of rejection, the stress sent me straight to the freezer. And let me tell you, when you're a newspaper reporter that happens pretty often.
One night, after a particularly difficult day, I didn't want to stop at one dish. I went back for the carton and ate it as fast as I could, foregoing the dish and eating straight from the carton. It was strawberry, but after a while I couldn't really taste it. My mouth was numb. In fact, the next day thin layers of tissue from the roof of my mouth peeled off. As I scarfed, the thought hit me that I couldn't keep the body I'd worked so hard to acquire if I continued on this path. That thought sent a wave of terror through me and without a second thought I ran to the bathroom. For the first time ever, I knelt in front of the toilet, stuck two fingers down my throat and heaved it all up. It all happened so fast I could feel the coldness lurch up my gullet.
Wow, I thought. That was horrible. I'll never allow myself to go there again. But I did, and more often than I care to admit. Not every day. It was more like once a week, if that. But it always followed an emotionally-draining event or relationship set back. To this day I don't believe I was bulimic; I didn't have a disease. I'm not suggesting that no one who binges and purges has a bona fide disease, mind you. Experts in eating disorders estimate that one in 35 people have bulimia. But for me it was a control issue. Of all of the frustrating aspects of my life, my weight was the one thing I felt I had control over and I'd discovered a covert way to keep that control while indulging in what I'd built up in my mind as an evil thing - food. I thought I'd found a way to sin without consequence.
Let me be clear: Eating isn't a sin; it's absolutely essential. When it becomes sin is the point you seek to satisfy yourself with it rather than God. From the outset of my fear, worry, discontent and insecurity, I should have been running to the only one who loves me perfectly. Instead, I ran to the fridge.
The trouble is that sin is never without consequence, not even for those who know the Lord. God gave us a tragic example in David, a man after His own heart. After making a host of transgressions that included impregnating another man's wife and having him killed, David lost a baby and his daughter was raped by his son, who would then be killed by another of his sons. With hundreds of wives and concubines also to consider, it's plain to see that David had a major problem with lust, and he tended to allow his desires to play out. David was dearly loved by God, but while the Father forgave David when he confessed, He did not prevent the natural consequences of sin. He doesn't do that in our lives either.
I kept thinking about how disgusting my purging was, about how the acid would ruin my teeth and about all the stories of people who had done irreparable damage to their hearts over years of binging and purging. Meanwhile, my throat burned and stomach muscles ached. But once I was alone with that carton in my hands, I would eat until I saw its paper bottom. There was a compulsion to finish it, but maybe the real compulsion was to punish myself. I would try to gauge whether I'd thrown up enough to keep me from gaining weight. In the end I would cry, retreat to bed with a sense of overwhelming shame and pray that all this would stop.
Thankfully it did, and the Lord got my attention before I had to experience the kind of physical destruction this sort of behavior can cause. I wish I could say that being in a healthy relationship gave me the fulfillment I craved and that I stopped throwing up after I got married. It happened less than a handful of times after my wedding, but it did continue. The last time I threw up was a few weeks after the birth of my firstborn. (By the way, another reason I don't believe I was bulimic is that I made the choice not to purge during my pregnancy. I figured that I owed my baby a healthy life, even if in my clouded mind I didn't think I deserved one.) I remember looking at my daughter afterward and realizing that she was watching me, even in her infancy, and I didn't want her to grow up with that kind of role model. I didn't want her to have a mother so wrapped up in herself and what others thought of her that she was willing to put her health at risk. I wanted her to see Jesus when she looked at me.
Her eyes remind me that God is watching me, too. While the world might see someone who has it all together, God knows better and loves me anyway. He knows I need Him long before I realize it.
I'm living a life far better than I could have imagined for myself, but it definitely remains a challenge. And to be honest, it all falls so short of perfection that it would be easy for me to go back to seeking control over my weight again. But God put that little girl in my life and she's still watching me, and her eyes continually remind me that I don't want to pass along to her the fear and insecurity I've lived with all these years. I want her to feel the complete love and acceptance of Christ from the beginning without having to first unload the baggage that comes from a belief that her imperfections will lead to rejection. She'll have her own battles within and she'll have to find a way to fight them. My hope is that she looks to the Lord to fill her up.
It's been more than two years since I purged, but I still struggle with control in so many ways. Stress hits me and I try to grab control in any way I can, and often impatience and sharp words are my weapons of choice. It's bad enough that my purging damaged my body; now my go-to reaction damages relationships. I think the latter is worse. It's hardly the gentle and quiet spirit God said He esteems.
The behaviors we struggle to change - my purging and bad attitudes, someone else's addictions or distrust - all have roots in our core beliefs about God. Do I try so hard to please other people because I believe God will reject me just like they have? Do I seek to control the details of my life because deep down in those places I keep hidden from everyone I don't believe God is in control of it? And while destructive behaviors might change with the seasons of life, these core issues remain to taint other areas. Either we deal with them or we spend the rest of our lives in spiritual shackles, after Jesus gave His life so that we would be free.
So now I'm left with desperate prayers for refinement, for God to draw me closer to Him to change the attitudes that poison my heart and mind. I keep asking for healing, but sometimes I wonder if this is the thorn in my flesh that will keep me running to God like Paul's did. Maybe it's so I'll share it with you and God will use it to make a difference in your life. Either way, I'm as thankful as the apostle was that His strength is made perfect in my weakness.
As destructive as self-loathing is, it did propel me through the Weight Watchers program, and I lost about 30 pounds in a little more than six months. I learned how to maintain a healthy diet, although I didn't fully comprehend the absolute necessity of exercise until years later. I was making friends, finally. Boys noticed me. Life was good. But inside lurked an undeniable fear that if I regained weight I would experience the same rejection I felt when that classmate chided me from afar all those years ago. I never fully accepted what I saw in the mirror; my reflection would always be an awkward-looking little fat girl. And when life circumstances got tough, the terror pushed me into self-destruction mode.
I'm not blaming that little girl who called me names for my negative body image. Believe me, others shared similar thoughts over the years as well. One boyfriend told me, "If you'd just lose 15 pounds, you'd be unstoppable." In the end, he was right. I lost 20 pounds, walked out of his life and never looked back. Unkind evaluations from others aside, what we tell ourselves in our solitude is far worse than what they say to our faces.
Several years ago I was experiencing some relationship struggles, which had become pretty frustrating after years of nowhere dating. I knew Christ and was growing every day in the Word, but I was still trying to fill my broken spirit with something else. So I fed it ice cream. A lot of ice cream.
By that time I'd spent a couple of years getting my body into the shape I'd been after forever, depriving myself of pretty much anything remotely fattening. No salad dressing. No soda. No chocolate. Just whole grains, fruits and vegetables and anything made of soy. Coupled with near-daily exercise my methods were paying off, but I knew I could kiss it all goodbye if my ice cream indulgence became a nightly venture. So I bought sugar-free frozen yogurt, which I figured tastes close enough to the real thing to satisfy my growing sweet tooth without making me feel guilty for eating a whole dish of it. I resisted doing even that, but every time I had a bad day or felt a tinge of rejection, the stress sent me straight to the freezer. And let me tell you, when you're a newspaper reporter that happens pretty often.
One night, after a particularly difficult day, I didn't want to stop at one dish. I went back for the carton and ate it as fast as I could, foregoing the dish and eating straight from the carton. It was strawberry, but after a while I couldn't really taste it. My mouth was numb. In fact, the next day thin layers of tissue from the roof of my mouth peeled off. As I scarfed, the thought hit me that I couldn't keep the body I'd worked so hard to acquire if I continued on this path. That thought sent a wave of terror through me and without a second thought I ran to the bathroom. For the first time ever, I knelt in front of the toilet, stuck two fingers down my throat and heaved it all up. It all happened so fast I could feel the coldness lurch up my gullet.
Wow, I thought. That was horrible. I'll never allow myself to go there again. But I did, and more often than I care to admit. Not every day. It was more like once a week, if that. But it always followed an emotionally-draining event or relationship set back. To this day I don't believe I was bulimic; I didn't have a disease. I'm not suggesting that no one who binges and purges has a bona fide disease, mind you. Experts in eating disorders estimate that one in 35 people have bulimia. But for me it was a control issue. Of all of the frustrating aspects of my life, my weight was the one thing I felt I had control over and I'd discovered a covert way to keep that control while indulging in what I'd built up in my mind as an evil thing - food. I thought I'd found a way to sin without consequence.
Let me be clear: Eating isn't a sin; it's absolutely essential. When it becomes sin is the point you seek to satisfy yourself with it rather than God. From the outset of my fear, worry, discontent and insecurity, I should have been running to the only one who loves me perfectly. Instead, I ran to the fridge.
The trouble is that sin is never without consequence, not even for those who know the Lord. God gave us a tragic example in David, a man after His own heart. After making a host of transgressions that included impregnating another man's wife and having him killed, David lost a baby and his daughter was raped by his son, who would then be killed by another of his sons. With hundreds of wives and concubines also to consider, it's plain to see that David had a major problem with lust, and he tended to allow his desires to play out. David was dearly loved by God, but while the Father forgave David when he confessed, He did not prevent the natural consequences of sin. He doesn't do that in our lives either.
I kept thinking about how disgusting my purging was, about how the acid would ruin my teeth and about all the stories of people who had done irreparable damage to their hearts over years of binging and purging. Meanwhile, my throat burned and stomach muscles ached. But once I was alone with that carton in my hands, I would eat until I saw its paper bottom. There was a compulsion to finish it, but maybe the real compulsion was to punish myself. I would try to gauge whether I'd thrown up enough to keep me from gaining weight. In the end I would cry, retreat to bed with a sense of overwhelming shame and pray that all this would stop.
Thankfully it did, and the Lord got my attention before I had to experience the kind of physical destruction this sort of behavior can cause. I wish I could say that being in a healthy relationship gave me the fulfillment I craved and that I stopped throwing up after I got married. It happened less than a handful of times after my wedding, but it did continue. The last time I threw up was a few weeks after the birth of my firstborn. (By the way, another reason I don't believe I was bulimic is that I made the choice not to purge during my pregnancy. I figured that I owed my baby a healthy life, even if in my clouded mind I didn't think I deserved one.) I remember looking at my daughter afterward and realizing that she was watching me, even in her infancy, and I didn't want her to grow up with that kind of role model. I didn't want her to have a mother so wrapped up in herself and what others thought of her that she was willing to put her health at risk. I wanted her to see Jesus when she looked at me.
Her eyes remind me that God is watching me, too. While the world might see someone who has it all together, God knows better and loves me anyway. He knows I need Him long before I realize it.
I'm living a life far better than I could have imagined for myself, but it definitely remains a challenge. And to be honest, it all falls so short of perfection that it would be easy for me to go back to seeking control over my weight again. But God put that little girl in my life and she's still watching me, and her eyes continually remind me that I don't want to pass along to her the fear and insecurity I've lived with all these years. I want her to feel the complete love and acceptance of Christ from the beginning without having to first unload the baggage that comes from a belief that her imperfections will lead to rejection. She'll have her own battles within and she'll have to find a way to fight them. My hope is that she looks to the Lord to fill her up.
It's been more than two years since I purged, but I still struggle with control in so many ways. Stress hits me and I try to grab control in any way I can, and often impatience and sharp words are my weapons of choice. It's bad enough that my purging damaged my body; now my go-to reaction damages relationships. I think the latter is worse. It's hardly the gentle and quiet spirit God said He esteems.
The behaviors we struggle to change - my purging and bad attitudes, someone else's addictions or distrust - all have roots in our core beliefs about God. Do I try so hard to please other people because I believe God will reject me just like they have? Do I seek to control the details of my life because deep down in those places I keep hidden from everyone I don't believe God is in control of it? And while destructive behaviors might change with the seasons of life, these core issues remain to taint other areas. Either we deal with them or we spend the rest of our lives in spiritual shackles, after Jesus gave His life so that we would be free.
So now I'm left with desperate prayers for refinement, for God to draw me closer to Him to change the attitudes that poison my heart and mind. I keep asking for healing, but sometimes I wonder if this is the thorn in my flesh that will keep me running to God like Paul's did. Maybe it's so I'll share it with you and God will use it to make a difference in your life. Either way, I'm as thankful as the apostle was that His strength is made perfect in my weakness.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Be Nice
I adore children. I really do. But when other kids pick on yours, it takes all restraint to keep from pushing them down yourself. Katie had a rough day at the playroom at church yesterday. There was only one other family while we were there. Like me, they had a baby in a car seat and a boy who looked to be about 3. The family spoke English from time to time but seemed to speak another language almost exclusively to the boy. It sounded like a Russian accent, but I'm no linguist.
Katie only wants to find a baby doll and push it around in a toy stroller by herself, but the playroom is usually so busy with other kids she has to wait to play with one (There are only two there.). When I say "wait," I mean that she finds whoever has a doll and stalks him or her until the doll is put down, at which time Katie swoops in and claims the doll. Well, yesterday there was no competition, so she proudly scooped up a doll in each arm and brought them to me, saying, "I got TWO babies, Mommy!" She found a plastic shopping cart and secured her two plastic babies in the child seat up front and began a stroll around the playroom, happy to have hit the toy jackpot.
That's when the boy comes in, as little boys do. He quickly gained an interest in one of the dolls, snatching it out of the cart and parading it around in plain view in front of a very put out Katie.
"That's mines!" she protested.
"Katie," I answered. "We need to share. Let him have one of the dolls."
The boy's mother calmly said something to him in their language, and he left with the doll tucked under his arm. He soon returned to antagonize Katie - a trend that would go on for the rest of our time in the playroom. The boy followed her everywhere, grabbing toys she showed interest in and telling her she couldn't have them. At one point inside the play house, Katie pointed to the door and like a fuming house wife said, "Get out!"
I couldn't help but laugh. But their next exchange really bothered me.
The church has a big play area called Noah's Ark with tunnels to climb through and a tall tube slide. Katie loves it, but she's never gathered the courage to come down the slide on her own. She's working on it, though. She scales the cargo net to the top level - this time, with a baby doll in tow - and perches herself at the top of the slide while other kids squeeze by her to come down. I station myself at the bottom of the slide and try to coax her down. This time, the little boy decided he was taking Katie with him. He gave her a push - a hard push. She screamed the whole way down, with the baby's plastic head banging the tube along the way. By the time she reached the blue mat at the bottom of the slide, she was already red faced and angry.
"Are you OK?" I asked, picking her up and trying to calm her.
But it was clear Katie didn't want my pity, wriggling out of my arms. She was mad and held nothing back at the boy, who was getting a verbal thrashing in his native tongue from his mother across the room. Getting to her feet, Katie shouted at him, "I go down the slide!" as she marched back into Noah's ark with her baby still clutched in her hot little hand.
I thought this was a good time to make our exit. We cleaned up the toys and made our way out of the playroom, with me pushing Adam in the stroller and Katie following on foot through the parking lot. As usual, I told Katie as we left the building that we were about to walk through a parking lot and if she was going to walk instead of ride in the double stroller, she would have to stay next to me.
"Yes, Mommy," she said, finally calm.
But, as is typical, halfway to our car I looked back and Katie had stopped, flashing me a mischievous look that says, "I'm not right next to you. What are you going to do about it?"
"Katie, let's go," I said to no avail.
I got nothing in return but that look. She wouldn't budge, so I locked the wheels on the stroller and picked her up to move her across the parking lot.
"Be nice!" she shouted. "Be nice to Katie!"
I couldn't help but laugh. I guess she'd had enough of being pushed around by someone bigger than her. A nap was definitely in order - for both of us.
Katie only wants to find a baby doll and push it around in a toy stroller by herself, but the playroom is usually so busy with other kids she has to wait to play with one (There are only two there.). When I say "wait," I mean that she finds whoever has a doll and stalks him or her until the doll is put down, at which time Katie swoops in and claims the doll. Well, yesterday there was no competition, so she proudly scooped up a doll in each arm and brought them to me, saying, "I got TWO babies, Mommy!" She found a plastic shopping cart and secured her two plastic babies in the child seat up front and began a stroll around the playroom, happy to have hit the toy jackpot.
That's when the boy comes in, as little boys do. He quickly gained an interest in one of the dolls, snatching it out of the cart and parading it around in plain view in front of a very put out Katie.
"That's mines!" she protested.
"Katie," I answered. "We need to share. Let him have one of the dolls."
The boy's mother calmly said something to him in their language, and he left with the doll tucked under his arm. He soon returned to antagonize Katie - a trend that would go on for the rest of our time in the playroom. The boy followed her everywhere, grabbing toys she showed interest in and telling her she couldn't have them. At one point inside the play house, Katie pointed to the door and like a fuming house wife said, "Get out!"
I couldn't help but laugh. But their next exchange really bothered me.
The church has a big play area called Noah's Ark with tunnels to climb through and a tall tube slide. Katie loves it, but she's never gathered the courage to come down the slide on her own. She's working on it, though. She scales the cargo net to the top level - this time, with a baby doll in tow - and perches herself at the top of the slide while other kids squeeze by her to come down. I station myself at the bottom of the slide and try to coax her down. This time, the little boy decided he was taking Katie with him. He gave her a push - a hard push. She screamed the whole way down, with the baby's plastic head banging the tube along the way. By the time she reached the blue mat at the bottom of the slide, she was already red faced and angry.
"Are you OK?" I asked, picking her up and trying to calm her.
But it was clear Katie didn't want my pity, wriggling out of my arms. She was mad and held nothing back at the boy, who was getting a verbal thrashing in his native tongue from his mother across the room. Getting to her feet, Katie shouted at him, "I go down the slide!" as she marched back into Noah's ark with her baby still clutched in her hot little hand.
I thought this was a good time to make our exit. We cleaned up the toys and made our way out of the playroom, with me pushing Adam in the stroller and Katie following on foot through the parking lot. As usual, I told Katie as we left the building that we were about to walk through a parking lot and if she was going to walk instead of ride in the double stroller, she would have to stay next to me.
"Yes, Mommy," she said, finally calm.
But, as is typical, halfway to our car I looked back and Katie had stopped, flashing me a mischievous look that says, "I'm not right next to you. What are you going to do about it?"
"Katie, let's go," I said to no avail.
I got nothing in return but that look. She wouldn't budge, so I locked the wheels on the stroller and picked her up to move her across the parking lot.
"Be nice!" she shouted. "Be nice to Katie!"
I couldn't help but laugh. I guess she'd had enough of being pushed around by someone bigger than her. A nap was definitely in order - for both of us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)