It was me

I still remember being snuggled into Heyma’s orange 70’s chair, one of two that currently grace the foyer in my home. We had just finished gargantuan bowls of grot flavored with cinnamon sugar, butter, and cream…all the low calorie stuff. I always loved getting away to her house. To me it was a castle with too many mysteries to discover and I spent most of my time exploring. That day we were reclining in her den, talking about how the crystals dangling from her windows reflected intriguing rainbows all over the walls and ceiling and how the gluttonous birds consumed a whole bag of bird seed that week.

Life was simple there. I still escape to that place often in my mind, recalling every stairway (there were five) and bedroom and mirror on the wall. It has been etched in my brain as a place of rest and solace. It was where I could be completely me and utterly accepted and loved for every flaw and asset. I was encouraged to experiment and experience life and nature and history.

I guess, really, it wasn’t the place, but the person. Heyma had a way of being joyful in every situation. Obnoxious to some, but it bubbled out freely and oozed onto anyone that was nearby, whether they liked it or not. I guess that is why my grandpa, Umpa, married her. He was a rather solemn and somewhat sad (misunderstood) man. Of course Heyma was perfect for him. She hummed or sung as she dug thistle in the yard, while she scrubbed the toilet, or while she prepared a meal for four grown men and four grandchildren for lunch. Her joy was unbreakable.

Now that I am an adult, I know my time there wasn’t always probably that carefree and perfect. I know I wasn’t the most pleasant child to have around, especially if I didn’t get my way, but I don’t really care. That’s where I found myself and was accepted. Heyma helped build me.

On this particular day, Good Friday, after having our bellies full of grot for breakfast, Heyma started to talk about her mother. Her face became very serious, “My mother used to weep all day on Good Friday and cried, ‘Do you know what they did to my Savior?'”

Her characteristic grin was muddled by a small tear and silence. I didn’t know what to say. My little elementary-aged-mind couldn’t quite comprehend why someone would be so sad on a day called Good Friday. I wanted to say,”It’s okay, Heyma. It happened a long time ago. You don’t need to cry. It was good Jesus died.”

That was all true. It was good Jesus died…

I am ashamed that I missed that moment. Maybe I wasn’t ready or mature enough to share in that sacred minute with Heyma. I get it now, though. If Heyma wasn’t 97 and didn’t suffer so sourly from Alzheimer’s, I would tell her, “I get it. I finally get it.”

Yes, Good Friday is good because Jesus died for the sins of the world, but Lord forgive me that I forget that group of sinners definitely includes me.

It wasn’t “what THEY did to my Savior,” but what I DID. It was me and it was my sin that put Him there. My sin is what brought Him to the cross and compelled Him to suffer alone for me. Me.

How can I not be sober on this day? Yes, I can rejoice for his sacrifice, but why did anyone have to sacrifice for me? I deserve hell. I deserve punishment. It isn’t right to kill Jesus (or anyone) for my shame.

Lord, I wish I could just, for a moment, comprehend how horrific your sacrifice truly was. It is not fair and I am ashamed that I so willingly brush it off and spiritualize everything just because I have heard it one million times. How often do I need to hear Your story before it all sinks in? To realize it isn’t just a story. It was Your life. It was Your sacrifice. For me. For my sins. It was the price You were willing to pay to spend all eternity with me, because of Your obsessive love for me. What needs to break for me to comprehend this? Lord, help me to see clearer today.

Tosten

Your name was written on my heart
the day dad and I spoke of bearing kids.
We imagined a rusty-blonde-haired boy
with amber eyes, like dad,
whose name would be Tosten Lee.

I was unashamed to announce
to our impatient family of your name,
though there was no proof in my womb.
You were a dream.
An idea and hope we longed for,
but with no possibility in sight.

Once life caught us in a whirlwind
of house searching,
career finding,
and new car desires,
a little thing happened.
You.

You were not just a thing in my womb,
but a miracle that God shaped
without help of the world’s technologies
and a single ounce of human planning.
You were our miracle
and God’s fulfillment of a dream.

At that point, who cared about a house!
Who cared about our new life in Fergus
and a blue Prius parked in our garage.
We.
Had.
You.

Ratatouille

Learning under a variety of psychologists, psychiatrists, and just psychology enthusiasts, I have participated in my fair share of “tests” that reveal something about yourself. One that I think of often is the movie test (not sure the technical name, if it really has one) from my Personalities course. I don’t remember the professor’s name, but I do remember his skinny frame, wired glasses, his greasy gray hair, and the uncomfortable, preposterous things he would say that would make me blush.

This day he asked a very simple, G-rated question: what movie can you watch repeatedly and never tire of?

My answer was immediate. Home Alone and Home Alone 2. Now that I look back, this is still the clear answer but maybe Ratatouille added to it. These three movies have a few things in common…there is an individual that doesn’t quite fit in, he tries to rise above the expextations of others around him, he SUCCEEDS and surprises all who know him and most importantly, himself.

After fighting morbid obesity for most of my 19 years of life, I lost 80 pounds. I started out slow. I remember my first stationary bike ride at the gym. There was heavy breathing and my large stomach bounced against my legs with each cycle…the mirror view was not pleasant. I continued to bike all spring and even started jogging as I became thinner and more confident.

That summer I returned to my high school track and ran a mile. I ran it with ease and satisfaction and that for the first time, I could RUN it. Not only did I run the track four times around to make a mile, but I continued until I just got bored with running loops. I ROSE above my expectations and I enjoyed imagining Mr. Harrington’s smile of approval, along with the dropped jaws from classmates that had plenty to say to me when I was big.

The sad truth is I have lived most of my life defeated. I would shrink back from any test of my ability in fear of failure. I have allowed the lies and comments that held me bound as a child to fester and blow up into a very adult, sometimes paralyzing problem. This can explain why I gained all those 80 pounds back and then some. Lost almost 100 pounds and then gained half of it back again.

In a society that screams skinny, it is hard for a woman that has battled all her life with obesity to somehow get away from it. While I have realized I have broken barriers and have healed (by Christ alone), there are still lies that trickle in. I still doubt. I still regress to that elementary school girl with the “wide load” sign on her back for all to see…but it’s better.

Sometimes when bikinis cover a lake shore, I find myself dreaming of liposuction and plastic surgery to “heal” the decades of war. I may wallow there for a moment, but when I look into the eyes of Tosten and evaluate what life is truly about, it just seems so trivial. It seems vain and meaningless and my heart cries a little.

How our society is so distracted, and I am sad to realize that I too become distracted with them.

Alas, my body and size are irrelevant in the grand scheme of Christ’s plan for me. Perhaps he will use this battle of weight and self-image as a tool to help and reach other women, but right now, I am still trying to figure it all out myself.

2013 was my year to get to my goal weight. For some reason, at times, that would seem to solve all my life problems. Stupid ideology…yeah, it is. Maybe it would just be the satisfaction and freedom from that same demon that has latched on for so long. The fact is I have never seen 150 pounds (only when climbing the scale) and I was determined to see it this year. I was counting my calories, exercising happily, and actually feeling great and successful. I was planning to run some 5ks and 10ks and even a half marathon in the fall. Funny how God surprises me and brings me this little life within. Of course, I wouldn’t trade her for any amount of weight loss, but instead I decided to try something I very doubt I can do…keep my pregnancy weight in check. Preferably below my 46 pounds that I had with Tosten.

Time to rise above again. Time to face a fear of inevitable weight gain with joy and expectation that it will not stick to my body forever. Time to dare to see that really nothing is impossible with Christ and to test it, rely on it, and believe that he has his best for me. Time to rise above the lies that try to tie me back and break through every stumbling block with my striding legs.

Currently, I am watching Ratatouille. It makes me smile to see this little mouse rise above. It makes me smile that he surprises himself the most and finds pure satisfaction of impressing himself and no one else.

That’s all I want. Satisfaction. And maybe that satisfaction will not come from being 150 pounds. Maybe Christ has something bigger and grander than what I can foresee…and if it is from Christ, it can only be better than my mediocre hopes.

My Heart is Wicked

The longer I spend in the quiet, the more I think. I don’t sleep well. My mind wanders from place to place, person to person, even from sin to sin I have committed. I see the wickedness within myself and I hate it.

In times of great celebration, sometimes I can be the sore pessimist. I over analyze and judge and perhaps the worst of it all, I can and will attack with my words.

Maybe it is pregnancy hormones. Maybe it is slowing down enough in life that I actually have time to breathe…and think. Maybe it is just my sinful heart and the fact that I am still as lost and dirty and desperate for Jesus as the day I met Him.

Thank you, Jesus, for not giving up. When the world may be irritated, disappointed, maybe even disgusted with me, you still see the true me. In my filth and slop of my sin, your grace is fresh every morning…really, every moment.

Lord, change my heart. Change my mind. Change my whole being. I want to become like you.

I Saw Her Today

I saw her today. I hadn’t seen her for probably five years. Growing up she used to escape from the obsessive thoughts of food and the blaring, mind-numbing televisions every night to see something real. Under the navy sky with specks of stars. The west debuting the lights and flatness or North Dakota, the east, the glow of Fergus Falls. Only random squawks by Lake Oscar and the pings of nearby hog farms. This was where she met God. And in many respects, this is where she met herself.

A whole decade removed from that landscape, my attempt to help Tyler was futile. Of course he did it all himself. I sat in the passenger side, white-knuckling the door as he pressed the pedal to the floor of his Chevy and hydroplaned out of the yard to get to work. I jumped out of the truck and shuffled down the driveway home, through the snow heaps and dark.

I heard a howl a mile away. I stopped. Looked around. For a moment I wondered if there were creatures that would come and attack me in this not-so-wilderness (two miles from Wal-Mart) country. As quickly as it entered my mind, it faded. Then I looked up.

Something from the pit of my stomach rose into my chest, like a ressurection of something long-time dead. I swallowed. Another howl echoed in the morning air. My eyes could not break the trance of the stars speaking, echoing, calling. Memories of sobbing, singing, praying, obsessing, conversing with God. Alone. He and I. In the dark blues of night.

The Big Dipper was like the face of God, as if He was beckoning, Manda, remember? Remember Me? Remember where we have been? Where we’ve come? Remember our waltz and our beat? Remember the way you held my hand and sobbed in my chest? Remember? I do. I remember you. I remember all about you and I know exactly who you are, even if you don’t.

In that moment, something dropped to the snow below. Perhaps baggage? Guilt? Exhaustion? Frustration? Something fell and something allowed my chest to breathe easier.

As I stumbled back home in the dark and cold, I realized the calendar day for spring would actually be tomorrow. With mountains of snow in our yards, our fields, our scenery, it made it hard to believe this could be true. What was the hedgehog thinking last month when he predicted an early spring? But I guess even if the outdoors still pile and blow of winter, there just may be a sprout of spring somewhere.

Rediscovering Something

This blog is in hopes of a new era in my life. I am yearning for a ressurection of some form, of being free from all the rules and plunging into what it truly means to live. I used to be that lover-of-life-hippee and somewhere between college, marriage, and motherhood, my eyes have become scaled.

I think true joy and true contentment come from the simplicity of life. In my Northwestern education of pyschology and writing, I think my picture of a beautiful and kind world became skewed, along with the things God thrusted into my life all of a sudden becoming clear, but in my weary voyage of trying to ressurect the old carefree Manda, I realize maybe that this new Manda just cannot fit in the old Manda’s shoes.

So this is a discovery of self, to an extent. Something I think humans have to do various times through their lifespan. Even if I am the only one who reads these words, I find strength and a little more of my voice through them.

Lord God, I know you have been waiting for me to do this. Show me your purpose. I rest in You.