God Became Flesh

Three years ago I was in a residential treatment center for women with eating disorders. I had been there 16 days and was just starting to believe that I truly had a mental illness and admitting that my thinking and perception were skewed when it came to matters of weight and body image.


I guess part of me thought once I “owned it” then I would be cured and that episode would be finished, and I would move on to other things.

Not.

Over the last three years, I’ve come to understand that I didn’t “get” anorexia and it won’t ever be “finished.” Thankfully, these days the illness does not interfere with the fullness of my life and actually with all of the “work” my life is possibly saner than your average person. Or would that be less crazy? (In re-reading this paragraph, all of the quotation marks around words are enough to probably have me committed.)

Is there a word for someone who is beyond sane? Or do you just simply circle back around and become crazy again. Or maybe that’s what being radical is. . . beyond sane. I suppose that actually is one of those unanswerable questions like the whole tree falling in the forest and who made God. . . if you actually know you’re crazy, are you?

But I digress.

Even now, though, on rare occasion, the eating disorder whispers to me, in a voice that so annoyingly sounds like my ex. It tries to convince me that I’m taking up too much space, that my presence is more than it should be, that my sanity is really just an excuse for thinking a little too highly of myself.

Luckily, I now know that the voice is disordered and even though I hear it I can choose to ignore it. Most of the time, my diligence in walking, sleeping, eating, talking and taking Prozac make that it an easy and obvious choice. Most of the time. . .

Unfortunately, the last two Sundays I’ve found myself choosing to listen to it. Last week, I couldn’t bring myself to attend my church’s small group Christmas Party. I convinced myself that the food would be too much, that I would cause the house to be too crowded. This Sunday I missed the actual class but sanity won out in time to get to worship.

I’m so glad it did.

I came through the front doors so I wouldn’t encounter the crowds that congregate in the hallways between Sunday School and Church. As I entered, a friend greeted me silently with a warm hug. Then a friend I met this summer in a Wednesday evening program, called my name. She had read a couple of my blog entries and thanked me for sharing them with the church. She said she was moved to tears.

As other folks started taking their places, a woman from my Sunday School class touched my arm, told me that she had missed me that morning, wished me a Merry Christmas.

A man from my class passed by after that, it was actually his and his partner’s Christmas party that I had skipped the week before. He quipped with a grin, “Where the hell were you?” When I doubted the importance of my being there, again, he said, “No. Seriously. Everybody was saying ‘Where the hell is she?’”

As the Prelude began, the music minister walked by, placed her hand on my back and whispered in my ear. “Thank you for sharing your blog post. You are a gifted writer.” Turns out her whisper spoke louder than Eds.

Even as I left the church, the pastor reached past my outstretched hand in order to hug me and say “What a writer!”

I’m thankful that God became flesh for me this morning in the form of Walter and Ginger and Jerry and Kathy B. and Kathy C. and Joe. When the rest of my sanity tools don’t seem to be doing the trick, love is always enough to put me back on the road.

Of course, it has to be the real stuff, love that is real enough to say “Hey, where the hell were you? “

Songs about Christmas

My mom always says that it isn’t Christmas until she sees a 3-foot tall shepherd with a towel on his head and light-up tennis shoes on his feet. Since the Christmas Spirit so far has been elusive to me, I thought I’d see if she knew what she was talking about and go to the Children’s Christmas Worship service at Highland Church. I left the service realizing that, as usual, my mother was right.


Through a make-believe radio station, WJOY, where “the best songs are songs about Christmas,” the children of Highland told the sweet story of the birth of Jesus.

The handbells rang clearly and the children sang sweetly. It was just as it should be.

Mary and Joseph sang of their difficult experiences.

A whole flock of shepherds, complete with staffs and stuffed lambs, marched (unrehearsed, I would imagine) their way to the stable. I’m not sure the original shepherds actually marched, but when you’re in kindergarten and you’re going to see the Baby Jesus, marching seems very appropriate, plus it makes a really cool sound on the chancel.

The cattle moo-ed and the sheep baa-ed and the pastor, I mean the donkey, complained that he didn’t get the recognition he deserved. After all, he preached every Sunday, I mean he had carried Mary on his back.

All of it reminded me that just regular people (and animals) came together on that first Christmas, and just regular people have been retelling the same story for hundreds and hundreds of years, and the bizarre part is that it never gets old. I mean you never get tired of hearing it. At least I don’t.

At the beginning of the service, our Music Minister stated a disclaimer that reminded us that our worship leaders on this evening were children, and children are interested in the process not the product. In other words, there might be a missed note or a forgotten word or a shepherd with a costume malfunction.

Sounded good to me. . . imperfection would make the story even more believable. Actually, I think the whole idea of process might be what God had in mind when he sent Jesus in the first place. I doubt if Mary or Joseph, or even the shepherds, were actually ready for Jesus’ birth but when the call came they each did what was asked of them.

So this Christmas, my prayer is that I would be willing to do the same. God does not ask me to get ready to serve, he simply asks me to serve. I’m thankful to celebrate the birth of a Christ who cares very little for the product but pours out blessings on the process of our lives.

So that’s my lesson for the season, a lesson that only some three foot tall, marching shepherds could teach.

I’m looking forward to the rest of the season, continuing with the process of walking in God’s love, making sure I tune into WJOY, where the best songs are songs about Christmas.

Lonesome

I've always been slightly annoyed with people who complain of being lonely. It always sounded sort of needy and lame. After all, God is always with us and if we're cool being inside our own skin, we should be content, right?

 I think for most of my adult life I've tried to convince myself that I'm not a touchy, feely person, that I'm fine inside my own head, in some sort of effort to protect myself from the possibility of hurt or rejection.

But, for some reason, I've found myself feeling a bit lonesome the last couple of weeks. I'm sure it has something to do with the holidays, which is another word for hell for anyone who is old enough to have been hurt even a little.  The shorter days don't help either. I've heard the whisper of ED in my ear a few times as well, but I'm not convinced he brought the loneliness with him.

I'm starting to think the feeling might just be coming from the healthy part of me. In fact, maybe it's the honest part of me actually feeling. I am thirty plus pounds heavier than I was 3 years ago and I'm also about 3 X vulnerable, which actually translates into "living life about 3 X more." Of course, I wish that recovery brought only the good parts of life but that just isn't how it works.

So, I'll just sit with the feeling for awhile, knowing that I'll be fine. I'll snuggle in with Grace, choosing not to define myself as someone lame or needy, but a human being who needs something loyal and gentle to hang on to every now and then.