Chicken, Donuts, Chocolate and Tears.

 

I snapped a picture of a part of my floorboard on the passenger side of my Beetle today. I had pulled into the physical therapy parking lot (bum shoulder), the weight of recent transgressions heavy on my heart. I'd include the photo here, but no need to bring three national brands into the discussion. Suffice it to say the bag furthest from me was a fried chicken joint, the next-closest bag a donut chain, and the wrapper in the foreground represented a chocolate and peanut butter candy I can't live without for very long. You could put me on an 800-calorie diet and I'd work it in. 

I snapped the picture because it WAS such a picture...a snapshot of my lifelong struggle with food addiction. I've never been more than 40 pounds overweight. Even then, most doctors would argue I was really only 25 or so out of the "healthy" range they assign to someone nearly 5'8". But I digress.  I've lost the same 30-40 pounds at least four times over the last twenty-two years. 

The last time I struggled down from 166 or 167 to 135 (a couple of years ago) I promised myself I'd never do it again. As in, EVER. It was a blooming nightmare. I fought hard for months, foregoing everything with taste and hating life itself until the fat crept away, until that sunshiny day my goal weight finally appeared on the digital scale. 

I snapped the picture of the debris on my floorboard because it was also a snapshot of the last two days of zero discipline. I've regained ten pounds. I am a little out of control, actually. I do what I do because it works for me IN THE MOMENT. I drown my anxiety, my need, my emotions in a sea of sugar and cheese. It only works in the moment. Like the alcoholic who wakes with a headache, I wake to the horror of those blasted bathroom scales. To the favorite dress that does not fit. To a self-loathing that is wholly disproportionate to my culinary crimes (binges). 

Why do I offer this cheesy confessional? I guess to line up my thoughts like little marching soldiers. To array them neatly. To start again. To remember that His mercies are new EVERY day! (Even if the scales' mercies are not.) I am reminded again and again in scripture that Jesus will be all I need if I make room for Him to be. I know what it feels like to let Jesus fill me. I really do. Any time I have been out of touch with that feeling, it was I who moved, not my Saviour! I can take every need to Him in prayer. He will provide. He will offer the fulfillment that nothing in this world can give. He will be my all in all for all time. Praise GOD! It's not my willpower, my discipline, my goodness, my holiness but HIS that saves the day!

I frequently add this disclaimer to my blog: if you have seen me not acting like Jesus: spoiler alert - I'm NOT Jesus. That doesn't mean He is not at work in my life. If I ever do attain a level of spiritual maturity, it will be His work in my life and all credit will go to Him always. None of this is about me, anyway. I am learning more daily exactly what that means.

Bloom

 

Today is the only July 13, 2021 I will ever see. The ONLY one. So many days have slipped through my fingers unloved, unvalued. Some of these I had designated as "full rest" days. Nearly every time I have done that, I ended up feeling unfulfilled, bereft. That's because we were built on purpose, for a purpose. Just like the beautiful flowers in the picture I've posted here, which are languishing on my back porch, we are made to bloom. To grow, to endure, to flower. 

Sometimes our blooming happens unintentionally. We stumble upon a job or a friendship that leads us in all of the right directions. The path is smooth, laden with fragrant flowers, and the sunlight of fellowship guides us on. Other times we are formed, in all of our subtlety of expression and shades of emotion, in the dark, just the lantern of God's hope swinging by our side as we pray, take a step, repeat. 

Other times our lives are like a sinking, swaying ship. Through no fault of our own, or perhaps fully through our own missteps, we find ourselves in the center of chaos. The winds beat mercilessly, the rain pounds and sea creatures rise from the depths of the black abyss to taunt us day and night.  Eager for this "adventure" to end, we search for the key to the door out. 

But the best life, the life well-lived, is a very, very contemplative one. No matter how many storms, how many peace-laden paths, how many dark passages, this life is lived on purpose. I know, from personal experience (and from finally reaching the age that means earlier bedtimes and less energy for sheer folly) that the only way to follow Jesus is to know Him deeply. The only way to know Him deeply is to spend time with Him. Walking, talking and listening. Reading his Word, the Bible. Journaling what He's doing. What He's saying. Making Him the passion and center of my existence. Making Him the reason for everything.

In the end, He is the gift that cannot, will not be taken. He is the sunrise that never darkens. He is the hope that never fails. He is the supply that is never cut off. He is the warmth that never cools, the ardor that never abates, the love that goes on in the face of my failures. My repeated, repeating failures. He is the One my soul craves and He, He alone will make up my lack, heal my gaping wounds, wrap the ice of terror in peace. He is the one. His life is my life and my life depends on Him. From start to finish I am His and He is mine.