I was twelve the first time someone made me aware of my body shape. A friend held up a magazine, and on the cover was a waif-ish model, for this was the early ’90’s, and very thin was very in. This friend of mine was also stick thin, her body shape so different from my more athletic build.
“This is what you need to try to get to,” she said. “If you were thinner, we could share clothes.”
That was all it took. The tiny seed of insecurity planted in my formative mind, and from that day forward, the image I saw in the mirror was a distorted version of my true self.
It wasn’t a fast descent into bulimia for me, but more of a slow fade. It started with the comment from my thin friend. This only got the wheels turning, and I began to limit my food portions because maybe she was right. Maybe there was an easy solution to my “problem.”
A few months after that first comment, my gymnastics coach yelled at me from across the gym after a particularly rough training day on floor. “What’s the matter with you today? You sound like a cow trying to tumble out there. Stop being so heavy on your feet!”
Looking back on it now, I don’t think she was calling me fat. The lightest of gymnasts can sound heavy when not tumbling properly. But the seed had already been planted, and so my youthful heart translated her words to mean something different than intended, and the slippery slope on which I stood grew steeper.
I traveled a battled path with eating for a decade. From the ages of 13-23, I fought this fight, knowing in my heart that my relationship with food was an unhealthy one. I sought counsel, saw doctors, asked for prayer, and tried to beat it on my own. I was ashamed of my inability to control myself around food, and I hated that when I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t seem to see what everyone else saw.
I thought it would get better when I got married. Somehow, I thought the committed love of a man would free me of all insecurities because, after all, I didn’t need to impress anyone anymore, right?
But it didn’t get better and, in fact, my shame grew, because now the harm I did to my body directly affected my husband.
Finally, in early March, 2002, I’d had enough. I was so tired of fighting the battle, and I fell to my knees after another day of failing with food.
“Take it from me, Lord! I don’t want this anymore! I just want to be done.”
He walked up to me after church and grabbed my hand.
“I would really like to sing with you,” he said. He looked at me with kind eyes, and his hand trembled slightly inside of mine. “My wife and I are moving in a couple of weeks. Can we make this happen soon?”
Of course, I immediately said yes. Mr. David has been a kind, gentle presence inside our church home since our family first began attending. Always quick with a crooked smile, and a wink of the eye, I’d been immediately drawn to his tender spirit.
Parkinson’s Disease has slowed Mr. David down in recent years. But it has not weakened his spirit, nor has it diminished his love of music.
When I readily agreed, Mr. David smiled. “Good. I’d like to sing ‘I’ve Just Seen Jesus.’ Have you heard it?”
In that moment, my heart skipped a beat, because yes, of course I’ve heard the song. I’m a child of the ’80’s, after all. I grew up on Sandi Patty, singing my heart out in the passenger seat, while my mom tried not to cringe behind the wheel.
I mean, I don’t want to brag, but I could pretty much nail ‘Via Dolorosa’ as a nine year old. I was all over it.
But my heart didn’t skip a beat with excitement at the suggestion of this song, but rather trepidation. See, I’m older now, and I’m more aware of the fact that I am not Sandi Patty. I thought of the notes that she hits at the end of that song, and I felt like I might be a little sick. Immediately, fear took hold of me as I imagined myself trying to croak out those high notes into a microphone, and watching everyone seated in front of me cringe the way my mom did behind the wheel of our Buick.
Last Sunday morning, Mr. David and I met early to practice. Again, I felt my heart flutter with nervousness, because I was so focused on the last half of the song – the part where the female vocal is supposed to climb into the rafters and hang out for awhile.
As we ran through the song, though, I found myself less focused on my own short comings (namely that my name isn’t Sandi Patty), and more on the remarkable task that Mr. David faced. Parkinson’s has robbed him of a lot of physical capabilities, and getting the words out quickly enough was a challenge. But the one thing Parkinson’s has not taken from him is his voice. For all my concern about my ability to hit the high notes, I never once doubted his ability to do it.
In the moments leading up to the song, I felt the Lord begin to whisper. It was the gentle, kind admonition that my heart needed.
This morning isn’t about you. It’s not about whether or not you can hit those notes. It’s not about presenting a perfect song to a listening audience.
This morning is about laying your gifts and talents before me in an offering of praise.
Give your voice to me.
I’ve got this.
I heard these words almost as if they’d been spoken audibly, and when it came time to stand in front, the tremor in my spirit was gone. No longer focused on my own shortcomings, I was able to instead focus on the truly remarkable gift that Mr. David shared with all of us.
He stood up there, and despite the physical challenges that threatened to derail him, he opened his mouth and he let the praise bubble out. The words were warbled at times, but it didn’t matter, because his heart was fully present.
By the end of the song, everyone was standing and there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Because when we are willing to share our gifts in an act of humble praise, no matter how imperfect they may be, people cannot help but be moved.
I learned something last Sunday. When we offer back our gifts and talents, it’s not about the end result. It’s not about presenting a finished product that is perfectly polished, because perfection doesn’t guarantee impact.
But when we’re willing to offer up our broken praise simply out of a passion for the art, and for the Maker, that is when the greatest offering of praise is presented.
I’ll forever be thankful to Mr. David for teaching me that lesson.
And for fulfilling the secret dream of my 1987 nine-year-old self, which was to be Sandi Patty for a day.
Tia walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet, pulling out a small bowl, which she filled with a little oatmeal. I watched as she got out the formula, and together we mixed just the right amount in to make the oatmeal the right consistency.
“Should I give her Pears or Sweet Potatoes?” Tia asked.
“Um…” I was so baffled by what was happening that it took a minute to register what she said. “Sweet Potatoes.”
She mixed the food together, then picked Annika up, put her in her high chair, and proceeded to feed her the entire meal.
As she did this, I cleaned the kitchen, because sometime over the course of the day it had exploded, and I wanted to see if we still had countertops under all those dishes.
After dinner, Tia changed Annika’s diaper (with a little help from me when it was discovered that her sister had had a bit of a blow out), and then put on her pajamas.
“Do you need anything else?” Tia asked.
“Only a promise from you that you will never leave me, ever,” I replied. She laughed.
She thought I was kidding.
This time last year, I was still in freak out mode. Every time I thought about having another baby, I’d have moments of intense panic, followed quickly by moments of intense excitement, which were usually followed again by panic. And round and round I went.
Here’s the deal: I was set to have all my kids out of the house by the time I was 48. I’d be under 50 and have my husband all to myself again, and we had plans, man. Most of the plans included travel, which when you think about it is quite laughable since we’ll have three kids in college at the same time for at least one year.
So realistically, we’ll probably be living off Ramen Noodles again when we get those three out of the house. Good times.
It’s not that having a fourth kid was ever a huge surprise. I mean, we weretrying to adopt a child. We knew we wanted four. But when we adopted, we would have brought home an older child, which is like buying yourself time.
So starting from scratch with number four set us back in our big plans (of eating Ramen Noodles so we can pay for college). But you know what?
Annika is the greatest thing that ever happened to our family.
I don’t say that just because I think she’s awesome (which I totally do), but also because seeing our older kids with a baby is quite possibly the sweetest part of bringing home our new addition.
As Tia scurried through the house helping me get her sister settled, and make all the preparations to head out to Sloan’s baseball game, I couldn’t help but think what an amazing mom she will be someday. She’s getting so much practice right now, and she’s just a natural with her sister. It floods me with warm fuzzies to watch them interact.
There are so many wonderful things about this surprise fourth addition to our home, but the biggest surprise of all has come in watching her brothers and sister fall madly in love with her. And when they speak to her and her face lights up in a smile? Hands down, the best part of this entire experience.
It totally makes up for the fact that Lee will be almost 60 by the time we finally get the house to ourselves again.
I’ve hesitated to share this, because it’s vulnerable. I’m not opposed to being vulnerable online, but I’m always sensitive to share stories that belong to me only. It’s not my place to share someone else’s story.
But today I’m going to share a piece of my story, and it will only be a piece, because some things just have to remain private. But I’ll share a little, because perhaps someone can identify. Perhaps this vulnerability will be cathartic in a way that’s needed not just for me, but for anyone who is separated from someone they love.
My Facebook feed has exploded with photos of friends and their siblings today. Happy pictures of siblings both young and all grown up, all smiling for the camera, because apparently today is National Sibling Day. That’s a thing, I guess. I never knew we had so many reasons to celebrate until Facebook came along.
National Talk Like a Pirate Day, National Submarine Day (I’m not kidding), National Corn on the Cobb Day (for real?!), and my personal favorite: World Nutella Day (thank you, random holiday schedulers).
I’ve enjoyed seeing photos of all my friends with their siblings. I particularly like the side by side comparisons of young siblings next to grown siblings. It’s sweet, and I’m genuinely pleased to see celebratory messages between siblings. But I’m also terribly sad, because you see…
I am alone.
I haven’t seen or spoken to my only sibling in two years. I still can’t believe that that is my reality, but it is. I am operating as an only child these days, and there’s a pain in that reality that is difficult to express.
Once upon a time, my brother and I were close. I was the dominant older sister, and he was the sweet, complacent younger brother who gave me anything I wanted. It worked well, though perhaps he would have preferred I’d let him lead now and then.
There are sweet memories of childhood, though, and those are the ones I cling to when the silence of separation starts to feel deafening. I remember the Christmases when we’d pile up together in bed and stay up late into the night, listening for the sound of Santa’s sleigh. Then we’d wake in the wee hours of the morning, much to mom’s chagrin, and tear downstairs to see what had been left behind.
There are memories of playing on the beach, and laughing together as a family. There are happy memories (ones that apparently always include dressing up, because just about every picture I found had us in some crazy get up), and I’m thankful for those.
But as time progressed and we grew older, the differences in our personalities became more pronounced. The pull away from one another happened slowly, and I take responsibility for my part.
I have no explanation for my outfit, other than it was the ’80’s.
The reasons for our current separation are both murky and confusing, but I won’t at all claim that I had no part in our fractured relationship. When I left for college, I lost all claim to any hope of a Sister of the Year Award. I went to Texas and left him behind in Missouri, and it never occurred to me that my leaving might be difficult. I enjoyed my life away, the independence I felt living on my own.
It’s easy for me to look back on those years and justify my behavior. I was 18. I was acting in youthful ignorance, and arrogance. But my youthful arrogance left my brother alone at home at a time when life got very confusing. There were things that happened in our extended family that I was able to remain separated from, but my brother had to live through a different reality.
I wasn’t there for him.
It’s a regret I will carry for the rest of my life, because if I had been there, perhaps he would have trusted me more when he grew into an adult. Instead, I was too distanced. And despite the fact that I apologized to him, and begged his forgiveness (which he readily granted), the damage had been done. I wasn’t a friend to him when he needed me most, and so he lived his life without me in it.
The last seven years have been a challenge of trying to repair the damage, and working through new issues. There’s enough blame to go around to everyone involved, but it does no good to try to rehash every moment that led us to this final separation. I’ve learned that sometimes you can try too hard, and in the trying you actually do more harm than good.
I don’t even know where my brother is now. I don’t have an address or a phone number or an email address. I don’t know his family, and he doesn’t know mine. And I embrace my part in that separation with full remorse. I wish things were different.
On this National Sibling Day, I celebrate the good memories I had with my brother, and I hope for reconciliation. I suppose there is a part of me that’s hoping, maybe, he reads this blog and will hear my heart and be willing to reach out and start a dialogue.
To those of you who are able to truly celebrate this random holiday, I offer you my only advice – be thankful always for what you have in your siblings. Cherish them, and never give up on knowing them as adults. Because it is truly a precious relationship to have someone who knew you then and knows you now.
I love you, dear brother, and I do hold hope in my heart that someday we can enjoy one another’s company again. I just wanted you to know.
When I first began blogging, I made it a habit to try and post every day. Given that my subject matter was raising children, and I had three children under the age of four in my midst, I was rarely wanting for post ideas.
Then my subjects grew up and became aware of what I do, and suddenly finding things to write about became more of a challenge.
Add to that the fact that blogging changed, and the day to day storytelling that was my niche became a bit archaic, and my job as a blogger became even more difficult.
When I began this blog, I gave myself the freedom to post less often. If I’m going to write, I want to have something to say that’s worth your time to click over.
It turns out that posting less comes with it’s own unique set of challenges. In hoping to only post when I have something to say, I find myself feeling completely unoriginal in all that I write. Oftentimes, I sit down, stare at the blank screen, and my brain starts screaming THERE’S NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN!
Then I shut the computer and eat a cookie.
Feeling unoriginal is bad for my blog and my waistline, unfortunately.
The thing about blogging is that originality doesn’t have to look completely different. Because we’re all unique, and we all have unique stories and backgrounds and world views, we can be original to the people within our circle of influence.
What I have to say may not be completely ground breaking when you look at the grand scale, but inside my circle of influence? It may be just what people need to hear.
I don’t want to live in paralysis, constantly in fear of being unoriginal. I simply want to enjoy the gift that I’ve been given – this love of words that leaves me feeling relaxed and whole.
And you should do the same.
Don’t get stuck in fear that you have nothing to contribute to the world around you. Instead, simply embrace your own creativity for what it is – a gift to be shared and given away.
Your words matter. Your paintings matter. Your photographs matter. Your art matters. What you do is unique to you, and it is, therefore, completely and totally original.
