Just grazing my life away

All my life, I've struggled with my weight. I remember being 4 and thinking I was fat, that my tummy was bigger than most people. Self-fulfilling prophecy or not, by the time a few years had passed, food was my solace, my friend, my god. Not just food, really. Eating it.

I have had no real idea, no true concept, of how little I really need to thrive. Large portions, lots of choices, and grazing combined with a dislike of movement led to the expected outcome. How many diets have I been on? I can't remember all of them.

When prayer didn't magically take away my desire for mass quantities of food, I felt pretty angry at God. Why would he leave me with this, what was the point? Why not take it away, why no sudden healing, no instant growth? The oxymoronic nature of it didn't really sink in until the latest attempt at curbing my desire to fill myself with food, food, food.

Instant growth. No such thing, is there? Most healing isn't sudden. Given the nature of our bodies, healing probably isn't meant to be sudden. The healings Jesus did, like the turning of water into wine, were 'hurry ups' of what normally takes a long time. Signs. Pointing to the one in charge of time and processes.

So, what has healed? I don't know the answer, but I can spot growth. Less judgment, more mercy. Less perfectionism. Less all-or-nothing, more grace.

I still struggle with coming home, wanting to fill myself up with food, having spent the day expending all the energy I have. Not knowing what to do with myself, I turn to food too often even now. Only now, instead of being angry at myself, I look back at what I've learned. I wouldn't wish this road on anyone, but I wouldn't trade it for anyone else's, either. In that knowledge is some measure of fullness. For now, it is enough.

Pray for the children

James finished his 5th day of kindergarten today, with the expected exhaustion resulting in a tantrum of massive proportion. Thank you, Jesus, for once I responded with grace and calm. After a tussle in the shower, we curled up on my bed for a story and a snuggle.

He wanted to tell me a story (which means it didn't really happen but he has been thinking about it). In his story, a bully pushed him in the gravel of the playground. "Why do kids push other kids?" he asked at the end of the story. We had just finished a book with a word about God's protection, and he said, "It's not true. God doesn't protect me from bullies."

I listened to him spinning more of the story, and responded that God is not like a Power Ranger, blowing up bad guys, because he hopes that the bad guys will become good guys, and they can't if they are dead. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and asked, "Mom, are bombs real?"

How I wished I didn't have to answer that, but I said that they are. He began to cry. "Why do people drop bombs on each other?" I tried to explain that they do it when they are at war, and he asked, "Do they drop them on children?" "Yes, where the war is, sometimes."

Tears were really flowing by this time. "Do kids get apart from their parents in war?" "Where is the war?" "Does the Devil get in people's brains, is that why they do it?" "Why doesn't God stop them?"

By this time, my heart had broken wide open. I tried to think what to say, wanting so much to ease his obvious pain. "God doesn't stop them. He hopes they will listen to him but they don't want to. He stays close to the hurt people." Out of my mouth poured all the things that we Christians say to try to make it better when God seems so far away. Not enough to explain it away. We talked for a while longer, but finally all I could do was reassure him that there is no war in Elkhart and that I am going to stick to him like white on rice, that if he listens to God in his mind, he won't be one of the ones who hurts people. "We should pray war doesn't come here," he said.

Yes, we should, and for the children where the war is. For the children who maybe might grow up to hurt others because somehow 'the Devil got in their brains.'

God have mercy on us all. God help James, and Maia, and the children of their generation grow up to make peace, to be as passionate about nonviolence as so many are about violence.

My children fight over me. For a moment of peace, I went to the front room and sat on the couch. Our son came in and sat on the edge, momentarily preoccupied with a plastic bag. His sister slipped in behind him, taking his spot next to me. A tussle ensued, all over who got to sit next to me. Finally, I expressed my displeasure of their fighting and they stomped away, united in their anger at me.

When they left, the dog came in and sat down in the place they both wanted. She doesn't fight, she just waits for an empty space.

I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere, but for the moment I am just sad that my children are in competition for my attention, or for their place, or for anything, really. Sure, my mothering could use improvement. Maybe I'm not handling it well.

So I pray, asking God to make them friends, to give them enough good memories to overcome the bad, to provide enough in common so that they can enjoy being together when they are older.

And then, Maia slips in quietly and deposits herself at the other end of the couch. Her brother dances in, a torn plastic bag making a laurel wreath around his buzzed head. His comic pratfalls elicit a giggle from his sister. Maybe there's hope. That's lesson enough for today.

Randy Gibson, Ph.D.

Today, my husband, Randy, receives his Ph.D. from Purdue University. When I think back over the last decade (really!), I feel a rush of pride in his achievement and gratitude to all who supported him. According to statistics, he shouldn't have finished. He did everything wrong, from leaving the area (for my work) to working full time in another profession to having kids. I'm sure there were many times he was ready to pack it in. There were certainly times I was ready for him to admit defeat. After all, his dissertation took him away from us, his family, on a regular basis as he read and typed in the basement office after work.

Despite the challenges, his dissertation turned out to be a blessing. There were pieces of it that blew me away, and one philosopher's thought in particular ('death is not a problem to be solved') and Randy's way of working that out brought some rather dramatic healing to my thought processes.

So thank you, Jesus! Thank you, family. Thank you, Purdue profs. Thank you. Where we go from here, only God knows. That's ok. Here is a wonderful place to be.