Night Feeding Miracles

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Breathless

I brush the long strand of hair that has escaped from my ponytail out of my eyes with frustration.  We have to be close.  You are ahead of me and I am desperately trying to keep up.  I am panting and hiding it, forcing my mouth to remain closed so you can't hear the unattractive noise.  I want you to be impressed with me.  I want you to be proud of me.

As we round the corner, I see that we are not close at all.  Silently, I curse myself for trying to show off when I insisted on taking the 12 mile hike instead of the 8.  We have been walking uphill for what seems like 4 miles and I am miserable.  You turn around to check on me more often than I am comfortable with, not sure if it is out of concern or you just being YOU.  I don't want you to be concerned.  I don't want you to know this is KILLING me.  For these reasons, I have smiled at you every time you turned around.  I want to put on a grand performance...I am loving this.  I could do this every day.  My face is not bright red and I am not discreetly wiping sweat off my face at regular intervals.  This is easy.  We should do 20 next time. 

The lies I am telling myself abruptly come to a halt as I lose my footing and plunge forward.  I break my fall with my hands and make a small noise of surprise.  By the time you have turned around and made your way towards me I am on my feet, wiping away the small rocks I have embedded in my palms.  I hurriedly assure you that I am fine, purposefully not making eye contact with you for as long as possible.  You take both my wrists in your hands and peer intently at them.  I am devastated for multiple reasons, positive at this point that you can not only hear my heart pounding out of my chest but can also see that I am a sweaty, unattractive mess.  My discomfort deepens as you put down your backpack in one fluid motion and are instantly absorbed with my palms again.  You gently wipe away the rocks that remain and peer down at me intently as you do so to gauge my level of pain.  I can only look at you for a second at a time before I look away.  I feel like you can see right through me and it makes me nervous because I like it too much.

Your eyes are amazing.  I've always loved them.  But more than your eyes themselves, I love how you look at me.  My heart is still pounding and I am no longer sure it's because of the hike.  I instinctively try to pull out of your grasp and you won't let me, looking at me pointedly as you pull me closer to you.  I'm not breathing.  We are so close I can smell the soap you must have used in the shower that morning.  I force myself to let out my breath slowly as you take water out of your backpack and explain to me that you are going to clean the wounds.  One by one, you hold my wrists as you slowly pour water over my hands.  I jump at the impact.  It stings and I tell you so.  You smile slowly at me and tell me that you know.  I can't help but smile shyly back.  You do that to me.

Cleaning done, you ask if I'm ready to start hiking again and I laugh and say yes.  You laugh too, and keep looking at me with those eyes.  Damn those eyes.  What are they saying?  We are walking side by side now, happily silent.  I love being silent with you.  It feels so intimate to me.  We are no longer walking uphill and I can breathe again.  I notice how beautiful it all is.  The sun is warm and bright and birds are chirping.  It is still and magnificent.  From time to time, a hiker on their way down will pass.  Every time, you protectively touch my elbow and move behind me to allow them room.  I am silently praying for hikers to come more often so you will touch me again and I hate myself for it.  I realize once again how pathetic I am and smile wryly.  Oh, this man - what is it about you that I am so embarrassingly taken with?

Lost in thought, I remember how nervous I was when we went out for the first time.  I played it perfectly, of course, and you never would have known that I had brainstormed questions I could ask you to ensure we never had any of the uncomfortable silences I detest.  We had a great time together - we always have ever since.  It was different then; safer.  We were simply getting to know each other, and that's the easy part.  We spoke easily and laughed easily.  I always liked you.  What came after caught me off guard...

You break into my reverie as you knock me playfully to the side with your hip and ask me what I'm thinking about.  I smile up at you brightly and say "nothing."  You laugh and ask me one of your questions that mean we are going to be talking for awhile.  I love your questions.  They are thought-out and interesting.  You care about how I answer.  You are always interested and almost always want to dig deeper.  I can never answer your questions with one word answers.  It wouldn't at all be the way "we" are.

We are lost in conversation and I have completely forgotten we are hiking until we reach the top.  You stop talking mid-sentence as we look around in awe.  It's breathtaking.  We look down and around on trees on top of trees on top of trees.  The clouds are white and light and look close enough to touch against the stark contrast of the blue sky.  We can hear animals but not see them, except for an occasional bird gracefully soaring in the wind.

I sit down on the ground and murmur something softly about beauty as you take a seat next to me.  We sit in silence for awhile.  You turn your head to look at me as I stare out into the world.  I can feel it.  Eventually, I turn towards you slowly to meet your gaze.  For once, I don't panic or feel the need to look away.  So we just...look.  You smile at me lazily and I do the same before I sigh and look away.  You look at me for a few moments longer before you turn.  I regret breaking eye contact instantly.  I want to grab you and kiss you.  I want to feel your arms around me, slowly moving your hands up and down my back and then entangled in my hair.  I want to make you breathless as you make me breathless every day.

You are standing up now and holding out your hand to help me up.  Afraid you will be able to see my disappointment, I look down as I stand.  You step towards me and hug me gently.  I want you to hold me forever.  I want to stay like this always.  You step back and smile down at me.  You are speaking to me with your eyes and I answer back with mine as we turn to go down the hill together.

More Than Just A Pretty Face

I grew up with a beautiful mother.  I remember thinking she was the prettiest woman I had ever seen when I was small.  She always looked perfect; perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect outfit, perfect body.  I was so proud she was my mom.  As I got older my world got bigger and I became increasingly aware that prettier women than she existed and they were, in fact, everywhere.  Perfect women were at the grocery store, at my piano recitals, in my church, in my magazines and on my TV.  I was surrounded.

My mom was aware of these women as well.  She liked to comment about them as they walked by.  These comments were never malicious.  On the contrary, my mother worshipped their beauty.  She would follow them with her gaze and immediately seek out her own reflection, fussing with her perfect hair and making self-depricating comments about what she saw in the mirror.  This made me sad. I would tell her how beautiful she was in an effort to ease the obvious pain she felt, but my sincere words of adoration always fell short of anything that could make her feel better.  It was heartbreaking to watch.

When I was a teenager, the sadness I felt for my mother transformed into something else.  I had started to develop into more of a woman than a little girl and my mom noticed.  She did not gaze at me longingly like she did the women deemed beautiful by her own definition.  Instead, she was critical and seemed disappointed in my physical appearance.  Disapproval of the clothing I chose to wear was communicated verbally, not because of the outfits themselves but because of how my body looked in them.  She frequently asked me why I didn't run more and began to put my eating habits under the microscope.

At first, I felt like she was right and desperately wanted to make her happy.  I became obsessed with my body and skirted dangerously close to several different eating disorders.  I was unable to look in the mirror.  I was ashamed and didn't want to leave the house (I haven't mentioned yet that at this time I weighed 120 lbs).  My obsession with my body turned into obsession with being aesthetically perfect as a whole.  I wanted to be beautiful, but more than this I wanted to be acknowledged as beautiful by the general public.  I looked for this nodding in all the wrong places, and most of the time I got it.  I was miserable.

It took years of therapy and many tearful prayers for perspective change in order to come anywhere close to being comfortable in my own skin.  I think it's something I could struggle with for a long time.  One of many things I have learned through my journey in therapy is that there are some unhealthy perspectives I will, in fact, always have a tendency to hold close.  But these things do not own me or have any real power at all.  Change is always possible.  For me, this change will only come about in trying to see myself the way Jesus sees me - and to see others the way He sees them.  What He created is beautiful.  He doesn't care what size I am or if I wear makeup to work...He cares about where my heart is.

In light of the fact that I have gotten a little fluffy over the holidays, I have just begun to work with a personal trainer at my gym (MY gym...ha!  I said that like I actually go).  Before I signed up for this service, I had to do a lot of self-reflection about the reasons WHY I wanted to do it.  I am not oblivious to the fact that the danger of body obsession is still very real for me.  In the spirit of one of my goals for 2011, (to re-capture the passions of my heart), I thought back to when running was a healthy outlet for me.  Running gave me energy and made me feel good.  I ran Hood To Coast for years and it was an amazing experience.  Feeling good about your body is not a bad thing as long as your motivations are healthy and don't involve your identity being wrapped up into it.  So, I signed the contract and had my first session yesterday.

My time at the gym was frought with varying emotions.  Men and women with perfect bodies worked out alongside me.  It was intimidating and humbling.  But as I sweat like a pig, (I am NOT a pretty girl when I work out), I realized I had already made some progress in my body image struggles.  I wasn't worried about what people thought or what I looked like in comparison to the others there.  I had taken another step towards a healthy existence and felt proud of myself.  I would be lying if I said I didn't want a kick ass body in a bikini this summer.  But for the first time in my life, I want it for myself and no one else.

Big Church, Small Girl

Texas...familiar and foreign at the same time.  I lived in Dallas from the ages of 12-14 and arrived back two days ago to visit my parents, who re-located from Portland three years ago.

Last night I attended the mega-church in Rockwall my parents are members of.  We walked in "late" and worship was in full swing.  Three huge screens in front with alternating close-ups of the band members with lyrics to the songs underneath.  The auditorium was HUGE.  It holds 5000 but my dad told me "only 2500 were probably actually there."  Ha!  Really?  So few...

As the three of us stood and sang along with everyone else, my mind wandered.  I began to remember all the churches I have been a part of in the past, and realized it's no wonder I have a hard time really feeling a part of any one church.  The daughter of a man who felt led to plant churches around the country, I grew up never getting attached to any one in particular or the people who went there.  Everything was temporary.  At the end of the day, we would leave.  We would move.  We would begin again.

Mega-churches are interesting, and actually, the kind I am least familiar with.  We would only attend this type of church in the interim of a move, as any church my father started up would be small.  I remember attending Jerry Falwell's church in Lynchburg, VA, and being terrified of the thousands of people.  There were lights and cameras everywhere.  People laughed and cried loudly.  When my family filed onto the platform there one Sunday to be "sent off" before another move, I cried in front of everyone as my mom looked on with embarrassment.  I couldn't help it.  I was petrified and didn't understand how/why all these strangers laying hands on us was going to benefit ME.  Stranger danger. 

Another mega-church in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada - more terrifying than Lynchburg because half the church spoke French.  My father would herd us around like cattle and introduce us to everyone.  I didn't understand why they spoke a different language from me.  I came up with my own answer...they were speaking in tongues.  I had seen people do that in church before - that was the answer.  Sounded the same...made sense.  I took the liberty to educate and alert my younger sisters to this fact and was secretly proud when my less shy sister was introduced to a French-speaking man one Sunday and asked him, "Why are you speaking in tongues?"  My parents were horrified and apologized profusely, telling the man they had no idea where she had come up with such a question. She pointed at me.  I shook my head "no."  All eyes turned on me.  My heart was beating out of my chest and I could barely breathe, but I managed to squeak out, "Is that bad?"  Silence.  I supposed it was.  Oh, Canada.

I much preferred smaller churches.  I could run around with my sisters and felt very important because my daddy was the pastor.  Everyone knew who I was and it felt like everyone liked me.  But here, in these small churches, was where I learned that authenticity in the church was hard to come by.  Everyone was "nice."  No one yelled or spanked their kids, marriages were intact, and everyone was very put together.  At least in public.  I secretly hoped that behind closed doors, their lives looked more like mine.  Early in the morning at my house one Sunday before church, my mom had spanked me and yelled because I was reading in my room instead of getting in my dress.  I continued to cry in the car on the way to church and when we pulled into the parking lot she said, "Jamie, knock it off.  You don't want people to see you this way.  What would they think?  The pastor is your daddy."  Small statements like this were made frequently.  I had no idea what they meant at the time but the implications for my future views of the church and "Christians" in general were substantial.

As we took our seats last night after worship, I glanced at my parents and smiled to myself.  Some things never change...but some things, thankfully, do.  In the revolving door of churches of my past, I had somehow managed to find a church in my present that I feel at home in...where authenticity is embraced and encouraged.  I can laugh, cry and be myself.  I am always accepted.  I settled down in my seat further, very much engrossed in my own thoughts when the man directly behind me yelled out, "Tell it!" and I jumped (literally) inches in the air.  Holy s**t.  I had almost forgotten I was in the South.

Go Time

I used to be passionate about writing.  I think I used to be good at it.  I don't remember...

I am embarking on a journey, one that is painful and difficult.  In this journey, it is essential that 2011 be about the elements of healing and rediscovery.  I lost a part of myself in 2010 and have been reeling and grasping at straws ever since.  I don't have answers yet, just glimpses of what could be.  Glimpses, at this point, are positive.

In the last two weeks I have remembered pieces of who I used to be, thanks to my three best girlfriends and even some new friends.  This Jamie of the past was passionate above all else.  Many saw her as "over the top" expressive.  She was complicated.  She felt alone much of the time, even when surrounded by people. She lived inside her head.  She was always looking for ways to improve herself; ways to heal.  She loved to read, write and invest in people on a level that was unique and special.  She loved to play all sports and loved the Seahawks.  She loved fashion and traveling and most of all her dog and best friend, Margot.

I made the decision to put Margot to sleep in 2010 due to a tragic injury and cannot remember my life for the three months following.  My friends say I was a ghost, and I believe this to be true.  I still FEEL like a ghost most of the time.  After she died, I couldn't feel anything.  I didn't care about anything.  I went through the motions of work and day to day life, not caring if I lived or died.  I was closely monitored by those that loved me.  I became a different person, radically different from the woman who existed before...

I stand now faced with questions about who I am and who I want to be.  Who USED to be no longer matters, the way I see it.  I am a different person now and I am finally OK with that.  I desire to be honest with those around me, but more importantly honest with myself.  Authenticity of self and the ability to communicate that truth with people and be accepted at the end are of utmost importance to me...so much so that I have cut off contact with anyone who does not appear to have this same desire.

I know little right now, but of the following things I am sure: I love Jesus and desire to be in close relationship with Him again (He has shown me in the last year that He is still interested in me as well.)  I have an excellent support system of people who love me unconditionally (no matter who lies on the other side).  I love to write (this brought to light by a new friend in addition to a guy I briefly dated).

Passions have been wakened and I hope and pray this means a process of some sort has begun...my future depends on it.