When I was a little girl, I spent countless afternoons at my grandma’s house. Without hesitation, I’d eagerly tag along with my dad when he visited her to mow the lawn, water the tulips, or to simply enjoy a cup of black coffee and get a hug from his mom. “Gram T.” would pour us each a glass of Crystal Light and warmly invite me downstairs to watch PBS while my Dad worked away. As Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood played in the background, I’d crawl onto her lap and snuggle in the crook of her arm. I remember running my little hand across her face, tracing the lines that created elegant canyons around her mouth and eyes. Gently touching her hands, I was fascinated by the brown age spots, sprinkled so beautifully across the very hands that turned the pages of Peter Rabbit, or wrapped me in an afghan when I fell asleep.   Her skin was soft, like some sort of buttery silk.  I examined each of her fingers, marveling at their sturdiness, a diamond ring or two on each one except her thumbs.

“You’re the most beautiful girl in the world” I exclaimed, declaring with the awe of a child as I smiled into her deep blue eyes. “Oh sugar” she giggled. “No I’m not. I’m all wrinkled up and I haven’t even put my face on yet!” “Yes huh, Grandma! You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen” I replied, protesting in true eldest child, finally-five-and-a-half fashion. She smiled sweetly and pulled me in a little closer, whispering “thank you” as she gently kissed my cheek.

The Formation of a Habit

Let’s get real for a moment. For quite a while now, I’ve had a difficult time finding anything beautiful about myself. Avoiding mirrors like the plague, I quickly zip from one task to the next, trying not to even think about my body, let alone look at it. In hushed moments, I pine for a time when I felt most beautiful. As I examine my face in pictures that I love, I’m riddled with sadness and guilt. Where have I gone?  Is this beautiful girl still inside me?

Body Image: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly has been a headlining show in the theatre of my mind for the better part of 14 years. My self-created critics come and go, some loving the masterpiece that is my body, and others giving it a 1 star review, but a participation medal for trying. Lately, I seem to be only inviting the most critical of critics and the high that I feel at the end of a good performance is soon crushed as the reviews a read aloud. A strong fog of familiarity hangs in the air, and the voices of these internal examiners are reminiscent of mantras that I hoped would be lost forever.

Wandering back through yesterdays, I can hardly recall a time when I did not scrutinize the shape of my nose or the size of my waist. Even when I was a perfectly healthy weight, my mind had a way of twisting the numbers on the scale into convincing insults and unrealistic expectations. Somewhere between comparing myself to pictures in magazines and my inherent need for approval, self-evaluation of my physical appearance became a habit. Pounds became levels through which to descend and calories, like a game show segment, became a challenge to see who could outlast: hunger or me. This obsession fueled the fire that sparked the longest war I have endured. My inability to cope with strong emotions led to avoidance and distraction manifested as disordered eating.

I have lived on different continents of the same dystopian planet that is disordered eating. I’ve felt the odd satisfaction of deprivation and the depraved and fleeting joy of out-of-control binges. No matter where I’ve roamed, reprieve has yet to be found. Lonely campfires void of marshmallows and large elegant parties, with unlimited portions, have both left me homesick for a place to which I’m not sure I can find my way back, though I’m trying.

The Endless Hill

It’s a funny cycle, this whole disordered eating thing. My quest for beauty led me down a path of starvation. Starvation wasn’t sustainable, so I started eating again. My weight was normal, but I still didn’t feel okay. I didn’t want to starve myself, but I still did not feel beautiful. This made me sad. The sadness craved comfort and the food was there with open “comfort food” arms. I ate a little too much a time or two, which turned into a time or too often. As the pounds inched up, so did my negative emotions, but I twisted my lid tighter, trapping everything inside. As the pressure mounted, I sought release, but hands capable of untwisting caps moved in rhythmic motion between mouth and plate. Incoherent downhill slides on a swollen belly and aching heart left me tumbling toward earthy, gravity feeling heavier than I last remembered. At the bottom, confused and frustrated, I resolved to find my footing and get to higher ground; a pathway back to normalcy would surely be in view from a higher elevation. Yet, in perfect harmony with the modern culture of instant gratification, the hill seemed to grow higher with each foot I climbed, and soon enough, I gave in, hopping aboard a tram that promised to get me to higher ground, but left me tumbling toward earth just before the new pathway was in view.

Rain pools in the ruts on this hill, divots carved into the cool grass by my heels. I’m getting better at climbing higher and many days, I let the tram pass me by as I continuously climb. I wonder if this is my path to normalcy,  the summit being the oasis for which I’ve been searching. I’ll keep climbing to find out.

This strange repetitive journey, though not yet understood, has provided me with many opportunities to learn new things and grow stronger. I’ve tried many diet programs, meal plans, supplements, shakes, tricks, tips, etc. in an attempt to mend the wounds of nourishment. Obviously, each attempt has proven only semi-effective, at best, as I am now at the unhealthiest size I’ve ever been. I do not despair, however, because I’ve changed my course of action. I took a long hard look at the scars of each attempt, the ruts on this hill, and I’ve decided to try something new. Can you hear the sound of the cap untwisting?

Beneath the Surface

So many of my feelings of inadequacy have stemmed from a lie that I subscribed to for far too long, that I am not beautiful and will only be beautiful one day if I live my life perfectly, at a perfect weight, with perfect teeth, a new nose, darker skin, whiter teeth, longer eyelashes . . . and the list goes on. I adopted the notion that the external shell of my inner self is the sole indicator of beauty and because physical beauty was so valuable and I have yet to rise to the unrealistic expectations I’ve set for myself, I must be invaluable. What a heart-breaking thing to believe. If I love others for the size and shape of their soul, should I not treat myself with the same compassion? This question has been imprinted on my heart.

“You formed my inmost being; you knit me in my mother’s womb” Psalm 139:13

Did you catch that? God created us with an “inmost being,” something beneath the surface that was knit around us, the soul within our vessel.

This truth has been a powerful source of healing and strength for me as of late. The yarn with which I’m knit is stretched and fraying suffering at the abusive hands of incorrect thinking and disordered eating, but something more important lies within, embraced by my outer shell. What is this inmost being? Who is the person that God created me to be when he formed me in my mother’s womb all those years ago? I’ve spent too long focusing on the vessel that is my body that I’ve neglected to take an intimate look at the precious gift inside it.

I Am

Gram T. was the kind of grandma who gave the best hugs and even better compliments. Her praises were specific and genuine. After attending dance recitals or reading custom authored poems, she’d build me up higher than I could have dreamed. She knew me and loved me and accepted me, relishing in all of the things that made me “me.” She knew and cherished my inmost being.

In honor of her tradition and memory, I’m striving to speak to myself the way she would speak to me today, if she were still around: with truthful words of encouragement and peace; just praises, trimmed with enough whimsical delight to help me believe I can be something more than what I’ve thought I could be. If I listen just right, I can almost hear her voice saying “Oh Amber, you make me so proud. You are very special.”

I’m going to try something, and I encourage you to follow my lead. What are five non-physical traits you love and admire about yourself?   These could be characteristics, talents, interests, etc. anything that is not related to traditional “physical beauty.”  Bring these to mind and grab your journal or a piece of scrap paper, if you’re a note-taker like me. Then, in true Gram T. fashion, praise yourself without limits. Dote on the gift that is YOU!

My Five Things

I am loving. I love many people and I’m not afraid to say, “I love you” when it is warranted. Whether it be friends or family, the people I care for are each nestled in a special place in my heart.

I am a devoted student. I enjoy learning new things. I seek opportunities to deepen my knowledge whenever possible. Whether it be a new process or machine at my workplace or a topic for which I can listen to a podcast, I enjoy learning about people, places, things and the greater world around me.

Speaking of podcasts, I’m a good listener. I listen to podcasts throughout the week. When I’m not listening to something for my own benefit, I attentively listen to my husband, enjoying the experience of being his sounding board. In conversations at coffee shops or impromptu phone calls or 5am gym sessions, I listen to my dearest friends pour their hearts out to me, grateful that God thought I was the right person to be a friend to them.

I am creative. I actively look for ways to be creative throughout my day. I “Amber-fy” my spreadsheets and agendas. I hand letter my shopping lists. I draw. I knit. I write. Creativity is an outlet for me and one that comes easily.

I am emotional. I truly do love this about myself, though it’s taken a while to develop that love. God formed my compassionate heart, tuning it to a high level of sensitivity, the exact calibration needed to love who I love and how I love, to feel how I feel and to influence me in such a way that I might strive to know Him deeper. After all, emotions are hard, but clinging closer to Christ can make them more bearable.

A Kiss from Heaven

This time of year, I find myself reflecting on memories of Gram T, the 10^th of July marks eight years since she passed away.   At night quite often, I find myself trying to retrace the shape of her hands in my mind. Grasping for comfort, I hum God Bless America as I reach far back into the recesses of my brain. My most vivid memories are more like stills in a photo album, a collection of candid pictures, her beauty radiating off of the page.   Seeing her making coffee in the kitchen or gently napping in her rocker as I played Barbies on the living room floor. Even now, only seeing her by memory, I am still captivated by her beauty. Her love is still tangible. I wonder if she ever felt as beautiful as only The Most Beautiful Girl in the World could be.

The other day, my coworkers and I had a conversation about children who looked like one parent or the other, or a perfect blend of both and it got me thinking.   I am a pretty good mix, possessing many of the traits of both my mom and my dad. Freckles dance in abstract patterns over my pink skin and my hair is wispy, yet curly.   My nose is a perfect blend of my mom and dad, with an arched bridge like my mom’s family and a big, but symmetrical tip.   I’m short, yet strong. I am caring, smart, silly and reflective, all of which is a blend of the amazing humans who are my parents.

As I examined my face in the mirror this morning, tilting my head from side to side brushing bronzer across my cheek, I noticed something new. When I looked at the bottom of my nose, it was like I could see my grandma’s face. The parenthetical lines that emphasize my smile aren’t yet canyons, but the gentle curve of my nostrils looks familiar. When I examine my wedding ring on my hand, I see only sturdy fingers, just with a few less rings.   When I run my sturdy fingers across the back of my hand, my skin feels vaguely familiar, although not quite as buttery as Gram T’s.

If I am composed partially of my Dad’s genes, and he was born from The Most Beautiful Woman in the World, and pieces of her DNA remain somewhere inside of me, then am I not beautiful, too?   If my lips look good in red and I sing in melodic vibrato when I’m happy, does her beauty not live on through me? Is the vessel that holds my inmost being not from the same collection, knit by the same God who loved us both into being?

And as I finished putting my face on this morning, with a little more light in my eyes, I gently touched my cheek and whispered “thank you” to the most beautiful girl in the world.   Though Gram T is somewhere far away, she’s reminded me that I am fearfully wonderfully made; a beautiful soul in a beautifully familiar vessel.

“You formed my inmost being; you knit me in my mother’s womb. I praise you, because I am wonderfully made; wonderful are your works! My very self you know. My bones are not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, fashioned in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw me unformed; in your book all are written down; my days were shaped, before one came to be.” Psalms 139 13-16