Can we say that together? I stood in the mirror earlier, inadvertently looking myself in the eyes, and as I lifted that holy, worn, but still just a bit snug denim up over my hips; hips that have carried the full body weight of two children, both brand new, and elementary-aged, (right side preferred) hips that changed and were manipulated in supernatural ways to cultivate life from cells, incubating the two tiny humans which have given me more life than that which they exude merely by the lessons birthed out of their existence- lessons from God Himself, seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as I stood and buttoned. I won’t buy new jeans, because I am convinced that anything else I put on will enable a “me” that I do not want to be housed in any longer. I sighed with those worn jeans, and worn hips, and out of nowhere those words, almost sure as they were from the Lord, settled from within the depths of my subconscious. “My self-worth is not tied to the size of my jeans.” Is it that easy? Is this that mythical moment I’ve only ever heard of, that you just learn to accept yourself as you are? Accept the hips God left behind after carrying the children, after years of squats, and runs, and stroller-pushing? Accept the dimpled midsection, loved on by the soft and shining scars of childbirth? By the peace of marrying a man who has accepted me as I am. Is this it?
I am a New York Yankee fan. I have many-a-cherished memory of intense couch-laying opposite of my father, also a Yankee fan, hand to temple, tip of index finger touching the tip of my nose just as he laid, watching intently as the New York Yankees dominated season after season. I am a proud Yankee fan. It sounds crazy that a sports team can captivate the soul of a human being, but here and now I tell you, that I love that team and I have loved them for my whole life. I regularly pray for The New York Yankees. I admit that shamelessly.
On opening day this year, I unearthed a photo of myself at the one and only Yankees game I have ever attended in my lifetime. Mariano “The Sandman” Rivera had returned from the DL, so I was able to listen to “Enter Sandman” as the famed closer entered the stadium, heart beating so hard that I could feel it in my throat- I can still feel it- and I literally watched Andy Petite and CC Sabathia walk RIGHT by me as they exited the stadium. In retrospect, I am still shocked at how HUGE that man is!
I made that photo my profile picture because it is an experience that I will cherish for the rest of my Earthly life. What was my initial response though? My very first response was shame. How on Earth did I go from that to this? I mean- I was HOT! And cute. And at a Yankees game. I was a hot single mom at a Yankees game, on purpose! And not for a dude. I just wanted to be there. And I was hot! I still have the shirt I wore, and quite frankly, I can’t even bring myself to try it on. I imagine how my since rounded midsection will warp the writing on its surface and I cringe. In the drawer, it will sit.
I access Facebook and when I see the photo, I summon the same emotions of the day, and for moments, the shame settles away, fading back to those quieter corners of the subconscious in lieu of the excitement of the day itself, even so much as to remember what the sun felt like on my cheeks as I sat in marvel and watched. These memories and their emotions permeate and resound for moments before I scroll through my newsfeed to find bathing suit ad, after bathing suit ad. Then exercise guru after exercise guru. “Buy my app! Feel good about yourself! Feel sexy in these bathing suits! Buy these shakes!” My immediate desire is to do exactly what they ask of me! “Yes! I want those things! I do!”
But I have been those routes- they feel familiar, the emotions that come with these temptations. They feel like a comparison, they feel like a worldly and selfish fight against shame, they feel like the battle that I will never win; a battled named perfection.
I can run a 5k. I serve my family vegetables. There’s not a slovenly habit here that needs checking- but there is a heart issue. I covet those things not because I am content as I am, but because I want to be acceptable in the eyes of people, even myself, who have deemed these qualities to be “good enough”.
Good enough just does not exist. Can we all agree on that? Good enough will never be attainable this side of Heaven. If it wasn’t perfection on the out, it would be perfection on the in- equally as unattainable. Why? Because we weren’t created with perfection in mind.
Good enough will never be attainable this side of Heaven. Does that give you a sigh of relief or pang of anxiety? It gave me anxiety for a long time- because upon processing that statement I then must face the fact that I have two problems. First, that I want what I may not have, and second, that I must learn to be okay with finding sufficiency in that which I may not have. Not enough is okay. It is real and it is freeing from the chains of attempting to keep up. But it doesn’t feel that way at first. It feels like a snug pair of jeans, squeezing the unwelcomed life out of that which just can’t fit in there anymore.
Philippians 1:6 shares: “being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
Our hope and our value are placed herein. We are accepted as we are, a work in progress created in the image of a loving and all-powerful God.
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