Confessions of an Atypical Fat Girl

Since the awkward years of puberty, I have always been overweight. It’s been a thing my whole life. I was that 13-year-old girl who was called “fatty” by bullies at the public park. And I was the 20-year-old girl called “fat ass” by a really cute boy in a room full of other really cute boys. I have the sad stories. I have the stories of public humiliation. Social equality fanatics would have a heyday with the body shaming I’ve endured for 30+ years. But despite all of the evidence society has stacked against me…the opinions of literally millions of people and an entire industry devoted to defining standards of beauty…even as a young girl, I couldn’t shake the deep belief that my FAT had absolutely nothing to do with my VALUE.

Yeah, you read that right. I’m a lifetime fat girl with healthy self-esteem. 

I’m not talking about the big girls who wear short skirts and midi-shirts so the world can admire their rolls and cheer “you go girl.”  I’m not sure I would qualify that as self-esteem, so much as giving the world the middle finger. Nah. I’ve never claimed fat as the new “sexy.” I believe in dressing for the body you occupy. Which means I live by the mantra: “Just because it buttons, doesn’t mean it fits.”

You see, I’m pragmatic. Fat is just fat…connective tissue used to store energy. And, yeah, some people have more of it than others. Maybe from hormones. Maybe from over-eating. Maybe from unlucky genetics. Maybe from Lays potato chips being a-hella-lot cheaper than wheat grass smoothies. But, yeah, regardless of how it was acquired…fat is just a lifeless, biological function of the body. Which is why…even in the midst of heart-breaking public shame…I could never understand HOW IN THE HELL connective tissue had the power to define my worth.

So, at some undefined moment in life, with endless encouragement from my parents…I decided that the world was stupid. And in order to live my best life in the body I was given, I was going to have to cling to the truth that my value and my body were completely and dramatically UNrelated.

Don’t get me wrong. Being a lifetime fat girl with healthy self-esteem doesn’t mean I’m STOKED about having cellulite and jiggly arms. Nope. I avoid mirrors when I’m naked. I get my feelings hurt when people say “you have a pretty face.” I wish I had one or two less chins in candid photos. And I’ve had my fair share of scary moments wondering if I was going to exceed the weight limit on amusement rides. I feel the feels of being overweight. I just don’t stay there.

I don’t hide in over sized potato-sack clothing. I don’t lower my dating standards because I think I don’t deserve an attractive, amazing man. I don’t try to make myself invisible. I’ve never cried in a changing room while trying on swimsuits. I’m not ashamed to stuff my face with donuts in a public place. I don’t assume everyone in the room is thinking about how fat I am. No, in fact, I just assume NO ONE is thinking about my weight. Which gives me the freedom to simply offer the best parts of myself.

I have deep, meaningful friendships with people who love every part of me. I have a great job where I have influence and am valued for my contributions. I embrace adventures near and far. I love fashion and makeup and all things girly. People laugh at my jokes. And there are many kids in this world who adore me and think I’m the coolest thing since Legos. Yeah, I live a full, full life. Divorcing my value from my body was a great decision.

But, you see, somewhere along the line…I over-corrected. I wandered so far away from my physical self, that I completely abandoned the temple that I was given stewardship over. I am Imago Dei…created in the image of God. To separate myself completely from my body meant that I separated myself from God’s holy creation. Which is why, over the last year, I have spent many counseling sessions crying large crocodile tears over the broken relationship I have with my body.

If you want to hear that story…stay tuned…for more confessions of an atypical fat girl.

A Love Story

I’m not sure where to start. So, I’ll just jump in with the most interesting bit: I am in love. Totally, completely in love. And my love story starts with a vision…about a train. Intrigued? Keep reading.

Here’s the thing. I’m not a vision person. And I certainly don’t think I have the gift of prophecy. I mean, yeah, I get it…visions are a thing. They’re Biblical. I’ve just never had one. So, when I had it…I thought I was either dreaming or…having a mental breakdown.

I think it’s important to pause the story here and give you a little context. Some of you may have noticed I haven’t blogged anything in quite some time. Since right after my dad died, actually. I know, it sounds totally cliché. But the truth is, slogging through grief is freaking hard…and the last thing I wanted to do was expose my grief to the world wide web. People say really good-intentioned, yet stupid things to grieving people. And I didn’t want to open myself up to more spiritual platitudes about my Dad being in a better place. So, instead, I sought professional help. I needed a transactional relationship…someone who was under no obligation to try to make me feel better. So, for the last year and a half, I’ve been faithfully spilling my guts to a licensed counselor. As these things go, the grief counseling eventually turned into deconstructing 40 years of life down in this twisted, broken world. Heh. I found that I had a lot to talk about.

For over a year, I’ve been feeling things that I had never allowed myself to feel. Like the crippling fear of dying alone. Like the acute pain of loneliness. Like the fear that I’m “too much” for people to handle. Like the shame of living life in this body. Week after week, month after month, I’ve been digging around in a cesspool of untouched emotion. And yet, I still felt like I hadn’t broken through to THE thing…THE important thing. I mean, even after all this good, eternal heart talk…I still wasn’t talking to God.

And then I was lying awake in bed one day…and I had a vision:

It’s nighttime. I’m standing on a railroad track. I can’t see anything but a single pin drop of light directly in front of me. The sound of a train…rails shrieking as metal scrapes against metal. The pin drop is getting bigger. The train is coming closer. At this point, I’m not really afraid…I know I have plenty of time to get off the tracks. Until I hear a voice. A man’s voice. He says simply, “don’t move.” Now at this point, I’m aware that the voice is from God. I’m also aware that I now have a choice to make. Obey God…or get off the tracks. That’s when the fear hits me. And that damn train is getting closer. I heard the voice again, this time it’s right in my ear…like He’s standing behind me. He says again, “don’t move.” The train gets louder…I can hear it. But I don’t move. All the sudden, it’s upon me. I close my eyes, waiting for impact. But it doesn’t hit me…it goes through me. In the vision, I can FEEL it passing through me. I can hear people in the cars, laughing, talking, yelling. I can hear the clinking of glasses and dishes as the dining car passes through me. It didn’t hurt so much as overwhelm me…like the pressure of a train was going to break me into a million pieces. I remember thinking the train would be stuck in me forever and that I would be tortured for eternity. Until…all of the sudden…it was over. The last car passed through me…and once again I was standing alone on the tracks. I can hear the train behind me getting further and further away. And standing on the tracks is a man. I can’t see His face. I have no idea who he is. I only know that I feel a bone-deep peace…and my life has somehow been altered by that train.

It took me awhile to tell anyone about that damn train. But then, I had it again. A shorter version, but the message was the same. I had to let a train pass through me. I can’t express how annoyed I was by this vision. As a classic overachiever, I HATE not knowing the answer to things…and this felt like a big ‘ol mystery that I was too tired to solve.

But a week or so later, I got up the nerve to tell my counselor. He asked me a somewhat typical counselor question, “How do you FEEL about this vision?” Well, I have two feelings…how long is this effing train going to pass through me and who the HELL is the man? He asked me who I hoped the man was. I remember saying, “This is probably wrong to say…and I feel a bit sacrilegious for saying it, but I really hope the man isn’t Jesus. I hope this isn’t just a big spiritual lesson that ends up with Jesus being the only man I end up with. I mean, to be honest, I hope the mystery man is my future husband.”

Something I haven’t mentioned yet. The picture of a train is actually pretty significant to me. You see, my childhood nickname was “Locomotive.” It was a nickname I hated with every fiber of my being. It comes with extensive levels of shame. And it’s why I developed a deep, deep fear of being “too much” for people. If you want to read about it…I blogged about it once HERE. 

So, the train was never in question. I knew what the train represented. I had to let my deepest fears pass through me. I had to stop stepping off the train tracks to avoid the pain. I had to stand still while the fear and shame overwhelmed me.

In the weeks that followed, I had opportunity after opportunity to stand on the tracks. Wave after wave of events tested my fortitude. More crippling sickness on a European trip of a life time (for the first instance, read HERE). In and out of the doctor’s office for weeks battling acute bronchitis. Laying in a hospital bed with the SAME heart symptoms that eventually killed my dad. Watching another parent being wheeled to surgery through those horrible double doors. And more lessons…too personal to share here. Lessons that forced me to reckon with my deepest fears. Fears around being alone. Fears around being broken. Fears around dying. All of them just came crashing in on me in a matter of weeks.

I guess, in a way, the vision itself was a great mercy. It allowed me to find purpose in my misery. The pain wasn’t intended to break me…it was intended to make me stronger. To lead me to peace. So, I stayed on the tracks. And I chose to respond differently to the pain. I chose to talk about it. I chose to ask for help over and over again. I chose to allow myself to rest. I chose to open my eyes and observe the fear rather than clench my eyes closed until it was over. And the darnest thing happened…I saw God’s mercy EVERYWHERE. He was with me the whole time…standing right next to me on the tracks.

Enter Wednesday, July 19, 2017. Just an average workday. Nothing that morning indicated that I was about to realize my greatest desire. I was about to find out who the man on the tracks was. There I was, just making my morning commute. Thinking about the day ahead of me. Worship music playing in the background. I can tell you exactly what part of the road it happened. It started with goosebumps. Then the hair on my head started to tingle. Then I was filled with the most blissful warmth…it filled every fiber of my body. I was on the tracks again. The train had just passed through me and there was light everywhere. I saw him standing on the tracks. It was Jesus. He was waiting for me.

I didn’t feel disappointed. I felt complete and utter RELIEF. Of course it was Jesus…of course! He’s literally the only man that can fill my heart with such peace. In that moment, just driving to work on a random Wednesday…I knew Jesus was the only man who could destroy the loneliness.

Later that day I had a counseling appointment scheduled. Which I now know was a Divine appointment. Brian, my counselor, was the first to hear the news. Which is fitting, as he is the one who helped me stay on the tracks. One of his first questions was, “how did you feel about Jesus being the man on the tracks.”  I started to cry with pure joy. “I feel precious. Like I’m part of one of the greatest love stories ever told. My pronoun has changed from singular…to plural. My “I” has become a “we!”

We celebrated in that little counseling room that day. We both felt like we were on Holy Ground. The God of the Universe wooed me back to His side with the very fear and pain that I thought would destroy me. He could have removed the fear, the loneliness, the pain at any time. Instead…He used it to reintroduce me to the Lover of my Soul and set me free. I'm the heroine in an epic love story.

And that’s a story I couldn’t keep to myself.

P.S. God and I are talking again. 💗

The Owsley Kids - A Dad's Final Request

As most of you know, my dad died of open heart surgery complications on Thanksgiving Day, 2015. He had been sick for a very long time. For almost a decade, we were told that the damage to his heart was extensive and inoperable…and there was nothing we could do but wait. Dad’s heart was like the crazy, great uncle that would sit silently in the corner at family functions. Nobody wanted to talk about him, but we were all achingly aware that he was there and…at any given moment…he was going to flip out. 

But then Dad had an appointment with a new heart surgeon. The doctor thought there was a chance he could fix his heart and give my dad at least another 10 years of good, quality life. We knew the surgery had potential risk, but were given just enough hope, just enough confidence from a capable heart surgeon, that when we held dad’s hand for the last time…we had convinced ourselves it was a “see you later” and not a “goodbye until heaven.” I have relived that last moment in my mind almost daily since he died.

But I have also relived countless conversations with dad in the months leading up to his surgery. And I’m convinced that he knew…he knew it was going to be “goodbye until heaven.” One of the last things he said to us as he was being prepared for surgery was, “Hey, don’t forget there are two free movie passes in my wallet. Someone needs to use those!” 

In the months leading up to the surgery, Dad also wanted to talk about his funeral. A lot. Which, as you can imagine, made for real fun times. During one such conversation he said to me, “Liss, I don’t want you to talk about me during my funeral.”  I laughed, “Ok, Dad…if we don’t talk about you, then who should we talk about?” His answer?  “My kids. I want you to talk about my kids. You are the best parts of me…and I want everybody at my funeral to know my kids. I want you to talk about each other.”  I looked at him like he was the crazy, great uncle in the corner…and then cracked a joke, as is my habit when I’m uncomfortable. But that conversation has clung to my subconscious day and night. It was essentially his dying wish…that the world know his children. That alone is evidence of how much he loved us. We were literally his pride and joy. 

So, today I’m going to honor one of my dad’s last requests, I’m going to talk about his children. The Owsley kids. I’m going to share with the world the best parts of my dad…that are still alive and well…in us.  

But before I do, I think it’s wise to recall another conversation I had with dad early last year. Once again, we were talking about the fun topic of funerals (I’m telling you…it was one of his favorite subjects). I said, “When I die, I sure hope I don’t get memorialized as a perfect human. I feel like everyone who dies is eulogized as a saint.” Jokingly, Dad said, “Yeah, Liss…that’s one of the perks of dying. Everyone temporarily forgets your flaws.” We had a good chuckle about that. But I think this memory perfectly illustrates a fundamental truth about my dad…he was far from a perfect parent. Oh no. Dad passed down a fair share of his faults too. But today I choose to honor the qualities in his children that made him a GREAT dad. I’ll save the ugly stuff for when I reach the “anger” stage of grief.

JASON (Nickname: Big Brother)

First up, my brother Jason.  I will say right off the bat that one quality that my big brother inherited from Dad was his lack of desire/need to be in the spotlight (see: dad’s request not to talk about him at his own funeral). I’m fairly certain that Jason is going to squirm through his entire section. He’s wondering this very second why his little sister insists on talking about him in such a public forum. Call it modesty. Call it a deep mistrust of social media. Call it whatever you want, but it’s definitely a quality that my dad and big brother both possess. They’re both intense spotlight dodgers. Sorry, Big Brother, you’ve got to do your time…just like the rest of us.

I’ll admit. Jason and I weren’t the closest of siblings growing up. I was just a typical annoying little sister and he was that super smart man-child that looked freakishly like our dad. But the older I’ve gotten…and the closer we’ve gotten, I’ve come to have a deep, abiding respect for Big Brother. He possesses one of Dad’s BEST qualities…a quality that has quite literally sustained our family: stability. Here’s what I always knew to be true about my dad. He was reliable. He would always call me back. He would always follow through on promises. He was steady. He was committed. He was the reason we got to enjoy a crazy, zany mother without fear of her jumping out of a moving vehicle. Because Dad was there…grounding us. Jason has these qualities deep in the marrow of his bones. It was on full, glorious display in that hospital waiting room when our family had to make the hardest decision we’ve ever made…to say “goodbye until heaven.” Big Brother was there. He was our rock. Even in the midst of his own devastation, he did the hard stuff without a moment’s hesitation. And in those moments, we all benefited from an earthly father who taught his son how to be a man.

I know, to a large degree, we have transferred many of the patriarchal responsibilities on to Jason…especially in regards to taking care of the logistics of life without dad. I imagine these responsibilities come with a fair share of emotional weight. But I’m equally sure I’ll never hear a word of complaint from Big Brother.  

Before moving on to my next sibling, I also think it’s important to note that Jason got his deep love of all things geekery from Dad. Sure, it manifested differently in each of them, but at the very heart of it, they’re both big, loveable nerds. And to that I say, live long and prosper, Big Brother…may the Force be with you.

MEEGAN (Nickname: Sister Smeegs)

The next Owsley kid I’d like you to meet is my older, wiser sister, Meegan. She was my dad’s first baby girl…and, oh man, Sister Smeegs was the apple that fell closest to Dad’s personality tree. You see, even though Dad was quiet and unassuming, he had this uncanny ability to make anyone feel comfortable. I think people could sense that he accepted them exactly for who they were. No condemnation. No judgment. (Dang, I sure wish we were talking about me right now, but alas…this quality belongs solely to my sister.) Meegan inherited my dad’s propensity for kindness. She’s just stinking lovely. She has a way of making everyone feel at ease…even at the expense of her own comfort. I have yet to meet anyone on this green earth that dislikes my sister. Well, I disliked her when I was younger, but that’s only because she was SUPER bossy. 

My dad was not an overly emotional man. He did get really shmoopy later in life, but we think that was a combination of drugs and facing his own mortality. As someone who expresses my emotions frequently, I always thought this was a character deficit. But I’ve come to see this quality as an essential ying to the world’s emotional yang. If I’m feeling anxious, angry, or sad…I depend on my sister’s (obnoxious) ability to state the obvious and cut through emotional BS. This calm, steadying influence provides an emotional and mental safe harbor…it’s one of many reasons that I’m madly in love with my sister. And it’s the reason why she’ll always be my first call when there’s an emotional emergency. Sorry, Sister Smeegs.

But I think the quality that my sister has that is most like dad…is her desire for peace. She’d be happy as a lark if the world would just leave her alone indefinitely, so she could read a good book or binge watch TV until her eyes bled.  But, also just like dad…her deep desire for personal space is outweighed only by a profound love for her people. My sister loves her family deeply. The evidence is that she frequently chooses our big, boisterous, LOUD presences over her innate need for peace and quiet.

ALISSA (Nickname: Lee Lee)

Oh man. I can’t describe for you how much I’ve been dreading this part. I’m tempted to just joke my way through it, but my friends have cautioned me against relying on self-deprecation and humor to coast through my feelings. Funny that…as my habit of poking fun at myself comes directly from my dad.

I’ll just start with the most shocking revelation. The quality that I got from my dad that most surprises people is that I’m a certified introvert. Yep, it’s true. My mom will corroborate this fact. A lot of you know that the Owsley’s are kind of known for our social gatherings. And Dad…a hardcore introvert…would often find a chair in the furthest corner of the room and try to be invisible. I’m pretty comfortable in any social situation. I make my living from talking to people. But what most people don’t know…is that just like Dad, people take an extreme toll on my battery life. There is a huge part of me that always longs to sit in a quiet corner with Dad.

But the thing I got from my dad that I most cherish…is my humor.  Dad had a razor sharp wit. He had the Shakespearean ability to milk a phrase for its potential humor. It took me awhile to realize how funny he was because he didn’t assert his humor just for the sake of a good laugh. His humor wasn’t campy. No, he had the kind of wit that made you laugh a minute later…when you finally realized the multiple layers of his joke. I like to think I inherited a little of that ability from Dad. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll go for the campy jokes with great abandon. But I think Dad gave me his deep appreciation for words. He taught me that finding just the right word can take something ordinary…and make it a little more meaningful.

BRYCE (Nickname: 'Lil Bubby)

Lastly, meet the youngest and tallest Owsley, Bryce. He was the “surprise” child that arrived a little over 10 years after the favorite child (me). Dad got to spend a lot more time with Bryce as he grew from boy to man (he was working and traveling a lot more with his first three kids), so I think he got to pour a little bit more of his interests into Bubby. Dad was a star athlete. It took him four kids, but he finally got another athlete…Bubby. Dad was also a dog whisperer...he LOVED dogs and had the ability to charm even the most crotchety of bitches (correct use of the word, people!). My man-hating dog, Chickadee, practically throws herself at Bubby anytime he’s in a five foot radius. Bubby and Dad also shared a deep love of “dinkering” around with mechanics, electronics, and gadgetry. Don’t get me wrong, Bubby is MUCH more successful at his dinkering. He once took apart an engine using Google and deductive reasoning. Dad mostly had several unfortunate incidents involving duct tape and bungee cords.

But there are two qualities in Bubby, in particular, that remind me mostly of Dad.  Dad was a storyteller. He was never content to just state the facts of an event. Oh no, he would always set the scene and build up to the main event with lots of details and context. Bubby too is a storyteller. And he’s taken it to a whole new level, as a modern day troubadour. My little brother has figured out how to combine his love of narratives with his love of music. He tells stories with his songwriting.

When I was growing up, I remember thinking my dad was one of the last true gentlemen on earth. He opened doors. He refused to sit at the dinner table until my mom was seated. He never entered a building before a woman. And even in his last days, when standing was physically painful…he would give up his chair to anyone without a seat. This is one of the things I miss most about Dad’s passing. It feels like I lost one of the last men who treated women like ladies. But then…I think about Bubby. And I remember the time he sprinted across a parking lot to help push an elderly lady in a wheelchair. I remember the countless times he’s opened my door or given up his seat…and I’m reminded that chivalry didn’t die with Dad. It’s alive and well in my little brother. And no doubt a deep influence on why Bubby decided to become a firefighter.  Serving and protecting people is in his blood.

So, there you have it. The four Owsley kids...our dad's living legacy. Just so you know, this was by far the hardest thing I’ve ever written. Not only are my siblings incredibly complex, multi-faceted humans (thus hard to squeeze into a paragraph or two), but it was also nearly impossible to make it through a sentence without grief clouding my perspective. And, for the record, I don’t think it’s possible to truly isolate individual characteristics that we can credit solely to Dad.  

You see, we were also parented by an incredible Mom…and she gets equal credit for imprinting us with the best parts of herself too (don’t worry…she is already dropping hints on what she wants me to write about when she passes). But, most importantly, both parents gave us something even more precious…something that has impacted our character more than anything that their mere humanity could have given us. With their words, actions, and very lives…they pointed us to the heavenly Father and said, “Kids, keep your eyes on Him…not us.”

And, by grace of God, and to my Dad’s great delight…that lesson stuck in all four of his children. Which is why we can look with hope to the future, with tears in our eyes, and say...

 “Goodbye until heaven, Daddy. Thank you for loving us.” 

If you want to see more pictures of Dad...and hear him sing love songs to our mom, click HERE for a video that was made for his memorial service. 

Kids & Rainbows

For the last couple of months, my life has been a series of unfortunate events. No corner of my life has remained untouched…family, work, friendships…everything has experienced its own personal tsunami. If you’ve read any of my previous blog posts, you’ll know that I believe that God uses our suffering to unleash His goodness. I believe this, yes. But these days…I’m having a really, really hard time remembering it. So, here I am again…at my keyboard. Apparently, I’ve become Pavlov’s dog…drooling at the sound of a bell. Anytime I can’t get a handle on my own emotions…I return to the keyboard and write about it. Because it’s only when I read what I write…that I can figure out how the heck I feel. 

So, here goes nothing…

My sister has figured out one fundamental truth about me…I absolutely love her babies. She frequently uses this information to bend me to her will. Instead of asking for something directly, she’ll send one of her little blonde cherubs to ask instead. Occasionally, she’ll even go so far as to text a video of them smiling and telling me they love me. This video is almost always accompanied by a request.  You would think this blatant manipulation would annoy me…but, you see, that’s a part of my sister’s genius. She knows that as soon as I hear one of her cute minions telling me they love me, I completely forget to be annoyed. This shameless behavior only supports my theory that Sister Smeegs is secretly trying to take over the world.  Sadly, if she offered me a blonde baby hug, I’d probably help her do it. 

One of the things I absolutely love about her kids…or ANY kid for that matter…is their eyes. I’m convinced that if we look at life through the eyes of children, we’ll find our purpose for being down here. And if we watch them closely enough, we can discover some our own hibernating longings…the ones that we buried years ago when life got hard and the responsibilities of being a grown up forfeited the very things that made life abundant. I think kids know how to live life abundantly. They all know exactly where to find the treasure at the end of the rainbow. Granted, they often drive their parents freaking crazy trying to get to the treasure. But as grown-ups, we try to convince ourselves (and kids) that there is no damn rainbow…there’s only a long list of things we have to get done in order to survive the day. 

Not too long ago, I got a text from my sister…saying that her babies wanted me to come over and sit by the pool. As usual, she included a video of cute kids in swimming suits. And as you’ve probably guessed, soon thereafter, I found myself sweating by an over-sized kiddie pool as three little blondes tried to impress me with their varied water tricks. No sooner had I sat down when I started to hear the words, “Lee Lee watch me!” The first few times, I obediently focused all of my undivided attention on whatever it is they wanted to show me. But no matter how long or diligently I watched them…no sooner would I blink then I would hear again, “Lee Lee watch me! Are you watching?” Over and over and over again…”Lee Lee watch me! Watch me!” I finally looked at my sister with desperation, “Smeegs…I can’t take it anymore. Make them stop.” She smiled with that all-knowing look of an exhausted mother and said, “Why do you think I invited you over? It was so I could have break from watching them.” 

I learned something important by the pool that day. No matter their age, gender, or personality, kids want us to watch them. But I think it’s more than that. Kids don’t just want your eyes on them…they want some kind of proof that you actually see them. They want somebody to say, “I see you. Here’s what I see. And I approve.”

So, here is my humdinger “ah-ha” moment…if that’s true about kids, it’s also true about us grown-ups. Because before we were all dragging ourselves through days of soul-sucking responsibilities, we were little kids at parks and in pools, chanting, “Watch me, watch me, watch me!” Sure, we can’t chant that now…or other grown-ups would think we had lost our ever-loving minds. But I think our hearts are still saying it…over and over again…even if some of us have done a bang-up job of trying to ignore it.

Some of you may be wondering, “This is all good stuff, Owsley…but what does it have to do with suffering?” Good question. I guess it comes down to one thing: when everything is stripped away and you’re vulnerable, afraid, and in pain…who is still watching you? Who hasn’t taken their eyes off of your life…even when your life has gotten really hard to watch?

I think what I’ve learned through my emotional tsunamis’ is that God never takes His eyes off of me…not even for a moment. And because He loves me beyond measure, He has gifted me with people to sit next to me and say, “I see you. Here’s what I see. And I approve.” I am profoundly grateful for these people…their eyes allow me to see God’s goodness, even when I can’t remember to look for myself. 

Friends, if you love someone…don’t close your eyes. Don’t be silent. Give them proof that you’re watching their life…and you approve of what you see. That kind of love is a bullet train to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It points us straight to our longings…and our longings point us straight to God. 

My Wait Problem: A Mexican Standoff

 

 

Disclaimer: If you haven’t  already done so...you may want to read Part 1 (My Wait Problem) of this blog series before you dive into reading Part 2.  It’ll probably make more sense.  Or you could just be a rebel and read this one first. I don’t care...suit yourself, you crazy nut job.  

Do you know what I think of when I think about waiting?  Checkout lines...I think about checkout lines.

A little fun fact about Alissa: I have a spiritual gift for choosing the absolute slowest line in any given store.  Seriously...every time.  I’ve even tried to fool myself by picking the line that I wasn’t going to initially pick...thinking that I could somehow psych my line-picking-instinct out and end up in the faster line. Never works. I have the uncanny ability to get in the line with underage checkers (for adult beverage purchases), slow checkers, checkers-in-training, broken checkers, chatty checkers...or, the piece de resistance...getting behind the lady with a binder full of coupons.  Ohhhhh yeah. Talk about a prime opportunity to learn about waiting.  Stand in line behind a binder full of coupons as the “beep, beep, beep” slowly erodes your last remaining nerve.  Then, invariably, the coupon lady glances at me with a chagrined “sorry about this” look...and I just shrug as if to say, “Not your fault, Coupon Lady...my line-picker is broken.”   

Think about it.  Our days are marked by waiting.  It’s everywhere.  From standing in a checkout line to standing next to a gravesite...everything around us is filled with the tension of delayed fulfillment.  And if I’ve learned one thing from my own broken-down story, it’s this: how we respond to this tension will define our faith...whether we are aware of it or not.  

I used to believe waiting was just a Divine test to see how long I could hold my breath during a Mexican standoff.  (I’ve actually employed the “breath-holding” technique when standing behind coupon lady in the checkout line. It’s not recommended). Seriously...I thought waiting was just a big, ‘ol dramatic deadlock between me and my longings.  Whoever takes the first shot...loses. And when my lungs started to burn and my trigger finger started to shake, I’d call upon the promise found in Isaiah 40:31 “...they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.”  This sweet Scripture would always fill my lungs with just enough oxygen to continue holding my breath. 

 

For years, this belief system worked for me.  Everyone knows I like a good challenge.  Besides, the tension of waiting felt less powerful when I was holding a loaded gun to the forehead of my deepest desires.  That way if I began to feel them trying to claw their way to the surface again...I had the option of pulling the trigger. 

But the fundamental problem with this belief system...is if you hold your breath for too long, you’ll eventually pass out.  And in a Mexican Standoff, if you pull the trigger on your opponent, you’ll end up killing yourself too.  

For almost 20 years, I have been holding my breath for marriage.   No, not just marriage...I have been holding my breath for love (Eros).  Companionship. Someone to bear witness to my life.  Someone to share the burden. Someone to hold my hand.  This is not easy for me to admit. Everybody knows I’m 37 and single, so it should be a foregone conclusion that I want to get married, right?  Sure.  But I’m not talking about a “want.”  I’m talking about a bone-deep, agonizing, life-altering longing that clings to me day and night.  And I spend almost all of my daily allotment of emotional energy trying to convince the world (and myself) that this longing hasn’t ravaged my heart.  It’s hard enough to wade through the constant tension of an unfulfilled longing...it’s exhausting having to pretend I’m not devastated about it.

I know this will scandalize all the feminists reading this, but I truly believe women are designed to be help-mates.  We’re not created to be alone.  I believe we’re more than capable of living independently from a “mate”...but, in doing so, it goes against our purpose.  And, as a single woman who has learned how to live independently very well, I have never been able to shake the feeling that my “best” day of being a single woman can’t even compare to bad day of being a help-mate in a committed marriage.  I know all the exhausted, disillusioned married folks may disagree with me.  I’ve seen how some of you long for my single lifestyle. It probably looks like a vacation.  But perpetual vacation is a mirage.  Being single is really, really hard work.  And it feels like work that has been inflicted on me...rather than something I have chosen for myself. 

So, how does a woman survive a life where her very purpose is denied her?  Where the tension of waiting is so ingrained that she has weaved it into the very fabric of her belief system?  How does a woman hold her breath for over 20 years without causing extensive damage? 

Short answer?  She doesn't.  Keep reading...

Our story is a series of life-altering events.  Some of these events are huge and obnoxious. They manifest as death, illness, divorce or EF5 tornadoes.  Others are like pebbles in our shoes...constant irritants that still have the power to alter our walk of faith.  Either way, our hearts are ravaged.  But life doesn’t stop.  Bills still need to be paid.  People still need us to function.  So, inevitably, we begin to rebuild our defenses brick-by-brick...belief-by-belief...decision-by-decision...until we figure out how to live with the tension of surviving down here.

I think my diminishing faith in the God of the Universe is a result of years of faulty brick-laying.  At some point in my life, I decided to believe that if I stood in the street long enough...and called upon God often enough (when my longings dared to move or my lungs started to burn) then, eventually, He would reward my “waiting” by giving me the desires of my heart.  Brick-by-brick, decision-by-decision my faith eroded and my anger grew.

You see, I had a deadline on this whole waiting thing.  A girl can only be a badass for so long.  Eventually my arms got tired.  I started feeling entitled to the desires of my heart.  And when that happened...I began living like a victim of my circumstances.  I even use words like “inflicted” to describe my singleness.  But even worse? When I live my whole life trying to be a badass, I impose the same standards on everybody else.  So, when they fail to win the standoff in their own lives...I use it as self-righteous fuel to keep pointing my gun at my own longings.  The result is that I become like the priest Asaph in Psalms 73, “when my soul was embittered, when I was pricked in the heart, I was brutish and ignorant; I was like a beast toward you.”  And, come to find out, brutish and ignorant beasts don’t deal well with the tension of waiting.    

In the last few months, as my ambivalence has forced me to take a long-hard look at myself, the Spirit has taught me that waiting isn’t a Mexican standoff...it’s a bloody, dangerous shootout. And as it turns out...the enemy is NOT my longings.  Oh no, my longings are the good guys.  They're hungry and itchy, yes...but they're also a beacon of light...connecting me to the Lover of my Soul.  The true enemy is the Father of Lies.  And he has heavy artillery pointed right at my heart.  As I’ve deluded myself into thinking I was a badass, a steady stream of flaming lies have been raining down on me with deadly accuracy.  And because of those wounds, I lost my faith in the one thing that could save me...TRUTH. 

See, here’s the thing.  We are all waiting for something.  Every single person reading this blog feels the tension of delayed fulfillment.  Sometimes that feels like an annoying pebble in our shoes...sometimes it feels like our skin is melting off our body.  But the true heart-saving question becomes...do we have enough faith to allow ourselves to just feel?  Feel the tension of unfulfilled longing?  Do we have enough faith to put down our bricks and weapons and just...wait? 

Our story is more than just a series of life-altering events.  Our story is a battlefield of life-altering decisions. Over and over again.  Day in and day out.  Moment by moment. We decide who we’re going to believe. 

Imagine this: you're standing perfectly still as the enemy charges straight at you...gun raised...screaming how much he hates you.  His eyes are wild.  His hands are bloody.  His only goal is to maim and destroy you.  He’s coming closer and closer.  Do you feel the tension?  Is your trigger finger trembling?  Are you afraid?  Good.  Now imagine the God of the Universe draws near and whispers in your ear, “Wait.”  (Exodus 14:14)

Decision time.  Do you hold your breath?  Do you draw your weapon? Do you pick up another brick?  Or do you choose to wait...believing with every trembling nerve in your body that the God of the Universe has promised to intervene? 

I have learned that waiting and faith are two sides of the same coin. The more I feed my faith...the more the tension ebbs.  And as I wait for the desire of my heart...to be loved and chosen by a man (or to finally get in a fast-moving check out line), I will be inundated with many opportunities to feel the tension of the bloody battle for my heart.  I can choose to be a brutish and ignorant beast who has relinquished her shield of faith.  Or I can choose to be a Princess Badass, dressed in the full armor of God...holding perfectly still.

My Wait Problem

Many years ago, a visiting pastor said from the pulpit, “I’m convinced that every person who comes to me for counseling has an untreated weight problem.”   I, of course, was offended.  I had enough extra pounds to carry around without this guy adding the extra burden of psychological instability. But then he spelled it for me...W-A-I-T problem.  He went on to say that we can trace every addiction...every act of disobedience...every sin...back to one fundamental problem: as humans, we totally suck at waiting.  

Audrey II with Chicken Pox = Our Longings

I have never forgotten that sermon.  Which is saying something...cause I’ve heard a few.  His point was that we’re all born with inherent longings.  Big ‘ol hungry, itchy longings that, without constant supervision, have the power to drive us quietly mad.  (I totally imagine Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors meets a really bad case of chicken pox).  These longings are demanding.  They’re insatiable.  And they’re absolutely inescapable.  But here’s the kicker, we’re not supposed to scratch or feed our own longings.  Nope. The Scripture is clear on this point...only The Way can give us abundant life.  Only the blood of The Lamb can truly satisfy our constant craving. 

Wow. Did the God of the Universe really infect us with a constant case of emotional chicken pox and then warn us not to use backscratchers and calamine lotion?   This seems...cruel...and very un-Godlike. 

But it gets worse.  We’re all stuck in a world that is peddling anti-itch creams on EVERY street corner.  Drink this.  Eat this.  Try this.  Sniff this.  Screw this.  Read this.  Watch this.  Pin this.  Post this.  Buy this. Oh yeah, the World says waiting is for chumps and cowards.  We’re supposed to seize the day and create our own happiness. Even good-intentioned churches join the fray...offering spiritual solutions and programs to try to stem the inflammation. 

But despite our faithful waiting, the slow burn goes on for months, years or even a lifetime.  So, here’s the humdinger question: what if God chooses not to alleviate that deep ache for romantic love... health...babies...reconciliation...touch...security...acceptance...companionship...or for whatever it is that you ache for?  Do you just keep waiting?  Or do you reach for something – anything – to alleviate the pain?  

I’ve been thinking about these questions a lot lately.  In the shower.  On my way to work.  When I go to sleep.  When I wake up.  And the more I think about it, the more I come to a paralyzing, unflattering conclusion: my diminishing faith in God directly correlates with my festering wait problem.  And my festering wait problem is being fed by a deep pool of untreated anger. 

For those of you who have been kind enough to read my blog, you may have noticed that I’ve been eerily quiet for almost a year.  This is not a coincidence.  Somewhere along the line, slowly and without conscious thought, I totally gave up.  I stopped caring.  I threw in the proverbial towel. For 37 years I had tried to wait the way I was told to wait...sometimes failing miserably, mind you...but I still tried.  Yet the net effect was that I was still waiting.  People were still suffering.  Bad stuff still happened.  People still hurt me.  And my blasted longings always managed to claw their way back to the surface and demand more attention.  No way, God.  I’ve tried it your way for years and I’m still lonely, overweight, and generally unfulfilled.  I think I’m the only one left who is actually trying to wait.  Maybe it’s true...maybe I am a chump and a coward.

So, I dropped the microphone and walked off the stage. I no longer wanted to write about something that in my dark, quiet places...I no longer believed.   God is good, yes...but is He good enough?

Oh man.  I can almost hear some of you flipping through your mental Bible verse rolodexes.  Bless her heart; this girl needs the Word!  You may even feel like you should stop reading and start praying for my eternal soul.  I’m totally ok with that. I’m a huge fan of prayer and the Word.  But I hope you’ll temporarily suspend your internal need to fix me...and just keep reading.   My story isn’t over.  Besides, whether you admit it or not...this is your story too. 

A lot of really, really bad things have happened lately.  Really, really bad things.  To me...and to those around me.  Evil is on the move.  And I think the question of whether or not we have an untreated wait problem has become a matter of life and death.  Because if I’ve learned one thing in the last year...it’s that we never really stop believing.  We always believe something.  Always. 

It is through my story of ambivalence and resignation that I have slowly and painfully realized that for 37 years, I have believed all the wrong things about what it means to wait.  And it’s this twisted, toxic belief that has poured lighter fuel on my anger.    

The irony is that, like a petulant child, I kept waiting for the Spirit to show up and fix it.  I mean...He’s the Spirit.  He’s supposed to tell me what to do about my problems, right?   I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing until He intercedes on my behalf. 

Yet, despite my petulance...He did show up.  There was no sunset or choir of angels.  There was no magic moment.  It was just a quiet, still voice that said, “Daughter, you’re not waiting...you’re stalling.  I’m the one waiting.  Pick up the microphone.  Say what you really think.  I can handle it.”  

 

Touché, God...touché. 

So, I find myself here.  At my keyboard.  I wish I could say it was a selfless act.  It isn’t.  As Flannery O’Conner once said, “I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say.”  I’m hoping that by showing up here...I’ll finally get some answers.  And maybe...just maybe...by watching a lonely, overweight and generally unfulfilled woman struggle with what it really means to wait...you’ll get some answers too.  And then maybe life won’t itch so damn bad. 

To Be Continued...soon.

 

My Lump of Faith

This is a true story of a lump and a total lack of faith: an autobiography.

It was about two months ago...on a Tuesday.  I was in the shower doing my shower-thing...lathering and what-not...when all of the sudden, there it was.  A lump.  A pretty obvious one, at that.  What?  Where did that come from?  Was that there yesterday?   My mind immediately took off in a million directions as I became the Louis and Clark of lump exploration.  Every piece of rational thought exited my brain at record breaking speeds as I stood paralyzed in a now lukewarm shower.  Wait, what am I supposed to do? 

So, being the reasonable woman that I am...I opted for the shut-up-and-pretend-I-didn’t-notice method of emergency management.  

But about 45 minutes later...after a rather harried “what the HECK” conversation with God, I decided pretending wasn’t one of my spiritual gifts.  So, on the way to work, I called my doctor and made an appointment.  But the darned thing was...I couldn’t get an appointment until the following Tuesday.  Oh boy.  Do you know how much damage a girl can do with 7 days, WebMD, and an overactive imagination? 

And yet...I still kept my mouth shut and didn’t tell a soul what I had found that morning.  I know, right?  Not my usual method of coping.  But for some reason, this particular medical condition felt really personal.  Really intimate.  Probably because it had to do with my boob.  There, I said it.  Boob.  I feel better.

Several days passed...days spent mostly on half-hearted and comical attempts to distract myself.  I’m sure I did what any woman would do under the circumstances...I tried to convince myself that I completely imagined it.   Everybody knows I am pre-disposed to extreme flights of fancy, right?   Just the other day I was convinced that a binder clip was a huge hairy spider.  Yes, mental instability was a lovely alternative to the big “c” word...and, so... I decided to ignore it.

I made it to Friday. 

Friday morning...on the way to work...I decided to call the doctor’s office back and use all my “wink and twinkle” to con my way into an appointment that day.  Apparently, I’m a wink and twinkle ninja...because an hour later I was sitting in an empty examination room trying to appear calm. 

The nurse came into the room to take my vitals.  She instructed me to strip down and put on an oversized hospital gown.  Does anyone else hate hospital gowns?  I know, right?  They rob us of all dignity.  And all I can think about is how many other stranger’s naked butts have touched it.  I asked the nurse if I could keep my pants on.  She laughed like I had told a great joke.  Of course I could keep my pants on...it was a breast examination.  I laughed too.  Not because I thought it was funny...but because keeping my pants on felt like a small victory.  Wink and twinkle ninja wins again!  (See, I told you.  Extreme flights of fancy.)

So, there I sat.  In a cold examination room.  By myself.  Clutching the front of blue faded hospital gown.  Waiting...staring at the door....and waiting. 

I think we can learn a lot about ourselves in those moments.  The moments right before we are reminded, once again, that very little is under our control.  I learned a lot about myself in the waiting...and very little of it was flattering.

Eventually, that door did open.  And in walked a very, VERY young man wearing a white lab coat.  He was a medical student named Jake...the clean-shaven boy next door.  In a nervous, stammering voice he asked if I minded if he examined me while I waited for the doctor.  It soon became clear that I was Jake’s first breast exam.  Well, “medical” breast examine at least.  I know, right?  This is my life.  And that’s how I knew I was truly a nervous wreck.  I didn’t even try to crack a joke.  And, man-oh-man, there were so many possibilities.  I never once told Jake he had to put a ring on it.  Opportunity missed.  Instead, we just mutually agreed to weather the awkwardness through silence. 

Eventually my doctor came in and examined me.  Yes, she confirmed...you have lump.  I needed a mammogram.  And once again...I found myself in the waiting.

My appointment wasn’t until Monday.  It was Friday.  I got to experience a whole weekend of waiting.  Which means...of course...I got to experience a whole weekend of ignoring the big-‘ol-possibly- cancerous-elephant in my left boob. 

By this time, I was smart enough to break my silence and tell a very small group of people about the lump.  And that very small group of people were smart enough to ask a much larger group of people to pray for me. 

Monday finally arrived.  I had meticulously prepared by breaking out a brand new razor to shave my armpits...and by wearing my “nice” bra.   I grabbed a granola bar...swung by and picked up my mom...and then drove across town to be felt up by more strangers.  But the good news?  I totally got to keep my pants on the whole time. 

I was shuffled from room to room that morning...all by very nice, very happy women wearing colorful scrubs.  I learned that if a girl has to have her boob squeezed by a complete stranger...it actually helps if the stranger is happy.   Nobody wants to be fondled by someone who’s not enjoying it, right?   It also helped to know that at age 36...I was the youngest woman in the waiting room by at least 20 years.  Which means I totally had the perkiest breasts.  That’s probably why those nurses were so happy.

After my mammogram, they took me in to get an ultrasound.  A very pregnant technician lubed me up and then started looking for the infamous lump.  She had the monitor turned at an angle...so, I could see the screen.  There it was.  I could totally see it.  A dark mass.  She spent several minutes taking pictures at different angles...measuring it.  Typing.  Measuring it some more.  I could see it.  A mass.  All of the sudden, ignoring it no longer became an option. 

Eventually she happily excused herself...telling me that the Radiologist would take a few minutes to look at the pictures and then he’d be in to talk to me.  I was left alone again.  In an oversized hospital gown.  Staring at the door...waiting. 

Many of you already know the ending to this story.  And many of you are only reading this story to find out the ending.  But, you see...I didn’t write this story to tell you about the ending.  I finally picked up my “pen” to tell you about the 5 minutes I spent alone in that ultra-sound room.  Left alone with the realization that I had a mass in my left breast...and I could no longer pretend otherwise. 

I said earlier that we could learn a lot about ourselves in the waiting.  What do we do?  What do we think?  What do we feel?  What do we pray?  Those moments when something is held in the balance and we have no control over the outcome...those are very telling moments.     

Those five minutes told me that I do not trust the God of the Universe to say “yes.”  Instead, I almost expect Him to say “no” or “not yet.”   And so my prayers aren’t prayers for miracles...they’re prayers for survival. 

Oh dear.  When did that happen?  When did I stop praying for a “yes” to the desires of my heart? 

I laid on that ultrasound table and prayed that God would give me the strength to survive a battle with cancer.  As if cancer was a foregone conclusion.   I could almost hear the Father say, “Oh, Alissa...ye of little faith.”

I think my journey of physical suffering has conditioned me to expect more suffering.  And even more twisted...I almost prefer it.  You see, when I’m hanging on to my last shred of sanity...dry heaving over and over again...faith seems easy.  It’s all I have left.  There’s no possible way to rely on myself when I have absolutely nothing worth relying on.  My body is broken.  My mind is numb.  And my heart is shattered.  But what if...what if I had a “yes” to good health?  What if I had a “yes” to a loving husband?   What if I had a “yes” to a life of meaning?  Would I know what to do with that? 

So, instead of facing the profound possibility that the God of the Universe would say “yes” to something that seems so out of my reach...I’ve started carefully crafting my prayers, so that I won’t be devastated if the answer is “no.”  

The result of this lack of faith...is that I began to live life where “yes” is the more terrifying answer.  Oh dear.  When did that happen? 

Eventually, my five minutes of reckoning came to an end...and the radiologist walked through that infamous door.  He quickly and succinctly explained to me that my mass was most likely benign.  And that I have something called Fibroadenoma.   Not uncommon in women my age...and likely a 99% chance it’s not cancerous.  I’ll have to get an ultrasound every 6 months for a couple of years...but he assured me, I probably had nothing to worry about. 

Well, what do you know...God said “yes” to good health. 

It has taken me many weeks to realize the length and depth of Abba’s true gift to me.  He needed to get my attention...and He used a lump in my left breast to do it.   Admittedly, sometimes I’m a bit slow to see God’s grace...even when I’m carrying it around in my bra.    

My lump taught me that in order to experience the crazy, wild, outrageous love of Abba...I have to trust Him to say “yes” to the crazy, wild, outrageous desires of my heart. 

Brothers and sisters...if you’re reading this blog, it’s for a reason.   He wants to remind us all to pray like crazy people.  Ask Him for things that feel scandalous and presumptuous.  Don’t live a life in fear of the “yes.”  Because if I’ve learned one thing in this wild, messy life down here...it’s that even when God says “no” to something I want...He’s ALWAYS saying “yes” to what I need. 

Today, I’m going to pray for a healthy body, a hot husband, and life lived smack dab in the middle of meaning and abundant joy...a life where wearing pants is optional and cupcakes grow on trees.

What are you going to pray for?