Old time family vacation

Last Saturday morning, far too early in the young day, I was awake but trying to go back to sleep.  Too soon to get up for a weekend, I felt something familiar but from way back.  It took me a while to identify what I was remembering, but then it occurred to me that the birdsongs, the warm and quiet breeze, the stretching of an awakening morning, the lack of road sounds, the summerness of it all was taking me to a time when I was younger than 12.  Leaving from a week’s vacation in Utah, getting a head start on a promised roaster, as we headed south on I-15.

In the early years it was the station wagon; later, the van.  Both made me slightly nervous as we crossed Death Valley in the middle of summer in the heat of the day as we traveled back to San Diego from our annual pilgrimage to visit our cousins and aunt and uncle in Utah.  I wondered what would happen to us if we overheated, which seems like it was more of a thing back then?

My dad was an upholster and my mom worked in a bank.  We had a one-week family vacation a year, and this was it.  Nearly every other day of the year my two sisters and I went to year-round school and daycare.  There was an occasional day when daycare was closed and we’d have to go spend the day with someone from church or our grandma.  My mom did have a week off at Christmas, and I loved having a stay-at-home even as temporary as it was. But this was the highlight of our year.

Embarking on our trip, leaving from San Diego on a Friday night, the idea was for my mom to get off a little early so we could get out of town and head north at a decent hour.  Year after year this was the first argument of the trip.  My dad refused to prepare before we were all loaded in the vehicle.  We needed to gas up and pick up a new pair of sunglasses.  It was usually 6 p.m. by this time.  Grandma packed us food.  Celery and peanut butter wrapped in wax paper in a shoebox is the only part I can remember besides soda.  But we never ate it, which is why I have no idea what else we had on board.  We did pick up Mama Lina’s sandwiches from the deli across the busy street from our apartment: luscious subs on homemade bread with precisely the right amount of oil and vinegar dripping into the paper wrap.  The second argument of the trip was that a man needed a hot meal.  Requiring a pit stop to get a burger within an hour or so of us commencing our trip. 

An additional argument would be the air conditioning.  My dad would point it directly on himself even as we were sweltering in the back of the long station wagon or van.  Then he’d get cold and turn it off altogether.  Maybe vents for the backs of vehicles hadn’t been invented back then, but it was a constant battle.

I remember stopping in Las Vegas for gas en route.  It was, of course, dark but surreal, like opening the door to a hairdryer.  Such heat I’d never felt the likes of especially not at night.  And the lights.  It was like another world, so luminous and beckoning.  As sleepy as we may have been, this was a diversion we never wanted to miss.  So stimulating, such a thrill for us to be in such a strange land, a visual reminder that we were inching closer to our eventual destination.

What we did to occupy ourselves, I have no idea.  I just know we traveled into the darkening abyss until we docked in Mesquite, Nevada, around midnight to lodge overnight.  These were the days of optional seat belts and the rows of seats being folded to create a generous platform for sleeping or lounging.  You certainly have heard the tales, if not lived them.

We’d straggle to our motel room hours past our regular bedtime.  In olden-day establishments that might not have been reputable even then. Emblazoned in my mind was a time when we opened up the door with the key, turned on the lights, and watched the orange carpet emerge as a million or more cockroaches scurried to their hiding spots: brown to orange flooring appearing in seconds.  A challenge for a sleepy young mind to interpret for sure.  My dad marched right back to the office and asked if there was an extra charge for the cockroaches and took us elsewhere.  Can you even imagine what the bedbug situation might have been?  The bedspreads were original floral sorts.  That stale cigarette stench impregnated walls, upholstery, and carpet.  And yet even now old bowling alleys and antique shops with that same smell sort of transport me back to nights like this with my family.

We’d sleep soundly—as we all do in those perfectly climatized rooms with cold, loud air conditioning and thick, heavy, full-coverage curtains darkening out the light from both night and day on the other side.  But we always awoke full of anticipation, eager to be on our way to meet up with our cousins.  We were so close.

But this was always another of the difficulties of the trip.  My mom would be up early, dressed and ready for the day; we girls would follow suit.  But my dad slept.  He argued that he’d been up driving all night; couldn’t a man get some sleep?  I have to laugh now, but I can’t imagine the frustration both my parents felt.

But breakfast in Dixie called, of all things, Dick’s Diner, eventually smoothed things over, as diners have a tendency to do. Mom ordered eggs benedict (whatever that is) and the rest of us would have pancakes.  After breakfast, we would go to the little gift shop that was part of the diner, which is exactly weird now that I think about it.  I’d buy postcards or a glass animal for my collection or a plastic Indian doll, a tiny stuffed koala that I named Timmy.  My youngest sister would buy one of those bottles with a penny in it or a cheap little coin purse with beads on it.

We stopped for burgers for lunch, my middle sister always ordered one with ketchup and lettuce only.  My dad wanted a malt but always complained that they weren’t like the ones in the 50s; he wanted one thin enough to drink with a straw.  We were always embarrassed.  But now that I’m older I totally get it.  

By afternoon when we began to catch a glimpse of the mountains, our excitement escalated to the point of no return.  None of us could sleep or read because we were too focused on determining which mountain would contain the Y, our beacon of hope.

It was a small but glorious reunion: an aunt, uncle, a boy cousin and a girl cousin.  But they were the only family my mom had in all of America.  These were our people, and we were free from everyday life at daycare for an entire week.  One of the parts we loved most was Sparky.  We couldn’t have pets in our apartment, and so a week with a dog was novel and intoxicatingly amusing.

Our entertainment for the week trumped even Christmas, starting with dinner at Heaps o’ Pizza (aka Brick Oven south of the BYU campus) that first Saturday night.  Such a glorious kickoff, pizza and apple beer in a restaurant booth with everyone.  I was as content as Templeton at the fair.

Until Sunday.  I hated going to church as a visitor.  No one ever knew where La Mesa was, so we eventually learned to tell them all we were from San Diego even though it didn’t feel as precise.  A hardship for sure, I feel my own children’s pains when they balk at attending youth classes with strangers.

Over the years the details changed only slightly.  Our uncle worked at BYU so we would go visit him on campus in his upper-floor, windowed office. He seemed so important; his work so tidy.  Although I dreamed of a day, I couldn’t reach far enough down the road of my imagination to conceptualize attending this university as a student.  How interesting it was for me to walk those same halls as young student, grown up enough apparently to visit my uncle on my own.

As much as we adored our uncle, the main reason for visiting campus was the book store, as it is even today when we visit Utah.  Far more than a literary warehouse, it is three floors of nearly everything you can think of from art, bumper stickers, and jewelry to arguably the world’s best fudge, extensive candy counter, and collection of collegiate wearables. A new sweatshirt was a given, the souvenir of choice.  They were expensive, as they are still today; but it was a non-negotiable.  One year our middle sister insisted on a letterman’s jacket, cajoling mom into buying it for her, insisting she would just wear it with jeans and a white t-shirt—our go-to foundational pieces whenever asked what we would wear with whatever item we were trying to get mom to buy us. It had a cougar on it.

The rest of the week’s activities rivaled the thrill of our day on campus.  We spent hours at a waterslide park that had just three blue slides: the minnow, the octopus, and the barracuda.  Mom and her sister would sit and tan, talking and talking and talking.  It was the same as we got older and ventured to Salt Lake to go to Raging Waters in an old borrowed green Baptist van that smelled a little off.  They had no idea where we were during any part of the day because that's just the way things were back then.  We’d go to the Young Ambassador shows and the mall, bowling in the basement of the student center at BYU and to the Stadium of Fire for the 4th of July show.  I remember holding a sparkler for the first time during one of these trips and noting the brave cousins and friends who would watch the fireworks from the roof.

One year my dad insisted on taking us to the family farm in Preston, Idaho.  I think my mom felt resentment about having to leave her sister for an entire day (it was a four-hour drive each way—that’s when the speed limit was much slower), but it was a family reunion and we needed to be there.  So many old people, so many relatives I had no idea about.  It was not my scene.  But I rode a horse.  And my grandparents and other cousins were there.  And it was sort of neat to see where my dad used to spend time as a kid and to hear about bats in their attic bedroom.  Small and quaint.  I know I would appreciate its charm if I could go back today.

We tried camping one year.  But neither of our families knew how to camp.  My aunt and uncle borrowed two pop-up campers that no one really knew how to set up, and the moms made mountains of food that we eventually just tossed.   We drank some bad water at a mountain reception and had diarrhea and violent stomach aches the entire time we were in Zion and Bryce.  So so sad.  Beautiful country, and we all but missed it.  But it makes for a marvelous memory.

So basically we'd just go swimming and shopping most of the week, picking up candy, cassette tapes and freckles (and sometimes blisters) along the way.  Just a glorious way to spend a portion of summer.  And so hard to return to regular life the next.  But as our vacation came to a close, we were satisfied.  Dad needed to get back to his upholstery work, and mom had to get back to the bank.  We had lived large and had soaked in all the memories we could hold for one year.

For some reason, I've reserved a place in my mind for those pleasant, sleepy mornings as our parents loaded up the van or station wagon with our suitcases and pillows.  All we’d have to do was hug the grown-ups goodbye, assume our positions in the vehicle and return to sleep, a blissful escape from the permanence of leaving the week behind. A sinking, hollow feeling hung in the air. But like the morning I awoke to just last week, the early canyon breezes felt refreshing, piercing the already warming dawn as the neighborhood still slumbered.  It felt like we were up before the day even yawned, as if we were trying to sneak away before we could change our minds and stay just one more day.  For an entire year, we would miss our family—and having a dog.  Our parents seemed happier, lighter, more relaxed; and we laughed a bit more than usual during this week away. And maybe these trips were part of the glue that kept our family together the rest of the year.  These were unforgettable times, and as simple as they were, they are etched in my heart forever.  Which is why I can still feel Utah in my Montana summer mornings.




*Thank you to Cheryl for helping me remember so far back into our lives as kids.

Saving the world

Just another uncomfortable silence as the last of the kids finally left for the day and I’m alone with my thoughts.  The boys are at work; Avery is off to a meeting and work as well.  We were just in the kitchen, she making her lunch and me making sandwich rolls and chocolate cake for dinner tonight, each of us so alike in the way we make our messes.

She just launched her thrift shop online, is continuing volunteer work with a group that encourages young voters, and is full of ideas to save the world.  She is majoring in international relations and wants to become an advocate for women. 

As we talked together, I told her we really aren’t that different.  She disagrees.  Which leads me to feel rejected.  I told her I was very much like her as a teenager, I joined amnesty international, I wore shirts with slogans about saving the whales and the oceans, we collected cans and newspaper to earn money for our school, we were uptight with our water usage, my grandma was a stickler about recycling, and my favorite class was oceanography.  I've always had an affinity for nature, have a soft heart for those less fortunate and am intrigued by documentaries and books about the environment and the poor, wishing there was more I could do. I wasn’t anywhere as well-read or as aware as she is, and I didn’t know much about the causes I was trying to benefit, but I bought the shirt to help Bosnia and ran the booth to send care packages to our servicemen in college anyway. I did the tiniest bits I could think of to assist.  It wasn’t much, but I felt drawn to these people and causes that tugged at my heart.

I tried to explain that just because I’ve never been to a rally or a protest or a sit-in doesn’t mean I don’t care about the world or that I’m not trying to make a difference.  Not at all.  But I know she doesn’t believe that my efforts are the same or as valiant as those who are more prominent or vocal.

I apologize to myself and to the world. I am not as confident in showing up in a big way and am much more timid when it comes to putting myself out there.  The news makes me nervous, it honestly hurts my stomach and almost paralyzes me.  When I read a book or story or hear a clip about the pains and suffering, my own life seems beyond pointless. It is difficult to muster up the strength to clean a bathroom or shop for more food when so much of the world is impoverished, starving and homeless.  Why all this luxury, for what?  And so it has the opposite effect on me than it does on Avery.   It propels her to action, it gives her fighting energy.  It only makes me sad, despondent and overwhelmed with hopelessness. I feel immense visceral guilt for the life I have.  Which makes me feel completely useless.

And so I have tended to the causes and people that I've personally felt led to instead.  I’ll never be a leader type; I can’t imagine being front and center of anything.  I don’t feel pulled to travel to other countries or even to large demonstrations.  But for as long as I’ve known myself, I’ve felt a desire to help closer to home in small, nearly imperceptible, ways.

But is it any less noble to notice the one?  To visit the ladies who live alone or in a home that isn’t their own?  Was it helpful at all to read to the blind, recording textbooks in a small quiet library room to a tape recorder for friends I’d never meet?  Does it make a difference to send letters and notes and prayers and love across the miles even to strangers I’ll never meet?

A friend asked me just yesterday what I do all day.  I think I hate that question.  Because I feel like I have to validate how I use my time, to prove that I’m making worthwhile choices, that I am somehow contributing.  I told her the basics, where I volunteer, that we’re remodeling our house so I paint and do a lot of yard/housework.  I tend to the housekeeping of course and I cook a lot.  But nope, I don’t have a podcast, I’ve never taken a humanitarian trip or served a mission.  I refuse to be on the school board or go door to door to encourage the bond vote.  Just thinking about any of that gives me great anxiety.

So I try to tell Avery that even though it doesn’t look like much at all from her vantage point, the greatest success in life is never out there.  It is here.  Who cares about all the work you do across the oceans or continents if your own family is falling apart?  I tell her all the time this is a small recess for me, just a few short years that I want to devote myself to this cause.  I guess people can see it as a sacrifice of my own career, that I’ve given up myself and my potential to mop floors and cook dinners, that I’m not as valuable as those who have careers or organizations they’re growing because I’m just a mom. I tell her over and over that this is temporary.  I have decades to do whatever I want. But that this is the most important, influential work I’ll ever do in my life regardless of what else I choose to fill my time with later on.

The greatest, most powerful institution and organizational unit in the world is the family.  Without question.  Why would I not insist on putting my best energies here?  I have just five kids.  The most valuable thing I have done with my time—in all my lifetime—is to be present for them.  To teach them.  To answer them.  To guide them.  To explain to them.  To read to them.  There is no greater feeling than seeing them all take off, independent, confident, able, secure, and ready.   To have played the tiniest role in their growth overrides any sense of accomplishment anywhere else.

And I have just four more years with kids at home.  Only four.  I know they don’t require me in the traditional way toddlers do, but I believe teenagers still need parental influence and presence.  I’m content and honored with the work I do, both at home and in the slightest ways I can share joy with those around me with.

But I feel like I’ve not lived up to the role model Avery has wanted, and she surely doesn’t intend to waste her life the way I have.  I refer her to so many of my women friends who are doing exceptional work in the community and the world.  They are enthusiastically engaged in their causes, and their personalities are much more like hers.  My personality is simply and innately more reserved.  Maybe I’ve done her a disservice by not exposing her to more of these amazing women.

But I also wonder if she’s ever considered where she got the ideas she has or how she has been able to develop her passions.  It's possible her home life contributed in a small way to her open-mindedness and care for the environment and empathy for the less fortunate by our conversations and what we value, what we watch and what we read and what publications we subscribe to. But just because some choose a quieter path, those contributions can still have merit.  There is a place for those of us who are doing work on an individual level close to home as well as those who want to engage in larger, more public platforms.

I guess I just wish she could see that we’re not all that different in how we view the world.  There is some of me in her, absolutely.  I just didn’t have the confidence and drive she does at such a young age, nor the personality, to act on my inclinations.  She is funny though, I’ve been talking about the plastic packaging of body wash for years now and have tried to convince her of the merits of bar soap; she thought it was too gross. But just the other day she came home, proud of her newly purchased soap.  She is also a converted thrift shopper, something I’ve been advocating for years as well.  I was also amused that she took an apple for her snack today and wrapped it in a cloth napkin.  Just as I did the very day before.  I just finished a documentary on the chemicals in our environment, forwarded her one about ranchers becoming vegetarians, and am in the middle of one about the period movement in India. I don’t think our interests—or hearts and desires—are that different.

She inspires me, no doubt, and I see the incredible impact her life will have on the world.  But she saddens me also.  Because I feel, in her eyes, that I’m not enough, that I’ve somehow let her down by not being bolder in my activism, that I’ve resigned myself to only showing up as a mom.  It grieves me most of all that I haven’t been successful in convincing her how impactful such an advocate at home can be.  But I have a feeling we will continue to learn from each other through the years.  Maybe she will understand, as she becomes a mother herself someday, where I was coming from and why I felt so strongly about spending so much of my time and energy on my family while I had kids at home.  And I know her zeal for aiding those who are troubled has already stirred my thinking and I’m anxious to follow her lead and broaden my sphere of influence just a little more in the upcoming years.  I just don't think we're as different as she thinks in how we see the world.

Relating to our bodies

I was hanging out with a friend in her pool, just the two of us, yesterday; she is disappointed with her body and is working on becoming healthier and stronger.  I love that.  Later on I was listening to my podcast lady who shared some thoughts about the relationship we have with our bodies.  With these two conversations in mind, I asked myself the same hard question, how do I feel about my own body? And I wonder how helpful it would be for all of us to consider how we honestly feel about our bodies.  I wonder if it would motivate us to be kinder and more accepting of ourselves. And more appreciative of the gift our bodies are.

Growing up my main concern regarding my body was my skin.  I was pale and freckly in the winter months, a little more off-white and even more freckly in the summer.  I remember constantly asking my mom if my legs were too white when I wanted to wear shorts to school.  But I also remember having funny tan lines on my feet from my sandals.  I remember more than anything wanting regular skin sans freckles and hoped someday I would grow out of them.  I felt they were my curse.  As an adult, I couldn’t care less about freckles.  I actually love my skin.  I know it’s not anything great, it’s just that I have really tried to take care of it and I feel like I’m treating it well, that we have a thing.  When I was first given license to wear makeup in sixth grade, I went all out.  Blue eye shadow, purple mascara, eyeliner, pink lipstick.  I wore make up all through college and into my mothering.  I have no idea when I cut back to mascara and lipstick (and a little dab of concealer to cover my omnipresent darkish parts under my eyes).  I’m not into foundation and power as I was a teen.  I feel more real and authentic these days like I’ve come out from behind a mask.

I always hated my hair as a kid.  Short and straight like a boy.  Sometimes curled like Dorothy Hammel in a wedge on a Sunday.  I grew it out starting in 6th grade.  But I had big bangs that went back to the middle of my head.  My hair was bright blonde as a kid, but it morphed into plain brown by the time I was in jr. high, and that’s where it stayed.  I had a stint around 8th grade when I used Sun-In to lighten it.  I even permed it once.  A few years ago I had to start coloring the roots.  I also tried dark, dark brown but it felt too stark, maybe a bit Goth. So even though I love my Scottish heritage of black hair and blue eyes; it didn’t quite work for me.  I curled it incessantly in the 80s and used cans of Rave hairspray with a pick.  Just my luck, it became curly just as straight hair became a thing; so now I straighten it.  Good grief.  I finally found my signature style in college, just a chin length bob with no bangs.  I love my hair these days.  I’m not sure if the style is right on me, so I’m not saying that I love the way I look in my hair.  I’m just grateful that it’s thickish (I never understood what that was all about, who cared? But now as I’m aging, I’m glad there’s a little buffer), and I’m finally ok with plain brown, and I like running my fingers through it because it feels healthy and at ease.

I’ve always liked my blue eyes.  Except when I wanted green.  They aren’t anything special, but they mean the world to me.  I don’t know if I value any part of my body more than my eyes, and I have always tried to be very, very careful with them because I appreciate my sense of sight so much.  As far as the actual look, when women would ask me where my kids got their beautiful blue eyes I would always smile and tell them from their grandmas.

As far as my actual body size, I have always and forever been just average. It never occurred to me to think about what size my clothes were or how much I weighed.  I just got whatever size I was.  I do remember 6x because it was such a funny size.  I had no idea in the world what other people wore.  I do remember a moment in high school when we got back our graduation pictures in those green robes.  That was a turning point for me because I felt that I looked fat.  My cheeks and face have always been roundish, but with that full robe up to my neck, it didn't look like how I felt, and vowed from then on to always be cognizant of my health and to be mindful of how I treated my body.  I remember joining track and tennis when I was in high school, mostly because I felt I needed an exercise regime.  I was horrible at both, hated track and loved tennis.  So I started consciously exercising since that time (age 15) and have stuck with it nearly daily since.  As far as my height, it’s funny that I always felt tall.  I think because in elementary school I was.  And then everyone else caught up.  My sisters and many of my roommates/friends were taller than me, but now I consider myself tall even as I’ve shrunk to maybe 5’5.

Not when I was very little, and probably only because I don’t remember, but from elementary school on I felt ugly.  It was confirmed over and over to me, but I’ll always remember two idiots in the BYU stadium when I was a freshman, “Those are two of the ugliest girls I’ve ever seen.”  I’ve tried and tried to forget that, but it’s still ringing through my head nearly 30 years later.

To be really honest and personal, I thought my mastectomy and reconstruction would change things—maybe that I would finally feel more comfortable as a girl.  I have always struggled with my figure, and I attribute that directly to our culture.  Swimsuits were dreadful; I hated pools and beaches partly for that reason and always felt better in an oversized shirt. It is so sad to me that I would have such a time with something so unimportant.  I have no feeling anymore, I hate the way I look nearly 5 years after my surgeries, and I try to avoid any glimpse of myself.  I am working so hard to reconcile this.  And so I try to appreciate the good.  I was fortunate enough to be able to nurse my five children from 8-11 months each.  I’ve always been able wear all sorts of tops because I’ve always been so small, and I could easily sleep on my stomach if I wasn’t a back sleeper (but for the past 5 years it’s been excruciating to turn over in my sleep, feeling as if my muscles were being ripped from the bone).

And I admit I don't love myself in pictures.  Maybe 93% of women could say that.  Every now and then I'll find one where the inside of me and the outside of me feel like they match.  But so much of the time I'm left to scrunch my forehead and wonder where the disconnect is.  That's not how I see myself at all.  It's pretty crazy.  But I continue to post pictures because I think it's so important to be present, to be in life and to be a part of the family.  I figure people already know what I look like and people who know me know that's not what I care about anyway.

So now at nearly 48, my overall feelings about my body are good.  I am disappointed with the 10 pounds on my stomach I can’t seem to lose no matter what I do.  I’m hoping it’s the tamoxifen, but I don’t know if I’ll ever see ab muscles again in my life. And I don’t really care about all that because it’s always covered, I just don’t want to keep gaining 10 pounds a year for the next 30-40 years partly because I hate jean shopping. I’ve used massage for all the tightness in my back and chest over the past couple of years, and that has helped immensely.  My frozen shoulder is probably about 95% better.

I have to admit, I’m horrible at noticing when friends have lost or gained weight.  I know you’re all working so hard at all your diets and exercise programs, going to the gym, wearing your little watches, drinking protein drinks and toting your water bottles with you everywhere.  I can totally appreciate that and I’m inspired.  But don’t hate me because I don’t notice.  It simply is a zero to me what size your clothes are or how big your thighs are or if your hair is black or pink.  What I love is when a friend is obsessed with life instead of her figure.  I love friends who will laugh with me and go for walks with me and who will eat ice cream with me every now and then.  I want to talk about books and our families and what we’re doing.  I don’t care about arbitrary numbers on your scale or the tags of your clothes, and I certainly couldn’t care less about how many steps you’ve taken.  Just walk with me.  Come on visits with me.  Let’s find someone who needs help.  Let’s use our God-given bodies to do some good and dismiss Satan from our lives and shun his lies and traps that distract us from our real purpose on earth.

For the most part, I try to focus on the love and gratitude I feel for my body.  I don’t say I love my body in a model or look sort of way.  I love it because it is my most treasured gift.  I value it so much.  Because I have a body, I can hug and go on walks and work in the yard and make food and run errands and clean and plant flowers and decorate and read and write and have long conversations.  I have come to appreciate the things I love about my body because of what it can do for me and for others.

When I look in the mirror (with clothes on), I smile.  Not because I would necessarily choose all these parts, but because I feel content.  Of course, I’d like to go back in time and be less wrinkly.  I’d like to not make creaky noises when I get up from sitting.  I’d like to be like my friends who run fantastic races and obstacles.  I wish I loved swimming and water sports.  Or any sports.  I wish I had tanner skin maybe.  But honestly, I feel like the real me is staring back.  I feel a bond with my body, a closeness, and an acceptance and a deep love for all the ways it has served me over the years.  I feel like I’m doing my part to cherish it and tend to it, to give it rest and good food and movement.

I marveled as my body created and grew other bodies.  Pregnancy and nursing fascinated me to no end.  I couldn’t get over—even my fifth time—how incredible it was that I could house a tiny human that would grow up to be a man or a woman, that my body could create nutrition and immunity for my babies.  To have been a part of that process with God is beyond humbling.  

I wish this was what the world appreciated about the human body: its capacity to create and sustain life.  To see them as beautiful creations and instruments from God.  I wish we recognized the miracles that are going on constantly within our bodies.  Our hearts, our cells, our brains.  The way we perceive and feel and heal.  The ways we can connect with other bodies through touch and looks and closeness.  Our bodies are to be worshipped—absolutely.  Not in the twisted way Satan tries to sell to the world.  But with reverence and awe.  I think this is one of the major battles we’re fighting in the world today: how we view our bodies and what we’ll do with them.

And so I recognize the power we have—that our minds have—as we consider our relationship with our own bodies.  If we are fighting right here at home, with ourselves, how can we begin to have peace and love with others?  No matter how we may think we can have charity for others, there is absolutely no way unless we feel that charity—the pure love of Christ—for ourselves first.

If we want to know the truth about our bodies, we can ask God. 

“Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you?” (1 Cor. 3:16)

“And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness” (Genesis 1:26)

“But he [Christ] spake of the temple of his body” (John 2:21)

And so I believe the greatest appreciation we can show God for this incredible gift is not only our acceptance and care of it, but the desire to have his image in our countenances.  The most beautiful people in the world are not those with just the right number on the tag of their jeans or those with the most flawless skin, not even close.  True beauty comes from within, it shows in our eyes and in the light we emanate.  And so that is why I can feel comfortable and content with my body.  While I can’t change my bone structure  or get rid of my freckles, I can look to Christ.  And that’s what makes me smile when I look at myself, this knowledge that I am here, living with this instrument—this amazing body—to make a difference and to do good in the world today.