Isn’t it intriguing the way God puts people in your life for specific reasons?  Sometimes he sends a caregiver – someone who is giving and thoughtful and makes you feel better when the skies look gray.  Sometimes he sends a friend – someone relatable who you can connect with and talk to about anything.   Sometimes he sends a teacher – someone who shares stories and experiences that provide valuable life lessons.  And sometimes, well, sometimes God sends a hit man – someone who will slap you upside the head, thrust his finger into your chest, and rattle off the kind of truth that makes you realize you’re totally NOT getting it. 

There’s this nasty little sin God warns us about that goes by the name of pride, and boy, have I got a handle on that one.  I’m about as familiar with pride as I am with bleach, and as you well know, that’s some big-time familiarity.

I’m proud people.  I'm proud of all kinds of things I have no business taking pride in.

I’m proud of my biceps.  Two and a half years of P90X and Insanity will do that to a woman approaching forty.  Seriously, come on over for a visit.  I’ll let you feel them. 

I’m proud of my children.  They’re cute and they’re doing well in school and they almost always remember to use their manners in public. 

I’m proud of my home.  It’s nothing fancy and I have a list a mile long of things I’d like to renovate and redecorate when I win the lottery, but it’s organized and clean and if you do come over to feel my biceps, you’ll probably think I’ve got it all together.

A while back, I was even proud of my parenting.  Sure, I let my kids have donuts on Saturday mornings and I make them take showers every night, even in the winter, but in general, I thought I had this mama thing pretty well covered.  And then, out of nowhere, God sent that mean ol’ hit man to knock me right into the middle of next week. 

You see, I've always had a plan regarding the whole eating, self-confidence, body image thing when it came to my children.  I don’t want Charlie and Libby to be anything like me in those departments, so before I even had kids, I decided exactly how I was going to make sure that didn’t happen.  I admit it wasn’t a well-researched strategy.  I simply intended to do things completely differently from the way my parents did them.  I know, I know.  I can’t blame my mother and father for all my issues.  Like most, my parents are good people with good intentions.  Still, I firmly believe they made mistakes in this arena, and I’m determined not to repeat them. 

Without going into great amounts of detail, here’s what my instruction on eating and body image entailed.  My mom made a LOT of chocolate chip cookies while I was growing up.  The only thing she made more of were comments on how she needed to go on a diet to lose weight from all the cookies she’d been eating.  My dad . . . well, after I gained some weight in high school (they should never allow seventeen-year-old cheerleaders to sell candy as a fundraiser.  I consumed way more boxes of peanut M&M’s than I sold), he told me I needed to drop a few pounds so I wouldn’t get my feelings hurt when I went away to college the next year.  Quality teaching?   I think not.  The ramifications exist to this day, and likely, for the rest of my life this side of heaven.

So.  Like I said, I had a plan when it came to educating my own children in the areas of eating and body image.  My plan involved lots of discussion about healthy choices and moderation and staying active and loving yourself for who you are.  Before my kids could even talk, I was telling them about things like calcium and fiber and vitamins and the importance of raising one’s heart rate.  Omega 3's is a regular phrase used in our house, my kids could name the superfoods when they started preschool, and to this day, I’ve never used the word ‘diet’ in front of Charlie and Libby.  

My intentions as a parent have been to keep the focus on food as fuel for the body and to demonstrate a lifestyle that includes plenty of exercise.  For years, I concentrated on pointing out why certain foods and staying active make me feel good and what effects such choices have on the human body.  Essentially, my goal has been to be a positive example for Charlie and Libby, and, quite frankly, I thought I was doing a good job.  Of course, that was before the hit man appeared.

I should probably tell you that the hit man is actually a woman.  She’s also well versed in dealing with people’s issues.  And this is how our recent conversation went about my valiant efforts in promoting healthy eating habits and high self-confidence in my children.

“So, Alison, tell me . . . when you sit down to eat meals with your kids, do you eat the same things they’re eating?”

“Are you kidding?  I haven’t had a sandwich or a plate of pasta in over two years.  I eat salads.  Big, healthy bowls full of heart-healthy greens loaded with non-dairy goat cheese and fiber-filled raw almonds topped with sea salt and a drizzle of olive oil."

“Mm hmm.  I see.  And when you allow your kids to indulge in sweets, what does that look like?”

“It looks like me reminding them that sweets are a special treat which should only be eaten in moderation and boy I sure used to love eating those pumpkin muffins myself.”

“Okay.  Now, what about when your kids go to school.  Do you pack their lunches?”

“No, lunches are “included” in tuition, so they aren’t permitted to take their own lunches.  But trust me, Charlie and Libby know they are only allowed to get chocolate milk once a week and I encourage them to visit the salad bar for fruits and veggies.  And, of course, I ask them every day when they get in the car after school what exactly they had for lunch.”

“Of course.  So, tell me this, Alison, how often would you say you eat for joy?”

“What?  I’m sorry.  I must have misunderstood your question.  Did you just say eating and joy . . .  in the same sentence?  That makes absolutely no sense to me.  I mean, what on earth could you possibly be speaking of with this eating for joy insanity?  I’ve never heard of such a thing in my life.”

“Right.  Well, I have just one more question for you then.”

“Okay.  Go for it.  I’m going to knock this one out of the park just like the others.  Bring it on, lady.”

“You’ve just told me you don’t eat the same things your kids eat.  You constantly remind them what’s healthy and what isn’t.  You attempt to control their food choices even when they are not with you.  And you need to know what they are eating for every meal of the day.  Correct?”

I nod in agreement here, but I’ve got a bad feeling about where this is going and I’m pretty sure I won't like what she’s going to say next.  Sure enough, the hit man (woman) breaks out her finger, shoves it against my chest, and crushes my every last parental objective with a dose of reality that will reverberate in my heart and mind for the rest of time.

“And you think your kids aren’t going to have the same issues you have?”

At that moment, all the air left the room, and I actually had to remind myself how to stay alive. 

Breathe in.  Breathe out.  In.  Out.  Okay.  Okay.  I think my heart is still beating, though just barely.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.

I’m rarely speechless, but there were simply no words.  As the rush of comprehension consumed my every thought, destroying my pride and replacing it with shame, the tears spilled forth.  Dark, heavy, loathsome tears.  Tears of guilt and regret and despair.  Tears filled with an intense desire to turn back time, to do it all again, to give it another shot so I could please for the love of all things healthy have the chance to get it right.

God allows people to come into our lives for a purpose.  Some for a second, some for a season, some for a lifetime.  I have no doubt the hit woman’s purpose in my life was at least partially fulfilled during our conversation that day.  She opened my eyes when they were tightly shut, illuminating my mistakes while I still  have time to make ammends, and I'm grateful for her willingness to be brutally honest with me.  

Several days after that conversation, our family went out for pizza. 

I had two slices.