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.

Everyone remembers.  Ask anyone over the age of twenty, and she can likely tell you where she was that horrific morning.  Eleven years ago today, I was in an elementary school in a northern suburb of Atlanta.  I was waiting for a group of eight-year-old struggling readers to enter my classroom, sit down at a kidney shaped table, and begin the demanding process of decoding words in a language that was not native to them.  I thought it a noble job.  I believed I was making a difference.

Nine-hundred miles away there were other teachers in other classrooms doing similar things: grading papers, planning lessons, preparing materials, praying for patience.  Over a decade later, I’m sure they can easily recall what they were doing the precise moment an airplane flew into the World Trade Center.  In fact, I imagine their memory is much more astute than mine.  They heard the blast.

The rest of that day exists only as a blur in my mind.  When I attempt to remember, I simply see snapshots of my students faces mingled with the disturbing images of airplanes and smoke and fire and buildings crumbling to the ground as though they were made of sand. 

In the days that followed, I watched more television than I’ve ever watched in my life, desperate for answers like everyone else.  How could such a terrible thing happen?  Why would anyone desire death for a complete stranger?  Where in the world do we go from here, now that we have witnessed the depth of disgust one human being can have for another?

More than ten years later, pieces of the puzzle have been painfully constructed.  We now have a warped picture of the events of that day – a story showing a legacy of hatred that goes back thousands of years.  There are names and faces of those who died and those who killed them.  There are facts and statistics about the speed of planes and the gallons of fuel and the tons of rubble.  We watch documentaries and feel a familiar anguish as our stomachs twist into knots of confusion, fear, and sadness.  We are filled with despair over a tragedy so immense it will forever cast a shadow of doubt about the safety of our nation.  And as the tears fall yet again, we are confounded with the same questions. 

How . . . and why? 

The answers have never really come.  I suppose they never will.

Yet every year in September, I’m reminded of something besides the needless death and destruction that will always exist in a world where there is evil.  Every year in September, I remember that as I walk through the activities and duties of my day under the banner of freedom America provides, there are heroes who walk among me.  

They are real people.  Normal people.  They have jobs and spouses and kids and mortgages and problems, like the rest of us.  But one day, when the time comes for me to explain the true definition of ‘hero’ to my own children, I will point to these people.  I will share the story of September 11 with Charlie and Libby, and as the memories of that day overwhelm me with grief, I will hold my children close and tell them about the firemen who ran towards the fire.  I will tell them about the passengers who stormed the cockpit of an aircraft moving five-hundred miles per hour.  I will tell them about the employees who rushed back into the burning buildings. I will tell them about the doctors who raced to the crime scene with as many supplies as they could carry.  I will tell them about the police officers who worked endless hours searching for survivors.  I will tell them about the citizens who showed up with water and food and comfort, unwavering in their determination to help. 

September 11, 2001 was an awful day.  It will go down in the history of the United States as one of the worst days ever.  It was a day when the threat of terrorism became an appalling reality.   It was a day when thousands of people lost their lives and thousands more lost people they loved.  It was a day most of us will never forget.  Still, I think the most important thing about September 11 is the fact that it wasn’t just a dreadful day.  It was also a day when normal people became heroes.    

She turned seven last month, and it threw me.  It wasn’t as if someone tossed me over the fence and I floated down onto a patch of soft grass.  This felt more like someone hurled me against a brick wall and then I ricocheted off the concrete driveway into a tree. 

Seven.  It just sounds so . . . not little.

I think if she were my only, seven would simply be another single-digit number.  I think if she were my oldest, seven would just be one more than six.  But Libby is my youngest child.  She is my baby, and yet, clearly, she’s not.  She’s seven. 

Of course, I realize the baby stage of my life is long past.  I haven’t changed a diaper in ages and I can’t remember the last time I found myself dozing in a rocking chair at two o’clock in the morning.  The toddler days are gone too.  I donated the high chair, strollers, and sippy cups to Goodwill years ago.  I no longer measure time in weeks or months.  I’m not sleep deprived.  There are no outlet covers in my house. 

I mourned the passing of the baby and toddler stages as they ended, and I continue to do so every time I look at old photographs.  Still, until last month, I thought of myself as the mother of young children.  I liked that role.  It fit.  Now, my youngest is seven, and I’m just a mother.  I don’t have young children.  I have two kids.  They go to school from eight to three, five days a week.  They have homework and their feet stink and they can’t make it down even one aisle in the grocery store without asking for something I’ve told them a thousand times I’m never going to buy.  And I’m slumped under a tree, dazed and confused with a huge bump on my head, trying to figure out exactly how I got here.

The strange thing is, she doesn’t seem all that grown up.  She still has skin like silk and loves to snuggle, and occasionally, we find her thumb in her mouth in the middle of the night.  Seven isn’t really such a significant jump from five and six.  Yet, it was quite emotional to celebrate Libby’s seventh birthday, and as the days since then have passed, I’ve realized my despair doesn’t have all that much to do with my daughter becoming a seven year old.  It has to do with what it signifies to have children who are no longer in the young category.  It has to do with the fact that as Charlie and Libby enter a new stage in their lives, so do I. 

Since the moment God gifted me with our first child, my life has revolved almost completely around the act of mothering.  When you have young children, there is rarely time (or energy) for anything else.  My days and weeks and years have centered on Charlie and Libby’s needs and desires, and there were many.  When I woke up each morning, I was prepared to do one thing – be their mama – and I knew what to expect.  There would be cuddling and singing and answering questions and dressing and preparing meals and feeding and cleaning up and reading and playing and talking and disciplining and helping and teaching and more cleaning up and protecting and laughing and soothing and calming and appeasing and bathing and tickling and giggling and praying and even more cleaning up.  I filled every day to the brim with the physical and emotional duties of motherhood, and on most nights, I went to bed believing I had accomplished something of great importance.

For almost ten years now, my primary focus has been on my children, and I know they will continue to be my top priority for another decade.  Yet, now that my kids are growing up, my role in their lives is changing.  My days are no longer packed from dawn to dusk with the many responsibilities of parenting.  Now, my days are filled with time.

I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but not so long ago, I looked forward to this time.  I cried last fall, on that first day both of my children would be at school from eight to three, heavy tears fraught with the loss of having them close more often than not.  But deep down, in a place no good mother wants to admit exists, I felt a small sense of joy at the idea of all that time.  Time for myself.  Time to do the things I’d put off.  Time to do the things I wanted to do.  Time to breathe.  

The first days were exhilarating.  That allusive time I’d been craving, while foreign, seemed so full of promise. But the days came one after the next, over and over until there seemed to be too many.  Sometimes, I’d find myself wandering around the house, walking in and out of each room as I tried to decide what to do. 

Summer brought relief.  They were close once more.  While no longer a constant caregiver, I transformed into the role of chaperone, and found contentment there.  The house was noisy and the days were busy and my mind was happily cluttered with the tasks of parenting two children all day long.  Then, in the blink of an eye, August arrived.  School started and she turned seven and here I am, surrounded again by all this time.

I considered last year one of adjustment.  I expected to struggle a bit with my new role as a stay-at-home mom whose kids aren’t at home, and I did.  Now, the novelty has worn off and reality has set in – this is permanent – and I feel as though I must make some decisions about what this stage of life means for me.  I can easily fill up my day. I can spend the hours from eight to three doing responsible, positive things.  I can go to Bible study and exercise and volunteer at the kids’ school and clean my house and walk the dog and do the grocery shopping and prepare meals for others and work in the yard and play tennis and read and write and have lunch with friends.  Yet, for some reason, all of these things just don’t feel like enough.  And I keep coming back to the same thought . . . what’s next?

I have all this time.  Time to do something important.  Time to do something truly meaningful . . . dare I say . . . time to do something . . . eternal?  I want my life to have value.  I want to make a real, lasting impact on someone or something.  The question is . . . how?  Who?  Where?  Most importantly, why? 

Why do I feel the need to do something other than what I’m doing?  Why can’t I find satisfaction in the everyday tasks of my life?  Why do I have this gnawing feeling there is something more for me to accomplish? And if God intends me to explore another purpose, one that won’t diminish my ability to put my own family first, yet will bring pleasure while being full of worth, why, oh why isn’t He showing me the way?

Yea, yea.  I know.  Patience has never been my strong suit.  I guess all I can do is keep praying. 

Dear Lord,

     Thank you for seeing me through all the seasons of my life.  I know you have a plan for me.  I want to do your will.  Please God, please show me what’s next.

I sure do hope He provides an answer for me soon.  I’m ready to listen, willing to try, and hey . . . I’ve got nothin’ but time.


Ecclesiastes 3:2    There’s an opportune time to do things, a right time for everything on earth. 

Isaiah 43:18-19     Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.  See I am doing a new thing!

This dog.  I’m tellin’ ya folks, she’s full of wisdom.  I know you’re tired of reading about my puppy.  Frankly, I’m tired of writing about her.  But she just . . . . knows things.

I need to begin by telling you we almost lost Macie this month.  No, we weren’t out buying poster board and preparing to staple signs to telephone poles.  When I say ‘lost,’ I mean the dog almost died.  It’s a very long story, but it started with a lazier than usual pup that turned into a vomiting pup that turned into a pup who couldn’t even stand up.  The vet still doesn’t know what happened, but Macie’s liver was failing, and for a full week, we weren’t sure she was going to make it.  There was even talk of a blood transfusion at one point.  This was serious.

Now, before you start wondering just exactly what I’ve been praying about in regards to our puppy for the last eight months, I must reassure you that I did NOT want Macie to die.  Yes, there have been quite a few moments since we brought her home when I would have been perfectly happy to spend an afternoon stapling lost dog signs to telephone poles.  Still, I had no desire for the nemesis of my sanity to stop breathing at ten months of age.  It was a very scary week.  Surprisingly, however, although Macie could barely lift her head and orange liquids flowed from body parts that should never release liquids, I’ll be darned if that sick little critter didn’t teach me a lesson anyway.

If you didn’t know this already, there’s a reason people use the phrase “puppy dog eyes” and it ignites instant understanding.  Dogs don’t appear sick when they’re deathly ill.  They aren’t strangely thin or extremely pale.  But their eyes . . . oh my.  They become windows to the dog’s soul, and I realize that sounds absolutely insane, but people, it’s the honest to goodness truth.  Just thinking about the way Macie looked at me as the orange liquids flowed makes me wince.  Her eyes told me everything I needed to know about the way our puppy felt.  She was desperate. 

I wonder how many people would be saved if human eyes could convey such an acute need for someone, anyone, to reach out and help. 

I wonder how many times I’ve failed to notice that someone right beside me was in pain.  How often have I spent too little time with someone who was lonely?  How many times did I participate only half-heartedly in a conversation with someone who was hurting so badly, she didn’t know where to go, or who to turn to, or how to ask?

Human eyes can look sad.  They can look sick.  But I’ve never seen a human’s eyes look like Macie’s did the week she almost died. 

I suppose God created puppy dog eyes because dogs don’t have the capacity to communicate with speech.  They can’t tell us their stomach hurts worse than ever before or someone they love has broken their heart into a million pieces or their most important dream didn’t come true. (Wouldn’t you like to know what that dream would be, by the way?  It’s rainin’ bones, hallelujah, it’s rainin’ bones!)  Sorry. We’ll dive into dog dreams another day – it’s simply too good to dismiss.  My point, however, is that canines can’t tell us when they need help.  They have to convey messages in another way. 

Humans, on the other hand, have the ability to call out for help when we are struggling.  And sometimes, we struggle.  The world can be a cruel place.  People don’t treat us in the ways we want them to.  Things don’t happen on our timeline.  Life feels difficult and we find ourselves scared and lonely and hurt.  When the tough times come, and they always will, we can ask for help.  Of course, there’s that tiny little problem we humans have with the whole asking others for help idea, and that is the fact that we HATE doing it.  Yet, the fact remains.  Sometimes . . . we need to be rescued.

Help can come in many forms.  Maybe a smile from a stranger would lift our spirit.  Perhaps a night out with our husband would calm our soul.  Maybe lunch with a friend who will share a cupcake (sans calorie counting) would bring us joy.  For me, all these things sustain me through the inevitable tough times, along with many others – long walks, good music, Bailey’s on the rocks after the kids have gone to bed on a Saturday night.:) 

Still, there is only one who can truly rescue me.  And all I have to do to find him, is look up.     

Psalm 34:17   The Lord hears his people when they call to him for help.  He rescues them from all their troubles.  

Our little Macie couldn’t ask for help when her liver was shutting down, but her eyes let me know she was in great need.  I pray I will be able to cry out for help when I am in such need - to my family, to my friends, to God.  And I pray I will be able to recognize when someone around me is crying out for help, whether they are using words or not.

It happens every time.  My heart sinks so low I’m instantly nauseous, and I feel tiny pinpricks behind each of my eyes, threatening me with heavy tears I can hardly contain.  It happens every single time I think about it, and I think about it most in August.  Not because it happened in August, but because that’s when school starts, and the scenario replays in my head as I prepare to send my children off to the place it’s most likely to happen again.

He was not yet three, and his baby sister, sleeping at home under grandma’s watchful eye, had only recently entered the scene.  It was a beautiful fall day – the kind where the sky is so clear and blue you don’t want to take your eyes off it, and the air is filled with the promise of crisp mornings, wool sweaters, and rapidly approaching holidays.  It was a perfect day for an outing. 

And so we went, my little boy and I, to enjoy some one-on-one time at the park down the street, the one where the train rushes by so close and so loud you have to cover your ears as it passes.  I can picture Charlie on that day.  I remember the navy shorts he was wearing, and the way his chubby legs barely peeked out from beneath them.  I can see the striped long-sleeve shirt he had on and the way his blond hair fell softly across his forehead.  I can feel his hand in mine, plump and warm, just before he let go and went running towards the swings, a joyous grin on his precious face. 

We were alone at the park for quite some time, content to revel in the sunshine as we tried out each piece of equipment.  Then, a little girl showed up with a woman I assume was her babysitter.  She was a bit older than my son, maybe a year or so, and equally as determined to make her mark on every area of fun the playground had to offer. 

Charlie observed the girl quietly for several minutes, as he often did when other children came around. Typically shy and calm, I expected my son would quickly return to his own activity, which at that moment, involved a shovel, a bucket, and a whole lot of sand.  Instead, Charlie did the unexpected, and my life was forever changed.

It plays out in slow motion in my mind – like a bad after school special from the 1980’s or something.  Ridiculous I know, but it’s as if the world goes silent while I watch the shovel and bucket drop from my son’s hands as he takes off running towards the little girl on the other side of the park.

“Friend!  Hey, friend!”

I am taken aback as the silence is broken by the sound of his voice, calling out in confidence, full of belief that he has recognized a peer . . . a playmate . . . a friend. 

“Hey, friend!  Let’s swing.  Hey, friend!  Come on.  Hey, friend!  Let’s play.”

So unlike my Charlie, and I am filled with pride as I wait for the little girl to respond, to join my son in games and fun on this perfect fall day.  

What happened next wasn’t unusual, but it is etched so deeply into my memory I will remember it until the day I die.  It wasn’t a tragedy.  I know that.  Still, it ignited a feeling so intense I can only describe it as one of the most monumental I’ve ever experienced. 

The little girl rejected my son.  She ignored him.  She walked away.  She didn’t even make eye contact with Charlie as he followed her around the park calling to her.

 “Hey, Friend!”

He was nothing if not persistent, and the tears spill over as I recall the hopeful expression on my son’s face as he attempted to reach out to another child, and failed, because the child simply did not care.

The scenario has probably occurred at least once more since that fall day, but I wasn’t there to witness it.  It will likely happen again in the years ahead, despite my prayers that it won’t.  Truthfully, who wants to raise a child who has never experienced the heartache of rejection?  We all need to know what it feels like to hurt, or else how will we know how to comfort others when they are hurting.  

Still, that day at the park was a revelation to me as the mother of a two year old.  Of course, I already knew I adored my son.  I knew I loved Charlie with all my heart and soul, and I had long before vowed to protect him at all costs.  But our experience that morning showed me the depth of desire I have for my son to be loved by others.  And it showed me just how tightly my happiness is wound in his.

He hopped out of the car this morning with a smile, headed to school for his first day of fourth grade.  He didn’t let me kiss his cheek, but he gave me a hug before we walked out the door, his head touching my shoulder now that he’s nearly ten years old.  And as he walked away from the car, his long legs dangling from his shorts as he rushed towards the front door, I prayed the same prayer I’ve prayed each and every day since that August morning at the park almost eight years ago.  I prayed that when my son calls out for a friend, he will always find one.     

Okay people, enough is enough.  We have to get in the game and make some serious moves.  The world has gone crazy and I HAVE A DAUGHTER FOR GOODNESS SAKE!!!

I know.  I should really stop reading books that keep me up at night thinking and wondering and worrying.  A couple nonfiction gems I’ve recently finished have me literally squirming with fear.  At two am this morning, I was wide awake considering how I can start a trend involving a tall tower in the middle of nowhere, a locked room to which only I have the key, and my daughter.  Think “Tangled,” but with a whole lot more genuine love from an honest to goodness birth mother.  There would be no magic.  My version of the locked room and the tall tower would simply involve the strong desire of a parent to protect her child from a culture that has lost its mind. 

Indulge me for a moment and allow me to share some of my newly acquired insight with you.

A recent study examined the diaries of young women from the late 1800’s.  Their main topic of reflection?  How to improve their character.  Sadly, that makes me laugh.  What do you think the young women of 2012 would claim they’d most like to improve?  I would imagine the list in their diaries would go something like this: hair, skin, body, bank account . . . not necessarily in that order. 

Why did such a drastic and disastrous change occur? How did a society that once valued virtue and modesty become a society that doesn’t feature anyone on the cover of a magazine without first, removing most of their clothing, and second, performing extensive “digital image manipulation,” or in everyday terms, photoshopping?  

The study claims one of the main reasons this change came about was because, at the end of the nineteenth century, mirrors became widely available to the general public.  Once women were able to see their reflections in a mirror on a regular basis, they began comparing their images to those of others. Hmm, sound familiar?  I can recall skimming through a fashion magazine last month and then looking in the mirror and thinking, gee, I have blond hair and two kids, maybe if I stop eating for the next, oh, five or six months, I could look a little more like Gwyneth Paltrow.  

Of course, shortly after mirrors became a household staple, home scales became available.  And the rest, as they say, is history. 

Mirrors and scales.  Are you groaning as loudly as I am?  Such simple developments yet, they made such a disturbing impact.  It’s maddening to think about, isn’t it?  Steam is literally coming out of my ears as I think of the time I’ve wasted fretting over what I could see in a mirror or on a scale.  It’s a good thing I’m in the kitchen right now and not the bathroom, because I’m so furious I want to take a sledge hammer to every mirror in my house.  (People with OCD issues don’t own scales, or else I’d destroy those too.) 

Statistics show that by the age of thirteen, 53% of American girls are unhappy with their bodies, and by age seventeen, 78% are dissatisfied.

A survey taken less than five years ago reported that 80% of ten-year-old girls have been on a diet.  That’s four out of five kids thinking about their weight instead of thinking about how to be a good friend or how to finish their homework on time or how many lightning bugs to catch after dinner.

Ten years ago, the average age for eating disorders was fifteen.  Today, children as young as five and six are being treated in centers all over the United States.  Five and six-year-olds with eating disorders.  Tears fill my eyes as comprehension takes over . . . that could be my child.

Up until the late 1800’s, clothing was often made at home to fit the exact dimensions of the people wearing it.  Now, we decide whether we’re a good person or not based on what size we have to take back to the dressing room in Nordstrom.

Just a few decades ago, most companies didn’t spend a penny to target eight to twelve year olds, and now, marketing for that age group is a fifty billion dollar a year business.  And I’m not referring to companies selling cereal and lollipops my friends.  I’m talking about companies who are trying to persuade my little girl she needs a bra that matches her underwear, and she should be wearing them both while applying make-up and straightening her hair.  I’m talking about companies who are attempting to sell my daughter a pair of pants with words on the backside, so the focus of anyone’s attention when they are behind her is on her bottom.  I’m talking about companies who want to convince my six-year-old to watch a television show that depicts her future role in society as that of a boy crazy teenager who cares more about date nights than studying.  (Just because it’s on the Disney channel doesn’t mean it’s for kids!).  I’m talking about companies who don’t care if a song that uses the “F” word half a dozen times plays immediately after a song by a tween that encourages little girls to love themselves for who they are. 

Research claims this insane advertising is all about creating brand and product loyalty – corporate giants are trying to grab the attention of potential consumers and keep it forever, and they will do whatever it takes to reach the youngest of audiences.  Of course, what that really means, is that it’s all about money.   Man, that greed thing comes back to bite us every time, doesn’t it?

Today, women in America spend over 7 billion dollars a year on cosmetics.  Many women are even taking more drastic measures to improve or maintain their looks.  (Can you say Botox?  I can, and I’ll probably say it again in a few months when it wears off).  In 2011, over ten billion dollars was spent on cosmetic surgery.   Hey, I’m not saying I haven’t considered it.  Have I ever mentioned that a size nearly A bra is too big for me?  Yes, you read that correctly.  Nearly A = too BIG, so clearly, I’ve thought about implants.  After I gave birth to my first child and my milk came in, I remember looking in the mirror and thinking, hallelujah, now that’s what a woman is supposed to look like!  I think my husband would probably support me if I decided to join the ranks of women who have forked over hard earned cash for the ability to shop at Victoria’s Secret, but what message would I be sending to my daughter if I tell her it’s what’s inside that counts, and then my outside suddenly transforms from a training bra to a 36C?  More importantly, what message am I sending to the world if I risk my life and future for a surgery that is not an absolute medical necessity?  Honestly, I guess I’d simply be responding to the messages I’ve received from American culture for a lifetime.  The ones that tell me I’m not pretty enough.  I’m not thin enough.  I’m not sexy enough.  I’m not ever going to be enough. 

What are we doing?  I realize we didn’t have much of a say as we were growing up.  We viewed, we heard, we witnessed, and, unfortunately, we conformed.  I don’t think our parents recognized what was happening.  Now, WE are the parents, and we know what is happening.  So why are we allowing our children to be brainwashed, as we were, by society . . . by a culture that values perfection over purity and honor and decency and integrity?  Why aren’t we standing up at local swim meets to tell the DJ it’s not okay to play a song about alcohol consumption when the only athletes on the starting blocks are under the age of twenty-one?  Why aren’t we pitching fits at the Barnes and Noble checkout line where magazines touting sex tips are placed at eye level for first graders?  Why aren’t we boycotting clothing stores that sell lingerie to teenagers?   Why aren’t we writing in to Christian radio stations that claim to be safe for the whole family, yet frequently air commercials about laser hair removal and weight loss methods?

We are allowing too many people to influence our children in ways that can negatively impact them forever.  People who don’t care about our children, people who see them only as potential dollar signs.  Our little girls are not objects, but they will certainly think of themselves as such if we continue to sit back and watch as they are bombarded with this message over and over and over again. 

We have to get in the game.  We have to make some moves.  The most important thing in the world is at stake and we are on the sidelines looking the wrong way.  It’s a daunting task.  My mind races every day as I consider how we can reverse the momentum, get on the scoreboard, and pull ahead?  Truthfully, I think if we really want to see change occur, we will have to do some uncomfortable, inconvenient things.  We will have to step on some toes, hurt some feelings, go out of our way.  We will have to turn down opportunities for fun and we might even lose a few friends along the way.  It will be a difficult and dirty job, but we are the only ones who can be advocates for our children – no one else is going to do it, and in the end, don’t you think it’s worth it?  Our children, our daughters, are worth every effort.

In all honesty, I think what overwhelms me most is the fact that I’m not sure I am up to the task.  Confrontation is not my thing.  I prefer avoidance.  I complained to my husband when the music at my daughter’s swim meet was inappropriate, but I didn’t ask anyone to turn it off.  I told the checkout lady at the bookstore they shouldn’t display magazines with the word “sex” on them right in front of my child’s face, but I didn’t approach the manager about it.  I was able to get the television channel changed from a soap opera to a sporting event when I took the kids to California Pizza Kitchen for lunch, but I was shaking when I did it, and if they had not honored my request, I probably would have eaten there anyway. 

I can refuse to shop in stores that market inappropriate clothing for children, but I don’t know if I can encourage other mothers to do it too.  I can prohibit my child from listening to inappropriate music, but I don’t know if I can take a stand when someone else allows it.  I will sign the petition, but I don’t know if I have the guts to create it.  I want to get in the game . . . I just don’t know if I can be the captain of the team.    

I guess, for now, I have to rely on my abilities to control what my daughter sees and hears in my home, and trust that I can overrule the harmful messages she receives every time she steps out the door.  And there is only one way I can do that – with truth.  

1 Samuel 16:7     But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him.  For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

1 Corinthians 3:16     Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?

Ecclesiastes 3:11     He has made everything beautiful in its time.

Psalm 139:14     I am fearfully and wonderfully made. 

Matthew 6:25     “Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on.  Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?”

1 Peter 3:3-4     Do not let your adorning be external – the braiding of hair and the putting on of gold jewelry, or the clothing you wear – but let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which in God’s sight is very precious.

Song of Soloman 4:7     You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.

Genesis 1:27     So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created him.

I need to memorize these verses.  I need to speak them frequently over the next fifteen years, until I’m blue in the face, until my daughter can finish each one in her head while she rolls her eyes behind my back because she’s heard them so much.  Hey, maybe as I share the truth with my children, it will even begin to sink in for me.  Maybe all those false messages that shaped me over the last thirty-seven years will begin to fade into the background.  Maybe the truth will finally penetrate my own soul and I will realize . . . I am enough. 

I might not be scoring the winning goal in this fight against the world.  For now, I will leave that to the people who thrive on confrontation instead of avoidance.  But I will make some moves.  I will pass the ball and play some defense and high-five every good shot.  I will stay on the team, and though I might not be the captain for all mothers out there, in my house, I will be the head coach (pun intendedJ).  I will work every day to fill my daughter’s mind with the truth.  There simply is no other option.  Unless . . . you have a tower in the middle of nowhere you haven’t told me about?  

Most of the above statistics were taken from two books I highly recommend, even if you don’t have daughters: 

Six Ways To Keep the “Little” In Your Girl by Dannah Gresh

Five Conversations You Must Have With Your Daughter by Vicki Courtney

Warning: These books will cause you to wake up at two in the morning with your heart in your throat and your hands shaking uncontrollably.

(All other statistics I made up.  Just kidding.  I Googled them, which might be just as bad.)

There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still.  (The Hiding Place).

Have you read The Hiding Place?  You have to.  You must.  You really need to read it.  I’m not giving orders here, but get on your Kindle or your Nook or your Ipad and download The Hiding Place by Cornelia ten Boom and Elizabeth and John Sherrill.  Now.

Sorry.  I’m in a bit of a mood.  Pretty sure it’s the fact that the weather in Atlanta took a rude turn a few weeks ago and I now need a shower every time I set foot outside my house, and sometimes, after I’ve folded warm towels in my supposedly air conditioned laundry room.  It could also be that we’re six weeks into summer and my kids have yet to be in camp at the same time, which means this mama is dangerously close to losing it if one of them asks me what's for lunch AGAIN.  Either way, I apologize for my tone.

Okay, so . . . back to The Hiding Place.  I know there are numerous books out there about World War II and the Holocaust and the amazing acts of love that existed among the horrific acts of hate.  But please, read this one. I insist.  (How was that?  Less offensive?)

It’s difficult for me to read about tragedies.  It’s hard to hear stories of suffering so immense it could only mean total devastation for someone like me – someone who has walked the easy road since birth and found blessings around every corner of my rather straight and narrow path.  And yet, I read them anyway.   They make me cry.  They make me cringe.  Worst of all, they make me doubt my belief because how could a great God allow such immeasurable pain.  The answer comes to me even now, instantly and without variation in word or tone. 

God condones the things he hates to accomplish the things he loves. 

I have to believe that statement.  If I don't, my faith is shaken almost to the point of nonexistence.  When I hear of something so awful I want to turn my back on God - a baby boy born too early to survive, a little girl abused by the only person she trusts, a marriage failed, a life destroyed - I have to remind myself of that statement.  I have to say it out loud, over and over until I can find the truth among those simple words.  And really, the words do make perfect sense, don't they?  Because how can we find gratitude for the good without first experiencing the bad?  How can we understand God’s dominion if we don’t exert our own power and fail?  How can we see God’s sovereignty if we haven’t floundered under our own authority?   How will we know God’s mercy if we’ve never been demeaned?  How will we view God as the most high if we’ve never been at the bottom?  How will we comprehend God as shepherd if we’ve never been lost?  How will we know God is everlasting if we haven't felt the pain as something ends?   How will we accept God as provider if we’ve never been without?  How can we receive God’s peace if we haven’t been at war?  How can we know God as healer if we’ve never been hurt?  How will we view God as almighty if we’ve never felt small?  How can we explain God’s righteousness without committing sin?  How will we see God as one who sanctifies if we’ve not been dishonored?  How can we know God’s grace if we’ve never had to forgive? How will we believe God is there if we haven't felt truly alone? 

I want to know the stories of humanity, tragic and otherwise.  I long to understand how and why we came to be who and what we are.  I need to understand that decisions made by simple, normal people have the power to change life for generations.  I want to comprehend how the words and actions and sacrifices of a single human being can make an impact on the world forever.  Stories like the one told in The Hiding Place stretch my horizons in uncomfortable ways.  They force me to remember the mistakes of the past.  They show me that sin is real.  They remind me that life will never be perfect.  They encourage me to realize that people, while capable of the most repulsive acts of hatred, are also capable of the most incredible acts of love.  Most importantly, stories like Cornelia ten Boom's allow me to see how God fits into all of it. 

When Corrie and her sister Betsy were forced to ride in a train car without food and water and fresh air for over two days, with eighty other women in a compartment that should have held only 40, with no way to relieve themselves except to simply do it, God was there.

When husbands and fathers and brothers and sons were lined up in a row and shot in the head because of their heritage, God was there.

When wives and mothers and sisters and daughters were beaten and battered and forced to do impossible things in hopeless conditions, God was there.

God was there then.  God is here now.   He’s everywhere.  He’s everything.  He’s in all of it.  I simply have to acknowledge his presence and let him work in my life the way he’s worked in every life since the beginning of time.  And I have to expect some pain and heartache and strife and loneliness and unrest, because without those things, I can’t fully experience the love and peace and grace and comfort and rest he so freely offers.

God is good.  Even among the severest of conditions and the most abhorrent of attitudes and the most detestable of behaviors, His goodness abounds.  Books like The Hiding Place help me to remember that.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did.  I shed many tears.  I took many notes.  Much will stay with me.  And the next time I find myself in a sea of uncertainty, with waves of doubt drowning out the sound of truth, I might just read it again, and again, and again.

I recognized the emotion instantly, but it didn’t signal the typical dropping of shoulders and continuation of breath.  Instead, it coursed through my veins like a poison, making me twist in shame at my own ugliness.

There were other emotions mixed in.  Deep sadness.  Grave concern.  An intense desire to do something that might help.  Still, the most intense feeling wasn’t despair or worry or the need to assist.  My strongest emotion was the worst one imaginable.  It was relief.

Relief.

A mother announces to the world that her child has cancer.  The child is about the same age as my oldest child.  The relief was overwhelming.  It disgusts me to recall the way it poured over and into and through me like a wave.  I can feel the bile rise in the back of my throat as I’m reminded just how flawed I truly am.

I know the mother of this child with cancer, not well, but we would likely hug one another if we happened to be in the same place at the same time.   We would chat about our lives and our kids and our plans.  Three months ago, those plans involved tennis lessons and swim meets and summer vacations.  Today, my plans remain unchanged.  For the other mother, nothing is the same.  She’s no longer filling out camp applications and buying endless amounts of sunscreen for the hot, humid weeks ahead.  Today, that mother’s world revolves around chemotherapy and impossible decisions and life-changing surgery.

From an outsider’s perspective, I can almost understand why this family has been chosen to walk such a difficult road.  They are shining lights in a dim world.  They are amazing examples of what it means to believe in God, to lean on Christ, to spread the truth.  I have no doubt this family’s story will make a positive impact for months and years and generations to come.  Of course, I imagine this family can’t see things from my perspective. They are staggering through this deep, treacherous valley, while I stand securely on top of a hill.

When the announcement came, I wept.  I wept for the ten-year-old child whose world had been shattered into a million unknown pieces.  I wept for her father and her little brothers and sister.  I wept for other children like her who, at this very moment, are experiencing fear and pain and grief no child should ever know.  Most of all, I wept for her mother, who would have to try and pick up the pieces of a life drastically altered, and slowly put them back together in some way that might make sense.    

I’ve prayed for the ten-year-old child.  I’ve prayed for her father and her siblings.  I’ve prayed for healing and health and comfort and encouragement for the months and years of adjustment that lie ahead.  I’ve prayed this child and her family will never have to walk through such a terrifying valley again.  Most of all, I’ve prayed for the child’s mother.  I’ve prayed that one day, when the chemotherapy is over and the surgery is long past, she will wake up one morning and find peace restored in her heart . . .  and she will see the transformed dreams as a perfect plan meant to be fulfilled from the very beginning.  

And after I pray each day for this precious family in the midst of this dreadful battle, I pray for forgiveness.  I pray that God will take my damaged soul and turn it into something good . . . something not so broken . . . something more like Him.  I pray that God will help me become a person who isn’t so selfish, who doesn’t always think of herself first, who loves others as He did. I pray that the next time I hear of a child suffering, the first thing I think won’t be, thank God it’s not my child.

Acts 3:19 "Repent therefore and return, that your sins may be wiped away, in order that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord;