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. 
