Needing a miracle: letter to the hungry

I’m feeling a bit peckish. 

In the cupboard there are no biscuits that I like, because I don’t buy biscuits that I like, because then I would eat them. I buy biscuits that the children like, because they eat biscuits, being normal people with normal appetites and because I’m desperate that they don’t develop the same sort of subtly distorted relationship with food that I have.

Food cannot be inherently ‘Good’ or ‘Bad’. It’s food. Everything in moderation; except I’m not very good at moderation. There’s no point in one biscuit.

The thing is, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that I might eat biscuits I don’t much like, just because they’re biscuits, and they’re there. My levels of self control fluctuate between negligible and non-existent.

Being hungry has very little to do with it.  I saw a scene in a film recently when a man offers a huge box of doughnuts to a lady in an office.  She declines, saying that she isn’t hungry. Confused, the doughnut man asks what that has to do with it?

And that’s the thing. I don’t have to be hungry to say yes to a doughnut, or a scone, or a bit of flapjack. I just have to be… needing one. To those who don’t consider that nobody really needs flapjack, I say I understand, I know what you mean and how, oh how I wish I saw things that way.

I like eating, and I’m good at it. The reason I’m overweight is that I ingest more calories than I expend, and it’s as simple as that. I can’t argue that it isn’t. I don’t have anything wrong with my ‘glands’, my genes seem to be predominantly thin ones and so I have no excuse. My metabolism is slow because I don’t do very much to perk it up. 

I like meals, and I don’t like getting out of breath.

The only thing is, it isn’t as simple as all that. There are lots of layers in this equation.  The obvious ones are food choices (I love all the hearty stuff like lasagne and pizza and pasta and shepherd’s pie and biscuits) and portion size (what do you mean, I should have less on my plate than my 6’4” husband has on his? That wouldn’t be fair.)  But there’s other stuff. More insidious stuff that I just do not know how to deal with.

I eat when I’m happy:  ‘ You know what would make today absolutely perfect? Cake.’

I eat when I’m sad:  ‘Cake will cheer me up.’

I eat when I’m  anxious:  ‘I can’t be worrying about my weight on top of everything else. I’m going to have some cake.’

I eat when I’m overwhelmed. ‘Don’t think about it. Have some cake.’

I eat when I’m celebrating:  ‘Hooray! Let’s have cake!’

I eat when I’m commiserating:  ‘Oh no. What a disappointment. Still, we have cake.’

I eat when I’m bored:  ‘What shall I do? I know, I think I’ve got some cake.’

I eat when I’m tired: ‘I can’t be bothered cooking tonight. Let’s order pizza.’

I eat when I’m procrastinating: ‘I’ll get this done when I’ve had some cake.’

I eat when I associate two unrelated things:  ‘Let’s watch a film. What is there to eat?’

I eat when I drink coffee (this is a killer – I drink a lot of  coffee) – but what’s a cup of coffee without a biscuit?

And so on. Believe it or not, I’m not even finished. Whatever you can find in the way of emotions, there’s a reason to have something to eat.

People who don’t get this just say, ‘Well, don’t eat for those reasons. Cheer yourself up with a bubble bath, or a massage or something instead’. I have a couple of things to say about that.

One: Has anyone ever celebrated something with a bubble bath? 

Two: Anyone like me who has longstanding problems with overeating probably has a body to match, and the idea of someone laying their hands on it and kneading all that flesh, no matter how therapeutic it might be in principle, is a horror that might well drive them to cake.

So the cycle continues. The mirror and the scales only pass on bad news which causes misery and embarrassment and worry, and the overwhelming urge is to have something nice to eat to take away the pain.

The diet can start tomorrow. Or next week. Or after the cake is finished.

I have tried, or at least considered, every diet known to man, and some that I made up myself. I understand people who eat and then make themselves sick; it makes perfect sense to me. If I ‘d been able to do it when I was fifteen, who knows what awful direction my life might have taken. 

I’ve been this way since I was very small – or rather not small – young.

I remember at primary school being terrified that the kids in my class would make the connection between a fictional fat kid called HT and my (then) initials.  They did.

I remember kids – and the PE teacher - at senior school calling me names that hurt badly. 

I remember being crushed when someone realized that my name rhymed with ‘melon’.

I remember the lady fitting my wedding dress urged me to try extra hard to get thin because ‘It’ll be worth it to feel beautiful on the day.’  I didn’t. I couldn’t….and I didn’t.

Fat isn't beautiful, is it?

I know all the tricks – the ones that work and the ones that don’t. Pulling a cardigan tightly round in front to cover as much as possible (not really; just makes you look defensive). Wearing dark colours and long lines to elongate the body. Wearing multiple layers so people might not be completely sure what shape you really are. Sitting with legs on tiptoes so that thighs don’t spread out too much.  Control pants (just push it all upwards). Control shorts (just push it all downwards). Control polo-neck-to-knee underwear (if only…) Never, ever, ever, sitting on anyone’s knee (though the older I get the less this is an issue.)

And now I'm middle aged and it all gets a little more serious. It's not only about dress sizes and how I look in a swimsuit. It's about clogged arteries and joint pain and breathlessness; the ability to exercise if I wanted to. It's about running around with my children and walking round to sightsee on holiday. It's about getting to old age with enough energy to actually do some living. 

Several times in my life I’ve tried hard to get thin. I have never managed it, but I’ve lost a significant amount of weight on three or four occasions, before putting it all back on again with a bit more besides.  Nothing seems to work for long. Herculean efforts at self control eventually evaporate and the momentum subsides, leaving me in front of the cake once more, a fork in my hand.

If I lose some weight, people tell me how good I look (comparatively) and they’re being lovely, encouraging. But what my distorted mind wonders is what they used to think when I was even bigger. Thin equals approval, acceptability; fat equals disapproval, rejection.

I hate it. There aren’t words for exactly how much I hate it. I hate that I have no control. I hate that my clothes are getting bigger and bigger and that I acclimatize myself to shopping for a larger and larger size each time I need something new. I hate that I hate shopping.

I hate that I didn’t feel beautiful in my wedding dress.

I hate that I look in the mirror with disgust, and I hate that I am powerless to do anything about it.

It’s not just about eating.

It’s even less about being hungry.

Here’s where I’m at.

I’m 43 years old and I love Jesus Christ. I try to live my life as He wants me to live it.  And this is not it.

He came to set me free, and I am not free.

He came to give me life in abundance, not the half-life that I’m living.

He thinks that I am beautiful, but I think He’s wrong.

He speaks only Truth, but I have believed lies.

I have believed that it’s all down to me. That other people don’t have this problem, and so there’s something wrong with me, because I emphatically do. I’ve believed that I’m fat and ugly and there’s nothing that I can do to improve matters; I should just get used to it – be the jolly fat lady, only I can’t be jolly.

I’ve believed that everyone sees me the way I see me, and so everyone is looking at me, assessing me, judging me.  That I am no good the way that I am; I am unacceptable. Strengths, gifts, achievements - I know that they're there, but they pale into insignificance next to this thing that I can't do. I believe that the only thing others see is the fat, the lack of self-control, the self-indulgence, the weakness.

Sometimes I get a glimpse in my head that those things are not true, but, oh, God, it’s been a long, long time believing them and it’s going to take a miracle to think any differently.

So, I need a miracle.

I need the Almighty Creator who made me to reach down and heal me. I need the God who loves me to breathe something new into my lungs, into my mind. I need my heavenly Father to take away thirty five years of defeat and self-doubt and bring health and restoration.

I know that He can do miracles. I do.  But for some reason, for all the things I’ve tried, I’ve never laid all this ugliness in front of Him.

I don’t know why. It’s not as if it hasn’t occurred to me before that He’s the only one who can help me, that God is my last chance. Maybe deep down I’ve known that if asking Him for help ‘doesn’t work’, then there’s no hope for me at all. As if Jesus were a genie in a lamp, but He might not come out when I rub it.

He’s never let me down, not once. When I’ve trusted Him with something, He’s always been there. Not always in the way I wanted Him to be; I don’t for one minute expect that He’d arrange it for me to wake up one moment a size twelve with no joint pain and a wardrobe full of clothes that fit, though that’d be fine by me. I know that He works in a quite different way and I know that His timing is perfect, even if I do want all this sorted out yesterday.

I trusted Him with a long standing problem with anxiety, and although I’m a work in progress, I am much less anxious.

I trusted Him with my tendency to lose my temper with the children (especially at bathtime) and again, He is not done with me yet, but I am better than I was.

‘…in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.’Romans 8:37

You see?  He can do things that I can’t do.

He can.

So maybe He’s waiting for me to give it all over to Him, not holding anything back. Not expecting Him to do all the work, but by the same token, not trying to do it all myself. Just admitting that I cannot do anything about this. I can’t. Nope.

Because here’s the thing. I need a fundamental change in the way that I think, feel, handle emotions, and I cannot do that on my own. When I am tired and lonely and worried and scared and all those other reasons I eat – what I need is not cake, but Jesus.

‘Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.’Romans 12:2

I’m looking for comfort, and there is none to be had without Jesus.

Maybe I’m hungry for Jesus.

He is the only One who satisfies. He is the only One who has what I need.

I give up.

I can’t do this any more.

Renew my mind, Lord Jesus, I like food, and I don’t like exercise. I’m not healthy, and I’m far from happy.

I hate this. I’m ready to change whatever needs changing to find the freedom and life that you promised me.

I need you, not cake.

I need you more than cake.

You are the God of hopeless cases and you are the God who heals.

So, I’m going to get some exercise. I’m going to try and say no to the biscuits more often than I say yes. I’m going to try and live a life that doesn’t revolve around food. I don’t want to put anything in your place but I know that I am not strong enough; I’ve proved it over and over again... and yet:

‘I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength’.Philippians 4:13 (NLT)

When I can’t help myself, I need you to help me.

I'm on my knees.

I’m giving it all to you, Lord Jesus.

Joining with Ruth and Sabrina for Letters To...

(because they seem to get into my head). 

Family, fun, food and festivities. And turkey.

Thankyou, God.

What a lovely Christmas it's been. A few wonderful smiley days full of family, food and fun and it's been noisy and tiring and very happy.  I didn't want it to end. 

Christmas this year had all the components that make an occasion memorable. We were up early but not frighteningly early on Christmas day and the children opened their stockings and we saw the beautiful sunrise that was a special present from you. We played Christmas music and had breakfast and went to church and we celebrated the baby born in a stable in Bethlehem two thousand years ago. We lifted our Happy Birthday to you in carols and songs and prayers and fantastic organ music.

Christmas dinner made the table groan; Kevin the Turkey did us proud - a feast indeed. We set fire to the cognac on the Christmas pudding and pulled crackers and wore party hats and the children argued over the little plastic presents (Katy was most put out that her cracker present was a set of screwdrivers. She eventually negotiated a swap with Grandma who had a plastic gonk on a spring. I'm not sure that Grandma was particularly thrilled with the set of screwdrivers but she put a brave face on it). 

Presents, games, drinks, twinkly Christmas tree lights, laughter and thanks and smiles and mountains of wrapping paper. It was a wonderful day and I know how blessed we are. I know how much we have when so many have so little. I'm very, very grateful.

What I've loved most about this Christmas was that we had fun. We were all together and we played games and laughed and we enjoyed ourselves. I like that it was about people. I like it that you were here amongst us. Not everyone sitting round the table invited you but I did, and you came for me and I appreciate it. I know so many people would have been sitting round similar tables in dining rooms all over our country and I know that we were blessed to get on so well with each other, to have so much fun and to enjoy each other's company as we did. I have a great family. 

I've loved watching the children's faces as they opened presents and I'm thankful that they actually seemed to be excited with each one rather than shredding the wrappings and then dropping the gift to ask for another as we've had on occasion, to my embarrassment. We've spent time setting up racing tracks for matchbox cars (just like we did when I was small - some things never change!) and I've loved watching Elizabeth carry her doll round and feed it with the toy bottle with a special kind of tenderness. A fleeting sort of tenderness, granted, as she then dropped the doll on it's head when she saw that another game was being set up.

It's been lovely. I wish our family lived closer to us so that we could see them more often, but then perhaps it wouldn't be so special. Thankyou for the way that the children are getting on better and better as they grow up a bit. Elizabeth is in awe of her nine year old cousin and it's been a great way of getting her to try new items on her plate at mealtimes - if he likes it, then the chances are that Lizzie will too! The children have been tired out at bedtime, slept well and not been up too early in the mornings.

Thankyou, Father, for the many many blessings this Christmas. Thankyou for all of it, from the stockings and the sunrise to the fun and laughter. For family and good health and plenty to eat and the excitement and joy of the children. It hasn't gone unnoticed that you gave us so much to enjoy.

Thankyou. 

The twelve trolleys of Christmas

So, Lord, Christmas is a-coming.

Ask me how I know? Well, it's partly the feeding frenzy that's going on at the supermarket; a cashier was telling me ten days ago that it was getting busier and busier and likely to be unrelenting elbow-brandishing, trolley barging, turkey-grabbing mayhem from now until the New Year. (On reflection I'm not sure that you can brandish your elbows but you know what I mean).

Ooh. Spoiled for choice.

So people start stocking up for Christmas in November. Why? Perhaps we think that the supermarkets will run out of food before 25 December and so we'd better stockpile the essentials ahead of time. By 'essentials' I mean vast tubs of chocolates, biscuits for cheese that we only buy in bulk at Christmas, every last variety of alcohol known to man just in case someone asks for an exotic drink over the festive season and we only have red wine or half a bottle of leftover rum destined for the Christmas Pudding. Perish the thought that we might have some comestible unavailable to us in the Closed Shop period, which is, after all, smaller every year and set to be only an hour and a half on Christmas afternoon before long. 

On 26 December there we'll be back with the car boot open loading in more festive multipacks in time for the New Year's Orgy of Eating. 

That sounded very scathing, didn't it?  Sorry about that.  I'm as bad as the next person. We have family to stay over Christmas and I love to have lots of treats to eat. I am very much a fan of eating. I like to have things to nibble, nice meals to linger over, good wine to celebrate with. I just need to remember that there are only so many meals we can eat; only so much that we are physically able to consume. Common sense. I've bought my Christmas Pudding already, and have to brag about a (rare) moment of insight where I realised that we don't actually like Christmas Pudding that much, so we bought a small mid-range one, rather than a Best/Finest/Superior/Luxury whopper that we've had (and kept on reheating) in previous years. It's enough to set fire to and then have a token mouthful of. Does that count as great restraint?

Now. Where to start...

Not really. As I sit here my kitchen stool will testify that I am heavier than I was in the middle of the year and as I gaze at the oncoming juggernaut of Christmas in the same way as a small rabbit, wide eyed and immobile in the middle of the road, I realise how bad I am at self-control. On many levels. 

This year things are likely to be leaner than previous years for everyone because everyone is short of money, or so we're hearing on the news anyway. Doesn't seem to be any sign of that in the supermarket. All that's going to happen is that we spend too much, eat too much, then whinge too much in the New Year when we step on the scales and open the credit card bills. It's not very impressive, really, is it? It doesn't honour you that much, does it?  I imagine you look at us and wonder how far from a stable in Bethlehem it's possible to get. 

You came to earth with nothing. You gave us the best, most breathtakingly generous, priceless gift we will ever have, and Christmas is about celebrating your Birthday. The day when the Word became Flesh. The God With Us day. The day when heaven and earth met. You didn't split the sky with explosive magnificence and announce your presence in glory and majesty as you will one day, you were born in the usual way with blood and amniotic fluid in a smelly old stable and you lay surrounded with scratchy straw and grubby animals. 

Don't mind if I do...

How does that translate itself over the centuries into a few days of excessive eating and drinking? How come we now thrust presents at each other that we've bought with money we don't have? We wander the shops grabbing inconsequential items that'll do for someone's present - we don't often shop with love and consideration because there's just too much of it. Too much spending. Too much giving of token gifts. We give with one hand and collect with the other and sometimes we're delighted and sometimes we pretend (and if you're a small child of the kind we have in this house, sometimes you discard with obvious disappointment) and this year for me it just seems silly. More than silly, it seems somehow obscene. 

No doubt I'll still do it. No doubt I'll drown my qualms in a glass or three of mulled wine and comfort myself with a mince pie with brandy cream. I haven't made my Christmas shopping list yet but my cards are ready to write and the cupboard is filling with items towards an extravagant Christmas menu. I am very good at eating and drinking and I like a nice present to unwrap as much as the next person (unless the next person is either of my two girls, who just go crazy at present time. More on that no doubt later). 

I'm not about to announce a Christmas of Austerity where we don't decorate the house, we don't eat until we need antacids and we don't end up with a bin bag full of wrapping paper, so I suppose there's an element of hypocrisy in any conversation that I start on this subject. Just now and again, I stop in a sea of consumerism and I think about you and the people and trolleys and elbows swirl round me and I stop - and then I start again. Like a mackerel swimming with the shoal.

Oh go on then. Maybe just one.
Or two.

Sigh. What can I say, Lord?  I'm sorry we've made your birthday something different from that you intended it to be. If we offer you heartfelt carol-singing and an honestly meaningful church service or two, does it make up for the selfishness and madness and conspicuous consumption? We have so much and yet we insist on even more. When I think about the immense tracts of the planet who won't be celebrating Christmas with food and drink and gifts and then turn back to our shopping centres it makes me feel a bit sick. But if I'm honest, I squash that feeling and go back to making lists and flexing the plastic, don't I?

I love Christmas. I love the decorations, I love the lights, I love the joy and the fun and the family and the laughter and preparing the food and sharing silly jokes in crackers and watching someone I love open a present from me. I love the children's faces when they see their stockings and I love carols and I love that you actually laid aside your majesty, as the song goes, and came to meet us here on this beautiful, broken planet. I love all this. I just wonder if we can't have all that and still not miss the point?

Show me, this Christmas, the meaning of it, Father God. Help me curb the worst of my excesses because it's not good and it's not going to be a happy January if I make my weighing scales situation any worse than it is already. 

Show me Jesus in Christmas. All that 'the reason for the season' stuff.  We've even managed to make a cliche out of that, haven't we?

Show me the angels singing, and the star shining and the shepherds realising that the tiny baby in front of them is the Son of God. Show me Mary, cradling her newborn baby with some realisation of who he is but no idea of the magnitude of what lies ahead. Show me the baby in the manger who is somehow helpless and totally dependent but God as well. Show me the wonder and the beauty and the truth of Christmas and help me keep my eyes on you to see it, rather than just focusing on the bit that says, 'Please enter PIN now'.