Shame

Shame takes on many forms, doesn't it?

That memory you just can't shake
The silent addiction
A vacant left ring finger
Ugly words
Stolen purity
Debt piled high

For me, shame was written all over my body.

Ever since I can remember, I've ignored warnings about the sun. I grew up going to the beach every weekend that I could - to read, surf the waves, and soak up the warmth. I life guarded and taught swimming lessons outside for years on end. I tanned to get ready for prom, just like any other high school senior.

And for me it was more than getting a tan. I hated who I was without one. I could barely stand to look in the mirror. In the winter, I was one of those tan out of a cream bottle kinda people. You know, the rusty orange type. And then there were bronzers. I used them too and they were nasty. My face was a summer tan, my neck was a winter white, with a distinct line marking off the seasons. Yuck.

At 34, I'm paying for it all. Biopsies every 6 months, stage 2 melanoma, and umpteen moles lobbed off. I always go in for routine checkups and they find just one more problem spot. Next week I go in for another excision of a precancerous area on my arm. It's a "hotspot for Melanoma," as my dermatologist says. Lovely.

Anyway, I used to get all worked up over all this. Worried that I'm harboring cancer somewhere in my skin, worried that I wouldn't see my children grow up, worried for my parents' sake, worried that I wouldn't get to grow old with my best friend.

I can't lie and say these are never concerns anymore, but they certainly aren't keeping me awake at night. The more I know of God, the more I know that He is good, and the more I am learning to accept His goodness - in whatever form He chooses to reveal it.

It's not ironic to me that I was reading Psalm 73 when my dermatologist called last week. Verse 26 reads, "My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever."

"My flesh may fail, " and that it has. "But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever."

While I was processing the latest results, a fleeting thought almost found residence in my soul. "Your skin tells a story of your shame." The words were ugly and heartless and cruel. Immediately my eyes welled with tears. Sure there's shame in that I hated myself and I was desperate for the approval of others and I didn't know my worth in God. Sure there's shame in the addiction to outward appearance and the blind acceptance of our culture's obsession.

But that's not the story that's read here. No sooner did I hear words that cut and condemned, I heard another take on those scars. In a quiet voice, God said, "Your skin tells a story of your Savior."

My scars may have spoken of shame, but not anymore. Now they tell a story of redemption. Of God creating a new life within me that no longer seeks its own. Of God restoring beauty to a girl who couldn't stand to see her reflection. Of God healing wounds that were far deeper than what the eye could see.

Shame only serves to perpetrate and oppress and annihilate. But Jesus came that we may have life and live that life to the fullest expression.

My scars now tell a story of Jesus. And His is a story worth telling again and again.

Meet Braddigan

He's gone from main stage to garbage dump. And in his words, he's better for it.

Braddigan is a nickname for Brad Corrigan, the lead singer of the band, self-titled. Brad sang with the indie band Dispatch until their 2002 disbanding. For Dispatch's farewell concert in Boston, between 10,000 and 30,000 were expected. The estimated attendance ended up being 110,000 - the largest concert in independent music history.

To meet Brad, you would think that he would have the rock star vibe going on. Instead, he was one of the most humble, wise, and deeply committed followers of Christ that Paul and I have ever been around. So much of what he said was straight scripture, like he lived and breathed the word of God.

I'm sure the humility comes from walking with God. But I think much was also born in the trash dumps of Managua, Nicaragua, where Brad spends half of his time. To hear him speak of Managua, you would think that he was talking about his home - a forsaken dump, filled with ever burning fires, garbage, rotting carcasses, and hundreds who have lived and died there. To hear him speak of the people, you would think he was talking about his own grandma, children, dad. Some would consider these individuals a project. He regards them as family.

Love Light and Melody, a non-profit organization founded by Brad, was created to battle the physical, emotional, educational, and spiritual affects of extreme poverty in this trash dump. Love Light and Melody is built on a simple concept: "When you walk with someone you're saying to them, 'I am with you.'"

I love that premise, "I am with you," cause I've heard those words before. Jesus hasn't left us alone in this place. He walks with us - in our strength and in our weakness - in the beauty of our lives and in the trash that we find ourselves in.

As Jesus is preparing his disciples for his death, He says, "Before long, the world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live....I am in the Father, and you are in me, and I am in you." (John 14:19-20)

The world can't see Him, but His followers can. The world can't see Him, so we've got to live His life. How do we make God real and apparent and visible? I'm still trying to figure out what that means for me, with long term goals and in this hour. But I sure know that Braddigan is making Christ tangible - through handshakes and flying kites with kids and song - in a place that can no longer be deemed as God-forsaken.

God was living in Managua all along. But the people couldn't see Him. Now, even through the smog, He's a little more visible. Now they just might be able to hear those words, "I am with you."

These Fine Lines

The me I see in the mirror looks different these days.

The fine lines crease around my eyes. My pale skin begs for a good helping of spinach, as my mom used to say. And there are jowls taking up residence on my hips.

But I've always looked this way. There are no changes here.
The change is my perception of God and His conception of me.

In October, I weighed in at a post-op appointment. The needle on the scale rested on 107. The number floored me so much that I nearly contested the weight. Had I guessed, I would've said 130, maybe 135. I remember sitting on the white paper they use to line those examination tables, waiting for my surgeon to come in. I wondered how someone who only weighed 107 could still think she looked overweight. Could still despise the sight of her own self...

I came home that day and cried. Cried cause of the loss of a baby, cried cause of a twisted self-image, cried cause I didn't want to propagate this hate anymore. How would my daughter ever know her own beauty, the signature of her Maker, if her mom could not accept it? If her mom railed against it every time she stared back at herself...

It was this day, this moment, that birthed healing for me. And I will continue to grow towards wholeness for the sake of my daughter. She wants to be just like me, she wants to be just like me. I can choose to perpetuate the self-hatred or I can choose to give her the gift of beauty. Beauty that dances outside of the realms of this culture's gross obsession. Beauty that recognizes her Maker's design and identifies it as good, very good.

These days the fine lines crease around my eyes. And they laugh with delight and joy. I have smiled and I have smiled and I have smiled some more.

My pale skin begs for a good helping of spinach, as my mom used to say. And that shouts of health. I no longer need toxic doses of the sun or the occasional tanning bed to make me feel good about myself. I love the color of the skin I'm in, finally.

And then there are the jowls, jowls I now treasure. They speak of carrying two lives into the world. Two amazing and healthy and intricately designed lives, made beautiful by the fingerprints of their Creator.

My Creator, who has written redemption all over the place.

All over me, even in these fine lines.

Our Beautiful

Dear Selah,

You're three today! Is it true? Just tonight you asked me why a watch always runs. "Why doesn't time ever stop Mom, Mom? It just keeps going around and around and around."

What a funny question to ask your Momma today! Time just keeps playing chase with us, like in our backyard. Somehow, mommy can never seem to catch you. I run and run and you giggle and giggle but you're just too speedy. And mommy never was a fast one, about anything!

Well let's pretend... you certainly adore that these days. You are Cinderella. You are a doctor (lovin' those bandaids!) You are a mommy to babies who don't have mommies. You are a gymnast.

Let's pretend that we could freeze our watches at two. If time stopped, here is what you would see. Here is what mommy and daddy see every day you slumber out of that big girl's bed of yours.

We see a little girl with brilliant sensitivity and compassion. You want to know how the boy broke his arm and if he'll be okay. You want to know why you have lots of toys, babies, and clothes and some kids have none. You want to know why the guy in the Bible story comes through the roof (via his friends.) And then you ask if you can do that too. (Don't let your brother convince you to try it!)

And then there's the sharing and giving. You get that completely from your Dad. If you're given three bracelets, you want to give one and maybe two away. If we're out shopping at the thrift store, you want to buy all of the clothes for the kids who don't have any. I love that about you, as I love it about Daddy.

Even the Starbucks lady says that you have a knowing way about you. "When she looks at me, I see love in her eyes. Like she knows more than a two year old should." (We won't discuss how much we see of Miss Deedee, okay? It's bad enough that you plead with daddy to stop for "mommy's coffee" every time we go home... as if it's a routine we have:)

"Knowing more than a two (now three!) year old should" may come from asking all those crazy questions....Do spiders have bums? Did me have a seatbelt on when me in your belly mommy? (No.) Well, then did me fall out? Oh no! Did you stretch Adden to make him bigger? How he not a little baby anymore? What that lady's name is? May you always ask questions, always, always, always. Never stop learning and reading and knowing people's names and seeking, ever.

Last of all (for now), there's your fun. You beg for mommy to put your window down in the car. And then you laugh with the wind in your face and sing your heart out. A sweet medley of "I May Never..." and "This Old Man, He played one...", "It's raining, it's pouring,", and Jesus Loves Me. You adore our runs to the park and jumping through the dandelions and spinning around till you fall down. You like scaling climbing walls and dancing and dressing up and meeting new friends. And you love laughing with (or at) your brother, even though he makes you crazy sometimes. There's nothing better than hearing you two giggle. (Unless it's in the toilet bowl.)

When time stopped at two, you wanted to be just like mommy. You wear my flip flops, say you'll run fast someday, and cook like me (not sure if that's beneficial for you or not!) And it's funny, cause I see myself in you - my own strengths and weaknesses, all over again. It is my prayer that your strengths will make you humble and that your weaknesses will make you strong. And that ever and always, you'll seek the One who came to bring you life beautiful.

Life beautiful. I like that. That's you. And that's us, because of you.

Happy three, Sweet Pea.

Love,
Mom

Beauty is Spiritual?

Americans spend about 150 billion on our appearance annually; that’s more than the government spends to cure AIDS, breast cancer, prostate cancer and diabetes combined. Yet, only 2% of American women would call themselves beautiful. We’re spending large sums of money to pursue something we don’t seem to ever actually get. This tells me the hunger for beauty is, indeed, spiritual, and cannot be satisfied with purchased products.

- Ginger Garrett