Beautifully Made

 

 

Maybe its because I’m sewing a mint green dress, the same color of dress I was wearing on the picture when I was five holding my white bunny. I was sitting on the carpeted staircase of the old farmhouse where I grew up. The carpet orange-y red, the dress, rough double-knit but minty green, the bunny white and pink and not soft at all. But he made me feel happy and content. As happy and content as a five year old knows how to feel. Maybe that's the reason for this soul searching flashback, these triggers of tears in my adult life. I've done a lot of sobbing lately.

It's not anyone’s fault, these triggers. I wake up with them. They are more frequent when Bruce is gone over long periods of time. I sleep less and less, my insecurities growing by the night time seconds. I am triggered to remember that long horrible night in and out of reality and delusion, the night my mom kicked my dad out. The night my dad left. The night my world was ripped away from childhood. The night that has been worked through memory by memory and forgiven but still is triggered by insecurities and loneliness when my husband is gone.

The restoration and redemption also comes into view as I awaken. I remember I am safe in the arms of Jesus. I feel like I imagined the bunny to feel when I was five squishing it tightly on those steps. I wonder things like, if I were fully restored and have truly forgiven why am I plagued with this feeling of loss? Why do I feel shame for the person that struggles now? Why do I still have to talk myself into sharing my heart with those closest to me? Why do conversations with certain family members make me go back there to that lost little girl crippled in pain? Why do I look in the mirror and see relatives I DO NOT WANT TO LOOK LIKE? What's the deal with the relatives? Don't I admire each in their own way? Why am I so tender, emotional, and torn?

I know truth. I know my husband loves me. I know no man should be put under the pressure I lay on him to make me feel loved, settled, and cherished. It's not him. It's me. I have been studying forgiveness. And asking God to also teach me about acceptance of who he made me to be, emotional, sensitive, dramatic, and a little chunky. I want to look at those words with a positive view, one that sees the good parts of each attribute and uses them to their potential.

Yet, I want to see how to be kind and soft in my sensitivities, instead of putting on a front of tough and strong, making jokes and running rough shod over other people in an attempt to not be so sensitive. If I must be emotional I want it to be to draw attention to Jesus, not me or self pity, which I am prone to...because emotions cloud vision and progress when one gets too drawn up in them. Which is how someone also gets caught up in other peoples drama, something I do not need, having plenty of my own...I shall pace myself accordingly and not go to that party or read that book or even sometimes not join that conversation.

About the chunky. I know people that take selfies and post them proudly daily. I feel uncomfortable doing that. I might even feel embarrassment for them. Or is it jealousy for that amount of confidence? A couple of years ago, my sister came to visit and I took pictures of our happy walk through the woods and proudly posted them on Instagram. Which devastated my sister. I now get it. Maybe this is payback? At the time though, I heartlessly, in my attempt to outgrow my self loathing and considerable sensitivities, told her to get over herself. I also preached a cocky sermon about accepting who we are and how we will look like our aunts and mothers and we should be proud... etc... etc... I'm sorry, Arla. You were right.

Anyway, I don't know how to get over this last issue of acceptance. I keep waiting for skinny and fit to somehow magically appear. Actually, I just keep working at this healthy chunky body of mine. I keep thanking God for two legs to walk around, and a mind that draws me close to Jesus in all my emotional storms. I'm delighted I can hear and see and talk. My sense of smell is spot on. I love hard physical work. As long as I avoid the scale and mirror I feel pretty good about myself. However, the ultimate goal would be to walk in confidence because I am a daughter of the King. He sees me in a completely different light than I see me. As He captures my heart and soul, he gives me the courage to deal with these triggers that cripple me.

I don't want the kind of confidence that makes me terribly comfortable with selfies. I mean, that would be nice...but what I want mostly is to know how completely loved and precious and beautiful I am to my Maker that the reoccurring nightmares, the triggers, and my own unwanted dramas are conquered. Slain. I want the memories to remind me of what it means to walk in newness of life; maybe to be free to dance in the rain in front of crowds without a care of them but my face lifted to the sun and the Son. Twirling, carefree, and beautifully redeemed, maybe with spinach caught in my teeth and coffee sloshed on my skirt. But I don't care because I can be His and He is mine. His banner over me is love.